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| - Dick's Hideaway is a must for anybody in Arizona who craves food.
There is no signage, no advertising. Tucked away neatly between stores in a strip mall, you'd walk past it, unaware.
And that's the way we want to keep it. You pass it along to your friends like a good joint, a beloved book, a great whiskey.
Most mornings you'll find me here.
Ruminating over the smells and tastes distinctly New Mexico.
It's in the hands. Blood of the Earth. A hardscrabble Zia sun bleached New Mexico soil.
If you've ever worked with your hands you to understand the wisdom of the earth, of chalk & clay.
It gets in to you; how you think of humus under your fingernails.
It gets in you.
You can feel the minerals hardening your hands. Weighing into your pores. Channeling its way into your bloodline.
How we think of the core of the earth. Out of the toil, the ground was sluiced; Until it yielded.
Hand of the salt. Hand into the Earth.
If you wake up, and you want that taste, that smell-- you'll follow your feet here.
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P.S.
Oh! And see that guy? That guy right there! The one you always over look. The faceless, nameless perfectionist that cooks, plates and never asks for a thank you.
I watch. I watched him kill a mid-morning, standing-room-only breakfast rush.
He sipped water where he could. Caught his breath where he could. But he never tired.
It was an artwork--a swordsman using a paintbrush instead of a épée.
You study under masters: Socrates & Plinius the elder, Plinius the younger, Aristotle & Archimedes.
I watch cooks.
I've sat here, and I have studied; hoping to learn in a way, some magic by inculcation. Watching to glean some slight of hand; some abracadabra by seasoning.
Hernandez--I'm told that's is his name--I once tipped this man a $100.
Skill is an investment that can not be negotiate.
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