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The Fire of Peru: Recipes and Stories from My Peruvian Kitchen
The Fire of Peru: Recipes and Stories from My Peruvian Kitchen
The Fire of Peru: Recipes and Stories from My Peruvian Kitchen
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The Fire of Peru: Recipes and Stories from My Peruvian Kitchen

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“The godfather of Peruvian cuisine” captures the flavors and excitement of his native food, from rustic stews to specialty dishes to fabulous cocktails. 
 
Lima-born Los Angeles chef and restaurateur Ricardo Zarate delivers a standout cookbook on the new “it” cuisine—the food of Peru. He perfectly captures the spirit of modern Peruvian cooking, which reflects indigenous South American foods as well as Japanese, Chinese, and European influences, but also balances that variety with an American sensibility. His most popular dishes range from classic recipes (such as ceviche and Pisco sour) to artfully crafted Peruvian-style sushi to a Peruvian burger. With 100 recipes (from appetizers to cocktails), lush color photography, and Zarate’s moving and entertaining accounts of Peru’s food traditions and his own compelling story, The Fire of Peru beautifully encapsulates the excitement Zarate brings to the American dining scene.
 
“Ricardo is a great chef and a person with a point of view in his cooking. When you taste his food, you not only taste Peru, but you taste an unmistakable flavor that is totally him.”—Roy Choi, chef and author of L.A. Son
 
“Not your usual crop of Tex-Mex recipes at all! You will enjoy The Fire of Peru with both the food and the insights into Peruvian culture. Our world is far broader than we often imagine.”—HuffPost
LanguageEnglish
Release dateOct 20, 2015
ISBN9780544453296
The Fire of Peru: Recipes and Stories from My Peruvian Kitchen

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    The Fire of Peru - Ricardo Zarate

    Copyright © 2015 by Ricardo Zarate

    Photography © 2015 by La Mona, LLC

    All rights reserved.

    Food and prop styling by Valerie Aikman-Smith

    Design by Laura Palese

    For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 215 Park Avenue South, New York, New York 10003.

    www.hmhco.com

    Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

    Zarate, Ricardo.

    The fire of Peru : recipes and stories from my Peruvian kitchen / Ricardo Zarate & Jenn Garbee.

    pages cm

    Includes index.

    ISBN 978-0-544-45430-9 (hardcover) — ISBN 978-0-544-45329-6 (ebook)

    1. Cooking, Peruvian. I. Garbee, Jenn. II. Title.

    TX716.P4Z37 2015

    641.5985—dc23    2014044522

    v2.1015

    For Miguel:

    Brother, friend, business partner, mentor, and drill sergeant, who always pushed me to do more, in the way that only true hermanos can do. Te extraño mucho. You will always be in my heart.

    And for our Papá:

    For bringing and keeping the Zárate-Choy families together, and dedicating your life and love equally to all thirteen of your kids. ¡Echa Muni!

    Contents

    INTRODUCTION

    la cocina

    The kitchen

    Recetas Básicas

    Basic Recipes

    abrebocas

    Small Bites & snacks

    Ceviches, Tiraditos y Causas

    Peruvian Sushi bar

    anticuchos

    grilled vegetables, fish & meat

    saltados y estofados

    Stir-Fries & Stews

    del mercado

    from the market

    granos y frijoles

    Grains & Beans/ mains & sides

    la hora loca y dulce

    the crazy & sweet hour

    Acknowledgments

    Resources

    Glossary

    Index

    LAS RAíCES DEL LA COCINA PERUANA

    The Roots of Peruvian Cuisine

    What is truly authentic Peruvian food? It is a question I am asked often, and one that I always find difficult to answer. ¿Sabes este sentimiento? (Know the feeling?) Some people compare the food of my country to modern fusion cuisine. That always surprises me. Fusion cuisine is a modern concept. It centers on the idea of intentionally layering unexpected flavors and textures together and often happens in a sophisticated dining setting. Peruvian cooking is the opposite. It is very humble, honest cooking. The flavor combinations are sophisticated, yes. But they are also rooted in long-standing traditions, the result of dozens of cultures’ cooking styles and ingredients merging together over many years. I often refer to the food of my homeland as one big estofado, or stew, that has been simmering for five hundred years and is finally ready to serve. It is Peruvian cuisine’s finest hour.

