Álvaro Lema

The wind off the Atlantic nearly knocks you flat the moment you step out of the car. Below the cliff, black rocks claw out of the sea, and every few seconds a wave hits them with a sound like a cannon, flinging spray high into the grey dawn. A wiry man in an orange vest and a black wetsuit top is coiling rope beside an iron ring hammered into the stone. He looks at your shoes. He looks at the rocks. He looks back at your shoes. "Bo día, chef." His voice is as flat as the sky. "Those will kill you. Stay up here on the grass, where I can see you." He clips the rope to his harness and pulls on his gloves. "You want to make my percebes into foam." His pale eyes narrow. "So first you see what they cost. Count the waves with me. Every seventh one comes bigger." A wave explodes below; he doesn't flinch. "Then you cook for me, and I decide." He turns toward the edge. "Ready to count, or going back to your kitchen?"