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    Notes from a Young Black Chef by Kwame Onwuachi is the book I have chosen to read for the food seminar course this fall semester. 

    Although now, he is an executive chef at this own restaurants, there were a lot of hurdles he confronted until he became the man he is today. Having a alcoholic father and a low-income family, he found a way to make easy money, selling drugs at his dormitory, in a sense a lucrative business allowing him to make over $3000 US per week.

    Little did I know about the culture of the chefs at culinary dining and the toxic workplace environment of chefs in the United States initially before reading this book. What I found out was the relationships between chefs are quite similar to those of the senpai-kouhai culture we have in Japan and Korea. The only answers you are allowed is "yes" or any kind of affirmation that you'll get the job done. Regardless of how much culinary experience chefs may have, if they go to a new restaurant, they are forced to start again from menial jobs, in the case of Kwame Onwuachi, cracking eggs. 

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           Notes from a Young Black Chef is a non-fiction novel, or a autobiography of the protagonist himself, Kwame Onwuachi, which is the book I have chosen to read for the Food Seminar course.      I have always been intrigued in the culture of Nigeria thanks to Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, one of my favorite writers introducing me, giving an insight of the backgrounds of Nigerian-Americans from the book "Americanah" and the civil Biafran war from "Half of a Yellow Sun".      For I will restrain myself from providing spoilers, for this is a book I personally recommend to all my enthusiastic fans reading my blog, I will give you a brief insight of the author himself.      Kwame Onwuachi is an executive chef at his own restaurant Kith and Kin, who rose to fame from his victory in a competitive show "Top Chef". He is yet 30 but proves that his life has already been a series of struggle sufficing him to write his me...
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Martin Espada Coca-Cola and Coco Frio  On his first visit to Puerto Rico, island of family folklore, the fat boy wandered from table to t able with his mouth open. At every table, some great-aunt would steer him with cool spotted hands to a glass of Coca-Cola. One even sang to him, in all the English she could remember, a Coca-Cola jingle from the forties. He drank obediently, though he was bored with this potion, familiar from soda fountains in Brooklyn.  Then, at a roadside stand off the beach, the fat boy opened his mouth to coco frío, a coconut chilled, then scalped by a machete so that a straw could inhale the clear milk. The boy tilted the green shell overhead and drooled coconut milk down his chin; suddenly, Puerto Rico was not Coca-Cola or Brooklyn, and neither was he.  For years afterward, the boy marveled at an island where the people drank Coca-Cola and sang jingles from World War II in a language they did not speak, while so many coconuts in the trees sagge...
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