    Understanding what makes Peruvian food so relevant today begins with its history, mi pasión secreta. An incredible number of foods—thousands of varieties of potatoes, quinoa, chile peppers, and so many other vegetables and fruits—trace their roots to Peru’s ancient costa, sierra, y selva (the coast, mountains, and jungle, as we call each region of my country) and our neighbors. Two civilizations in particular built incredible empires around those foods: the Moche, who flourished in northern Peru from the early second to around the eighth century, and the Incas, who spoke Quechua (a dialect still spoken today), who dominated the coast of northern and central South America from the thirteenth century until they were conquered by the Spanish in the late sixteenth century. When the Spanish embarked on a voyage around the world in the late fifteenth and early sixteenth centuries, hoping to find a faster route to Asia for the spice trade, they landed smack in the middle of a whole world of new ingredients. It would take a while for people elsewhere to appreciate them, but many truly changed world history.

    That’s not to say it was a one-way street. The Spanish brought many ingredients that locals had never tasted: olives and olive oil, wheat flour, beef and different types of cheeses, garlic and herbs like cilantro, new fruits and vegetables, and exotic spices. (I still get excited, like a little kid doing something sneaky, when I throw star anise and cinnamon sticks, two of my favorite Asian spices brought from the Spanish Spice Trade stash, into so many of my savory and sweet dishes.)

    Even more important were the people who made Peru their new home and who became an essential part of developing Peruvian cultura into what it is today. Some of Peru’s most famous dishes have African roots from the cooking styles of the slaves the Spanish brought along with them, like anticuchos, grilled meats and poultry in a tangy sauce (traditionally, organ meats, leftovers that the slaves were given, were and are still used on the streets of Peru). In 1821, after finally winning independence from Spain, the door to Peru opened for immigrants from all over the world. Like the United States, Peru has citizens with German, British, Arabic, and so many other roots. Italians were particularly influential to Peruvian cooking and brought pasta, Parmesan cheese, and more, but probably most important to modern Peruvian cooking was an influx of Chinese, Japanese, and other Asian immigrants in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. They opened up a whole new world of Eastern flavors (beyond the spices the Spanish had already brought), from soy sauce to stir-fries and dumplings. Local ingredients merged with those of European, African, and Asian cultures.

    That melting pot was a big mix, or stew, of cultures, yes, but probably the most significant of those new influences on Peruvian cooking was southern Chinese. After slavery was abolished in the 1850s, southern Chinese contract laborers arrived in Peru to fill the labor void. They were almost entirely Cantonese men who came to work on Peru’s sugar and cotton plantations. It was hardly better than slavery, but when the contract laborers finally paid back their travel and labor contracts after years of hard work, they started setting up their own businesses. Until recently, el Chino de la esquina, literally the Chinese on the corner, was slang for our neighborhood grocery stores, now filled with ingredients like soy sauce and kión, or ginger, which is indigenous to southern China. Ginger is usually called jengibre in Spanish, but we use the Cantonese root word. In the new Chino-Latino culture, we didn’t follow the same grammar rules as other Spanish-speaking countries—what’s the fun in that? Even the Chinese-Peruvian restaurants you find on almost every other block in Lima are known as chifas instead of restaurantes chinos.

    What is so amazing to me is how all of those global influences didn’t stay locked up in each culture, but merged to create an entirely new style of cooking—that’s the true fusion of Peruvian cuisine. A good example is carapulcra (page 160), one of the oldest dishes still made by home cooks everywhere in Peru. The base of the stew is papas secas, traditional dried potatoes, with a good number of European, Asian, and African flavors coming from ingredients like garlic, peanuts, and spices. As I often tell people, I am not the creator of the food of my country. I simply polished the rough edges and took Peruvian food, so rich with history, where it always wanted to go. Yes, as a chef I add my own touches and incorporate more modern influences (particularly Japanese, as I spent many years working in some of the best sushi restaurants), but honoring the integrity of the ingredients and traditional dishes of my homeland is still most important to me.

    la lima de mis memorias

    The Lima of My Memories

    To understand my style of cooking, you should also know something about my personal history. Lima was a very different city when I was growing up in the 1970s and 1980s, without all of the fancy hotels and cosmopolitan restaurants. The tiny, shoebox-shaped cement houses with tin roofs that you still find in the poorest neighborhoods of the city were everywhere. I grew up in one of those houses.

