At first, Brazilian chef Alex Atala opened his restaurant in São Paulo in 1999,1 people told him he'd never succeed. In a country where European cuisine was held in the highest regard, they said, no one would patronize a restaurant serving Brazilian food. Atala, whose restaurant has consistently ranked among the world's best, has long disproven the naysayers. Using traditional Brazilian ingredients, such as, manioc root2 and even ants—in innovative ways, he has thrilled3 diners from around the world. Still, Atala felt he could do more for his country and its cuisine. 4In 2012, he founded Instituto Atá to help promote lesser-known ingredients, particularly those of the Amazon basin, while working to protect Brazil's biodiversity. Hearts of palm, for example, were typically harvested from Brazil's wild juçara palms in an unsustainable way. Needing eight years to mature, the tree dies once its5 large heart is removed. Atala began persuading producers to cultivate Amazonian pupunha palms, which grow clusters of stems, each with a small heart. Careful harvesting ensures that the tree will live to yield more hearts,6 resulting in environmentally friendly production. Atala prioritizes his working relationships with Amazonian tribes. Utilizing their historical know-how they have,7 he aims to bolster tribe members' livelihoods while exposing a wider audience to Brazilian ingredients. For instance, Baniwa women have farmed distinctly flavorful chili peppers for centuries that use8 indigenous agricultural techniques, to create a seasoning called pimenta jiquitaia. Partnering with Instituto Atá have enabled9 these women from a remote rain forest region to scale up production and market their product globally. Expanding awareness of the rich diversity of Brazil's native ingredients,10 Atala continues to lead in deciphering the country's food culture. With his characteristic passion and intensity, the renowned chef seeks to inspire Brazilians to rediscover the connections between culture, nature, and food.
11kseat, the passenger-side tires finding the rumble strips etched into the asphalt. Normal rumble strips create that loud, grating noise when you drive over them—like a built-in alarm for drivers who drift too close to the road's edge. These strips are different. The boys abruptly stop their squalling as the car begins to vibrate. Then, instead of that jolting warning noise, we hear the distinct strain of the song 'America the Beautiful.' The road is playing us a song. I've been taking this detour out of Albuquerque for two years, ever since these musical rumble strips were installed.12 City planners wanted to find out whether the novelty of hearing a snippet of song would give drivers an incentive to obey the speed limit; the tune is only recognizable if they're going a reasonable forty-five miles per hour. Whether this strategy works, I don't know.13 For me, this brief musical interlude is a charming curiosity, a welcome interruption in my work-week slog. Even though constant traffic has worn down the musical rumble strips and warped the sound of some of the notes, there are currently no plans to restore the strips. After the last one of the notes fades14 into the darkening sky, I glance back at the boys, who have been15 lulled by the wonder of the song. Until then,16 I feel like everything is going to be just fine.
In the sparse yet relatively green environment of the Kalahari Desert, birds known as sociable weavers build their enormous nests atop the desert's signature camelthorn trees. Slung across the branches, each nest—which can measure up to thirteen feet wide and seven feet thick—is a sprawling community home to hundreds of birds.
She depicts flowers with layers of petals, intricate spirals and rosettes, teardrops bending within circles, and dizzying mazes of lines—embroidering them in vibrant reds, blues, pinks, yellows, and greens on fabric of delicate silk or cotton. Pang Xiong Sirirathasuk Sikoun is a master of paj ntaub, or "flower cloth" embroidery, the most difficult of the century's-oldest Hmong needlework arts.