America is not a country: La Cocina, a film about resistance in food

Back in the 90s, I remember that every Monday morning in the school courtyard, we had a flag ceremony, which continued with the singing of the Mexican National Anthem. All the students sang in unison: some sang enthusiastically, while others—like me—sang quietly, without much spirit. The teachers made sure we respected the ceremony; otherwise, we’d end up with a disciplinary report.

At my school, there were ceremonies for everything, some of them mandatory—such as the so-called Discovery of America, an event considered of great importance. The narrative at the time was that Christopher Columbus had “discovered” lands inhabited by cultures different from the Spanish, a mission entrusted to him by the Catholic Monarchs of Spain. This view implied that, from a young age, we were taught two hegemonic ideas: on one hand, the notion of a land inhabited by savage groups who worshipped pagan gods with devilish beliefs; and on the other, the eventual justification of the conquest and colonization of the Americas. Simultaneously, we were taught that America was a continent, stretching from Alaska to Patagonia, and that Mexico was located in North America—more specifically.

At the same time, being part of a bilingual educational system, my school was heavily influenced by the English language and, more specifically, by United States ideology. I remember one class in which we were taught about the “encounter” between Native Americans and the pilgrims, who shared a meal to celebrate a successful harvest season. In grammar class, we were learning to speak American English. We would spend hours listening to cassette tapes that taught us the proper pronunciation of words that, to us, were often difficult. We also learned about the U.S. economy, customs, traditions, and, incidentally, a bit about the history of America’s independence. It was during that stage that I unconsciously understood that when speaking Spanish, América referred to the continent, whereas in our English classes, America referred to the land of opportunity, of freedom—a nation built by immigrants.

 

This is similar to the illustrations my textbooks used to show me about Thanksgiving, but this one was created thanks to ChatGPT in the Ghibli style.

 

A few days ago, the film La Cocina, directed by Mexican filmmaker Alonso Ruizpalacios, premiered in Dublin cinemas. The film depicts the day-to-day life inside the kitchen of a New York restaurant, where most of the staff are migrants from different countries trying to survive in a chaotic and suffocating environment. The Grill is a restaurant that serves dishes tailored to the tastes of tourists seeking fast food that appears to be of higher quality. The menu includes salads, pizzas, fried dishes, and lobsters—some of which can be found not only in the kitchen but also in a small aquarium located in the dining area.

 

Official poster: La Cocina, a film by Alonso Ruizpalacios

Pedro, the protagonist, embodies the duality of the migrant experience: on one hand, conforming to an unequal and degrading system in order to reach the so-called “American Dream”; and on the other, his stubbornness and irreverence constantly drive him to resist that conformity. Throughout the film, he expresses a confrontational ethos—clashing with his coworkers, with the supervisor (a man of Mexican descent who claims to be American when it suits him), and even with the owner of the establishment.

One of the protagonist’s first confrontations in the film is with Mark, the only American cook in the kitchen. In a moment of desperation, Mark demands that everyone speak English, fed up with the other cooks insulting each other in their native language. He yells them, “You are in America, speak English!” Pedro, who had already argued with him the day before, confronts him again and replies: America is not a country. This phrase is repeated toward the end of the film, when the supervisor accuses Pedro of stealing money that went missing from one of the cash registers, emphasizing also that he and Pedro are not the same: Pedro is the mojado, the illegal, while he is “American.” Pedro replies once again, but this time in Spanish: América no es un país.

 

"Make salsas spicy again"

 

Alongside this, the story gradually reveals the romantic relationship between Pedro and Julia, an American waitress at the restaurant who is pregnant. Julia’s internal conflict lies in her indecision about whether to have an abortion or stop and truly consider whether she wants to have the baby. Pedro insists that they keep it—or at the very least, that they talk about it by the end of the day. As a gesture of affection in one scene, he prepares a sandwich for her with hoja santa, a herb his mother sent him from Mexico through a woman named Estela, who had just started working at the restaurant that same day.

Hoja santa is a herb used for both medicinal and culinary purposes. It’s commonly used to flavor sauces, broths, meats, and fish. One of my favorite dishes is fried eggs cooked on hoja santa, served with tortillas and habanero salsa. This herb grows in central regions of Mexico, which makes it nearly impossible to find on a winter day in New York.

 

Huevos al comal en hoja santa

 

Perhaps proclaiming America is not a country, both for Pedro and for many Mexicans, may seem like a childish tantrum in the eyes of an outsider. In many parts of the world, it’s simply easier to think of “America” as a country rather than a continent. However, in recent months, what Mexicans have always known as the Gulf of Mexico has now—by decree of Donald Trump—been renamed the “Gulf of America.” So, what’s next? A French director making a musical about a cartel leader who changes genders and suddenly starts a nonprofit to locate people who disappeared in the drug war? Or maybe... salsas that no longer taste spicy?

Faced with these attempts to erase and minimize the power of certain words—América, Gulf of America—which have been internalized through a Western lens, what is left for us to do? Precisely this: Pedro, in an act of resistance, adds hoja santa in a sandwich as a loving gesture toward his girlfriend, a moment that both reclaims his cultural context and opens a path of hope, all the way up to the final act—which I won’t spoil here.

Even in response to the controversy stirred by the film Emilia Pérez—particularly because of director Jacques Audiard’s comment that, “Spanish is the language of emerging countries, a language of modest countries, of poor people and migrants, the trans woman  Camila Aurora replied with a parody short-film titled Johanne Sacreblue, in which she portrays French stereotypes and humorously exposes the flippant way films are made when the culture being depicted is not one’s own.

Short film: Johanne Sacrebleu by Camila Aurora

 

As for me, my own small act of resistance that night was buying some popcorn at the Irish Film Institute. I pulled out a bottle of Valentina hot sauce and some Tajín from my backpack to sprinkle on top, along with a guava Jarritos soda, while I watched La Cocina—which, by the way is currently showing in some theaters. at least until it gets replaced by yet another film from US, or a French one, by some acclaimed first-world director with more “prestige.”