    We learned at a young age that you had to work hard for your soles, the currency in Peru, but hard work wasn’t a bad thing. Peruvians are very proud people who want to earn their wages, not be given handouts. You see that today in the street performers in Lima doing quick magic tricks and juggling shows at stoplights, and in the villagers at small Amazon markets scaling the river fish they caught that morning or selling their backyard chickens. But mostly, people sell whatever they made in their own kitchens or cook up to order on the streets: anticuchos (grilled meat and poultry), rosquitas (braided anise cookies), marcianos (ice pops), and so many other handmade foods. I made, and sold, every single one of those at one point as a little kid or when I was older, and my first pop-up restaurant was on those streets. As a teenager, I’d grill anticuchos whenever I needed a little extra cash.

    Rímac, the district in northern Lima where I grew up, is the oldest district in Lima, just north of downtown and across a little river by the same name. Sometimes, when my friends and I told a cabdriver that we wanted a ride home late at night, he would shake his head and drive off. It wasn’t exactly Beverly Hills (where I later opened a restaurant). Back then, it was a lot harder to piece together a living in Lima than it is today. Inflation was a huge problem. Your soles were likely going to be worth less when you went to the produce market than they were worth the day you got paid. Terrorists were also a part of daily life. It was very real, not something you heard about on television. The two most powerful groups, Shining Path and Tupac Amaru, would blow up entire buildings full of innocent people, simply to make a point. I knew several people who were killed, point blank, for no reason. Even as a little kid, you learned to always look in every direction around you in case they were hiding nearby. One of the rival groups that was powerful at the time put bombs in the home of one of my sisters. Her house was above a bank. I was there visiting when the bombs exploded. I remember her toilet breaking into thousands of pieces, with the shards flying everywhere. We had to dive onto the floor to avoid being hit, like in a Hollywood movie. We were so lucky that no one was hurt, but those memories always live with you.

    It’s probably not going to be a surprise when I tell you that no one really vacationed or came for work to Lima or elsewhere in Peru like they do today. The rare times when my school friends and I spotted turístas, with their skinny legs poking out of short little pants in the winter (often summer in other countries), it was usually in the Plaza Mayor, also known as the Plaza de Armas, where my friends and I used to hang out. We would point and stare like we’d just seen a flamingo at the zoo for the first time. They looked so funny! Now, the historic government palace and cathedral in the center of the city are always packed with tourists. When I go back to visit today, I’m so orgulloso, proud, to see Lima’s success and how much it has changed.

    Mi Familía

    My Family

    Some things were very difficult, —but we saw it as just part of life, and we had a very happy life, and one that I am very proud is my own. I come from a big católico, Catholic, family, and nine of my brothers and sisters have Chinese roots. Peruvian cultura wouldn’t be what it is today without the influence of immigrants from all over the Asian continent, my family included. After my mom and her first husband separated, she married my father and had four more children, including me, to make thirteen. I guess you would call my dad a native Peruvian, but like our food, that means a mix of so many cultures.

    Suddenly we were all part of this fantastically giant family. There was never any thought that we might be apart and live like two separate families. To my father, all thirteen of us were his children. The youngest among us called my father Papá, and the oldest, already teenagers, would call him Chochera, the nickname for best friend. When I go back to my neighborhood, some of my father’s old friends still call me chocherita, or little best friend—a nickname I secretly love. When the papá of my brothers and sisters came by our house, he was family, too. I was too little to understand, so my parents introduced him to me as my akun, the Cantonese word for grandfather. I was always so excited when my akun came over to visit that I’d run into his arms. Like all of my brothers and sisters, I really loved him, even when I was old enough to understand that we weren’t related by birth.

