Alheira and the Dictatorship of the Oven

There's a modern phenomenon that worries me more than global warming, rising gas prices, or the existence of people who think the Earth is flat: the craze for cooking everything in the oven. It's a kind of silent conspiracy, promoted by people who, deep down, want to see the world burn, or rather, roast.

I recently went to a restaurant and ordered alheira, that national treasure, a historical legacy, a lifesaver for New Christians, and a cholesterol-boosting heritage of humanity. I could already picture the sound of the fryer, the oil bubbling like an enthusiastic applause to gluttony, and that aroma that fills our nostrils and tells us: "You're going to die sooner, but happy."

But the waiter, with a triumphant look you only see in margarine advertisements, says to me:

— Our alheira is made in the oven!

In the oven. In the oven. That sentence hit me like a bucket of cold water... into hot oil. It's like going to the circus and discovering the clown is intermittently fasting. Or like ordering a custard tart and receiving a photo of it, so you don't gain weight.

I know what they want. They want to force me to be healthy. It's a kind of moral imposition disguised as culinary courtesy. Because we now live in a time where, if you don't eat quinoa and kale, you're practically complicit in crimes against humanity. The same people who tell me, "Eat it baked, it's better for you," are the ones who, in a few years, will argue that we should drink non-alcoholic wine and decaf coffee. Which is like saying: let's keep the body at the party, but expel the soul.

And remember: frying is a tradition. It's culture. It's chemistry. It's a miracle of physics applied to the taste of good cooking and eating. Frying takes a bland potato and transforms it into something worthy of being stabbed to death. In the oven, the potato becomes shriveled and pale, as if it had been on vacation in a Nordic country and hadn't gotten any sun.

But that's not the worst part. The worst part is that the oven is passive-aggressive. The oven takes its time. The oven wants to chat about your life, while the fryer gets straight to the point: plop, shhhh , it's done. It's like the difference between texting "shall we go?" and immediately getting an "I'm here at the door" versus sending a certified letter arranging a meeting for three weeks from now.

And then there's this modern idea that everything that tastes good is bad. It's true. But it's also true that everything that's bad tastes good. It's a universal balance. Taking away fried food is like wanting to live forever but forbidding us to smile; deep down, what's the point?

I still remember the time when grandmothers fried rissoles, fritters, pumpkin dreams… and we survived. Well, some did. But at least no one had to pretend that eating was a wellness marathon. Today, the cook looks at me and, with the air of a spiritual guru, serves me a roasted alheira and says: "You'll see, it's delicious!" It wasn't. It was dry as a desert. It's as if someone stripped the alheira of its dignity and left it in a hot, windy spa for three hours.

What I want, gentlemen, is fried food. I want fat dripping down the plate. I want that sheen of fat and anointing that tells me, "This is dangerous, but it's worth it." I want to be able to die of a heart attack, happy, after a lifetime of saying, "One more slice of French toast, please."

So here's my plea: Let us fry in peace. Stop saving us against our will. Freedom is also measured by the amount of oil we can consume without being judged. And if this anti-frying crusade ever wins, don't forget that I'll be there, underground, with a frying pan, a liter of oil, and a smile on my face, fighting for the country, one sausage at a time.