Long-form conversations with the chefs shaping Venezuelan cuisine. One question closes every interview: What would you cook for a stranger?
Sazón is our interview series — extended conversations with the people who define Venezuelan food today. No press-release answers. No chef-as-brand performance. Just honest talk about technique, ambition, constraint, and what it means to cook Venezuelan food in a world that’s only just starting to pay attention.
Every interview ends with the same question: “What would you cook for a stranger?” The answer reveals more than any tasting menu.
with Sumito Estevez — , Caracas
“A restaurant closes. A book persists.”
What would you cook for a stranger?
I wouldn't cook. I'd take them to a market — Chacao in Caracas or the Mercado Principal in Mérida. Walk the stalls. Point at things. Let the market cook for them. My work was always about revealing what already exists.
with Juan Luis Martinez — Merito, Lima
“I keep a notebook of ingredient overlaps — corn, cacao, ají, cassava, avocado, lime. These are the words that appear in both languages. The dishes come from finding new sentences to build with shared words.”
What would you cook for a stranger?
An arepa with guasacaca and whatever is freshest. Not the restaurant version — the real one, the one my mother made. If I'm explaining who I am in one bite, that's the bite.
with Santiago Fernandez Sain — Maz, Tokyo
“Two stars in Tokyo isn't just mine — it belongs to every cook in Caracas who never got the chance.”
What would you cook for a stranger?
Three Altitudes — a single plate with coast (raw fish, lime, coconut), Andes (potato, high-altitude herbs), and jungle (raw fermented cacao). Three bites, three ecosystems, one country.
with Issam Koteich — Cordero, Caracas
“Monotony comes from lazy cooking, not from ingredient limitation.”
What would you cook for a stranger?
Lamb carpaccio. Raw. Sliced so thin you can read through it. Andean salt, green herb oil, nothing else. If the lamb is right, that's all you need.