    My older brothers still like to joke that I got off pretty easy as the second youngest. By the time I came along, they had finished building our little house in the backyard, or courtyard, really, behind another small home in Rímac. For years our floor had been a patchwork of cement and the tierra, earth. My brothers poured one section at a time, depending on how much cement our father could afford at the time. (It was finished before I was born, but like any kid brother, I used to give my older hermanos a hard time about one section of a wall that curved like a llama’s neck—couldn’t they build a straight wall?) Our father worked as carpenter, a cabdriver, or in any odd job he could find to make a few extra soles. He really hustled. Anything he could do to bring home another fifty-kilo bag of potatoes. You needed a lot of papas fritas, fried potatoes, to feed a family the size of ours.

    The one thing my father always wanted to do was open a restaurant. He had a small café for a while and had invested his meager savings in it, but the economy in Lima at the time was very bad. He had to shut his beloved little place down pretty quickly, but he never complained. It’s one of the many reasons that as a teenager, I started going by Ricardo, my first name, when my family had always called me Martín, my middle name. Ricardo was my father’s name. I dreamed of opening my own restaurant someday—in honor of mi papá.

    Los Platos Sucios

    The Dirty Dishes

    My parents came up with a pretty clever system to give us opportunities beyond the walls of poverty in Lima in the 1970s and 1980s. With thirteen kids and a tight budget, there was a limit on how much my parents could do financially. When one of my older brothers or sisters got a full-time job, they were to give one of their younger siblings help jump-starting his or her career. Sometimes, that meant covering tuition at school, other times pitching in to buy a plane ticket abroad. Each of us would repay el favor to the next siblings in line.

    For me, the favor from my older brothers and sisters included both my culinary school tuition at the Instituto de las Américas, Lima’s culinary college, where I enrolled at seventeen, right after graduating from secondary school (the equivalent of high school), and a plane ticket abroad after I graduated. This was back in the early 1990s, when most restaurants in Lima really weren’t trend-setting like today. One of my brothers, Miguel, and my cousin Arturo were working and living together in London, comparatively a much better restaurant city at the time. They had a couch where I could crash, so I applied to Westminster Culinary College. (Hey, a second three-year culinary degree couldn’t hurt—especially when it came with a student visa that meant I could apply for restaurant jobs at the same time.) Small problem: I didn’t speak more than a few words of English.

    This is the part of the story where some chefs might tell you that they landed a stage (essentially a culinary internship) at a famous restaurant like The Fat Duck or back then, The River Café. Those places are great, but I’m very proud that my career didn’t work out that way. I started out a little further down the kitchen pecking order: the dishwashing station at a chain restaurant. Actually, I almost didn’t even get to London. A woman on my layover in Florida thought I was trying to illegally immigrate to the United States and called the police. I was detained by immigration security (to a petrified twenty-year-old, they looked like a SWAT team), and I missed my flight. After several hours, it became clear that they were trying to put me on a flight back to Peru. Good luck convincing an immigrations officer that you really are going to London (and didn’t buy the ticket with a layover in Florida intentionally) and have all of cero, zero, interest in illegally immigrating to the United States. (How times change. I am so proud to be an American citizen today.) More than twenty-four hours later, after desperate phone calls to my family and finally convincing immigration they couldn't pay me to stay in Florida, I was able to get on another flight.

    When I finally got to London, the first job I found was working the early morning janitorial shift at an office building. I was happy for the work, but I wanted a kitchen job—any kitchen job. I also needed the extra cash. My cousin Arturo worked in the kitchen at Benihana, the American chain restaurant known for its Japanese-style grilled hibachi dishes. Arturo convinced his boss to give me a shot as a dishwasher, the position where he had started in the kitchen. I was so grateful for the work, even if my schedule was a little crazy. On weekdays, after my office cleaning rounds, I would run across town to wash dishes for the lunch rush before making a brief appearance at the culinary school (sure, I skipped a lot of classes since I already had a culinary degree, but for the record, I did graduate). After class, I would go back to the restaurant to wash dishes again until past midnight, and then crawl home to crash for a few hours, exhausted.

    I’d be lying if I said I adjusted to my new life seamlessly. It was like I had woken up from a really good dream and suddenly been slapped into realidad in a foreign culture very different from where I had grown up. I loved Lima, and loved my family and friends. I probably would have stayed, had there been good work opportunities, as there are today, but that wasn’t an option back then. The night after my first full day of the dawn-to-dusk work-and-school schedule, I laid in my bed and cried. I didn’t think I would make it. (I still think about that night whenever I face a very difficult situation. I say, I’ll make it happen so often, my friends now always laugh when they hear it.) I think my cousin sensed I was struggling. Arturo told me that if I wasn’t promoted to hibachi chef within six months, as he had been, he and my brother were kicking me out and putting me on a plane back home. I didn’t realize it then, but he and Miguel were trying to give me the confidence I desperately needed to be successful.

