queso corazón.

My second home has always been the pueblo Todos Santos at the very tip of México's Baja Peninsula. Every time my family visits, I feel as if I’ve been sucked into a vortex of time and space that resembles a tiny and timeless Macondo. One of our favorite restaurants in the world sits just off the plaza there, where I always, without fail, can expect Carlos to be. He is soft-spoken, impeccably dressed, and relates the menu's daily specials in his second language without notes or hesitation.

Fresh swordfish carpaccio. Lobster ravioli in sage butter sauce.

T-bone for two.

You can count on Carlos always wearing a white, freshly starched and pressed dress shirt, black jeans, cowboy boots, and a bolo tie. The perfect image of a gentlemen, he also sports the most well kept facial hair. When I think of the ideal table service, I think of Carlos. He is knowledgeable, attentive (but not overbearing), and knows just the moment to approach, clear, or withdraw from the table to make for an exceptional meal.

From time to time, Carlos will perch at the end of the table and gossip with me and my sister in Spanish. This usually occurs at that special moment when the noise-level reaches a new quality of boisterous clamor. Everyone is getting saucy and enjoying themselves, so he’ll allow himself to relax for a moment.

Last year, in a small book published about Todos Santos, we read that Carlos’ parents were cheesemakers. We love cheese, and could eat and talk about it all day long. Yella makes it, and has seriously considered dedicating her life to the craft of farmstead artisanal cheesemaking. David orders it for the restaurant, which has been an education in and of itself, as we often overhear him placing phone orders for unfamiliar cheeses - how exciting. Just last week we were pleasantly surprised by the luscious tang of a mold-ripened, cow's milk cheese from Zingerman's Creamery in Ann Arbor. Amazing what they can do with Michigan milk -- it was curiously akin to a rich Boucheron straight out of the Loire Valley in France.

So, you can imagine the thrill we felt when Carlos approached our side of the table and invited us to make cheese at his parents’ home early the next morning. A las siete, he said. We would be there, seven o’clock, sharp. After carrying in five buckets of fresh cow's milk, still steaming, we watched as Vicente, Carlos' father, meticulously carried out the various procedures he has ritually performed every day of the week for more than sixty years. That means Sundays, too.

In recent years, Vicente has developed Parkinson's, making the small movements required by the cheese-making process particularly onerous. Every so often, his dominant hand would shake wildly, and he would ogle at its unrecognizable movements. Carlos acted as his fail-safe assistant, passing the rennet, sieve, and cheesecloth to his father at just the right moment--never too soon, but before they had to be requested. It reminded me of the way he tended to his tables.

We spent hours there--long enough to allow for the cheese to develop curds. At a later state, it is set in a cinched cheesecloth, which has been christened queso corazón for its heart shape. We ate small, cool cubes of the firm cheese wrapped in warm flour tortillas for breakfast, and discussed the history of Todos Santos and his family. While marveling at a turn-of-the-century portrait of Carlos' Argentinean ancestors that hung on the wall, I was taken by the intense look of pride written across their faces.