    Six months later, I was standing in front of my first customers behind the restaurant’s steel teppanyaki cooking tables and hardly understanding a word anyone said to me. I was so worried that customers would complain about the language barrier, until I figured out that all you had to do was ask, How’s the weather? and people in London would talk on and on among themselves for what seemed like hours. All I had to do was smile, nod, and focus on what I did best—cooking.

    Mi Primera Cocina

    My First Kitchen

    It may not have been a five-star restaurant, but I will always be grateful for that first chain restaurant kitchen gig. Two years later, I landed a position at Aykoku-Kaku, one of London’s oldest and most respected sushi restaurants. Not that it was all smooth sailing from there. This was back when there was a lot of discrimination in London toward Latinos. The owner looked me up and down and assumed I had been hired as a new dishwasher, not a line cook. I once made her favorite sashimi plate. She took one bite and said it was the best she’d ever had—who made it? When she found out that I had, the owner sent the plate immediately back to the kitchen, the rest of the food untouched. El jefe del infierno—the boss from hell.

    But the master sushi chefs (who had hired me), all from Japan, respected the hard work and dedication I gave them. They also showed the same respeto, respect, for every single ingredient on the plate. Peruvian food has plenty of Japanese influence, but learning to truly appreciate that unfussy way of cooking—what I call clean cooking—was the most important lesson in my culinary career. You can really see that heightened Japanese influence in my style of modern Peruvian cooking today. I spent the next twelve years working my way up in several of London’s best Asian fusion and modern European restaurants at the time. They were all incredible opportunities to hone my cooking style, but after thirteen years, I needed a change. And I’m not going to lie: I needed sunshine.

    When I got a call to revamp the menu at a Cal-Asian restaurant in downtown Los Angeles, I jumped on it. L.A. reminds me a lot of Lima, with people from so many different cultural backgrounds, a true mezcla, mix. There is also an energy in Hollywood that you can almost feel in the air—the idea that anyone can do anything, no matter what his or her background or personal story. After getting the restaurant going, I returned to London for a while for work, but I knew I would be back very soon.

    I was—by 2009, I had taken over the stoves at Wabi-Sabi, an Asian-fusion restaurant in Venice Beach. Restaurants were closing right and left because of the recession, but that didn’t bother me. I had waited long enough to go out on my own. I saved up what I could, basically what amounted to one week’s rent for many high-end restaurants, only I needed it to last my first few months. It was just enough to rent a tiny little corner in Mercado La Paloma, a communal marketplace in downtown Los Angeles stuffed with taco stands and Oaxacan pottery shops. I called the humble little lunch stand Mo-Chica, after the Moche people, whom I’ve always admired (see sidebar). In the beginning, working at two cross-town restaurants was more than a little crazy based on the notorious L.A. commute time alone. Every morning before the sun came up, I shopped for Mo-Chicha ingredients at the fresh fish market downtown, then prepped the ceviches and other dishes before working the lunch shift. In the late afternoon, I would drive back across town to Wabi-Sabi in time for the dinner shift. (Fortunately, I lucked into finding an aspiring Peruvian chef in Los Angeles who could manage the dinner shift at Mo-Chica.) The double-time work schedule was almost identical to what I’d been doing fifteen years earlier, when I was just starting out in London, but I’d learned by then that sometimes that’s just how life works out. And, I could finally bring my style of cooking, my little corner of modern Peruvian food, to people.

    You may know how this story ends, or continues, as I like to think. The best compliment came from critic Jonathan Gold when I landed on the cover of a fancy food magazine’s Best New Chefs issue. He described my nomination in reference to Mo-Chica as an honor not generally awarded to lunch counters, even great ones. It was such an honor to me, to my takes on classic dishes like lomo saltado (beef stir-fry, page 140) and seco de cordero (a traditional lamb stew, page 150). It was also life changing. Suddenly, Mo-Chica was on the Los Angeles food map, and I had enough regular business to keep paying rent and my (all of two) loyal staffers.

    Mo-Chica soon moved to a bigger space downtown, and several other Los Angeles–area restaurants followed. Picca, a modern Peruvian cantina on the edge of Beverly Hills, I based loosely on the Queirolo, one of the oldest cantinas in Lima. It was there that I perfected my Anticucho Sauce (page 112), still one of the foundation recipes of my cooking. Paichẽ, which can best be described as a Japanese izakaya-style Peruvian seafood restaurant, was where all of the years working in Asian restaurants, especially those with a Japanese focus, really came through with my riff on tiraditos, causas, and ceviches. I have since moved on from these restaurants, and have opened Suave Riko in Los Angeles. It is more of a laid-back kind of place, an open-fire Peruvian rotisserie featuring local ingredients. It’s an incredibly exciting time to be sharing my take on modern Peruvian cuisine with people who may never have tasted anything like it, and my personal estofado has certainly had plenty of time to simmer.

    I hope with this book, you will become as excited as I am about the food of my country. If you are new to Peruvian cooking, then maybe start by trying some of the slow-braised meats and poultry, called estofados, and sauces—my anticucho sauce—the next time you grill steak or fish. If you’re familiar with Peruvian cuisine and ceviches, lomo saltado, or pisco sours are your thing, I hope you’ll have fun with my versions, or be inspired to come up with your own.

    And, if you are working your way through the book, as you finish those last few rosquitas (page 254)—which, now that I think about it, were one of my first forays into the food business when I was nine or ten years old—I hope you will have a better understanding of and love for Peruvian culture. There are always so many new flavors and traditional dishes to explore. I still get excited about playing around with different flavor combinations and adding my own twists. But the true fuego, or fire, behind each and every one of the dishes in this book comes from the Peruvian home cooks, including mi madre, who cooked the most amazing dishes long before I could even reach the stove. To them, we must all say gracias.

    La Cocina

    The Kitchen

    The kitchen was the center of my mom’s reino, kingdom, the place all of thirteen of us kids gathered when we weren’t off doing things she probably wasn’t supposed to know about. Our house was small, truly built one sack of cement at a time, with the eight boys stacked in one room, the five girls in another, and a living room nook where we all could hang out. La cocina was my favorite room in the house.

    The kitchen had a whole row of restaurant-size pots, always lined up and ready to go, and a cranky, old industrial kerosene stove that took some muscle to light. When I went to friends’ houses, I thought their moms were just pretending, playing house with their tiny pots and pans. You only had to turn a dial and tímido little flames spat out. (What could you cook on that?) Each morning, one of my older brothers would hand-crank the pump, over and over, until there was a loud whoosh! and a giant, half-foot-tall blue flame finally leapt out of our stove’s belly. Then Mamá was ready to start her twelve-hour shift.

    Mom ran a very tight ship. With so many kids, she had to. There were no excusas when it came to chores. Although my father loved cooking, men in Peru didn’t usually spend much time in the kitchen. It was a very traditional culture, but my mom refused to discriminate when it came to kitchen chores. I always wanted to be in the kitchen, but most of my older brothers would have rather helped our dad fix anything around the house, even haul junk off the street in the summer heat. I thought I’d won the lottery when Carlos, one of my older brothers, offered me the equivalent of a quarter to chop onions when it was his turn. I was too small to reach the counter, so I’d stand on a chair when our mom wasn’t looking and put a plastic bag over my head with sunglasses so I wouldn’t cry (note to my kids: definitely not a good idea).

    When I was finally old enough to take care of the dailies, meaning do some of the produce and meat market shopping, I would plan out a few of my own menus for the family for the week ahead. I was so proud that I would carefully write them out on our refrigerator in my ten-year-old script. Being in charge of the kitchen (at least in my head, as my mom was really in charge) also came with a bonus: When one of my older brothers would give me a hard time, his least favorite entrée would suddenly show up on the dinner menu. Dulce venganza—sweet revenge.

    ingredientes

    Ingredients

    Sometimes, creative cooking is simply about looking in a new way at ingredients that have been right under our noses. Most of the staple

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