When most diners hear the word espuma for the first time, a waiter will typically pause in a theatrical manner, implying that something delicate is about to fall onto the table. A pale green cloud perched atop a spoon. Over a scallop, a hint of orange. Something that appears nearly too tender to consume. Then comes the explanation, which is sometimes mumbled and frequently only partially translated because espuma is one of those words that is difficult to translate into English.
Espuma is the Portuguese and Spanish word for foam in its most basic form. Not the industrial variety. Not the kind that involves chemicals. The natural, transient kind, such as the lather of soap sliding down a wrist, the head on a glass of beer, or the froth atop a wave. It is used informally, almost affectionately, by Spanish speakers. A colchón de espuma is a foam mattress. It’s also espuma to watch the surf roll onto a beach in Cádiz. Before a Catalan chef chose to use it for something else, it was a common word used for common tasks.
For a few years, El Bulli, a restaurant perched on a cliff overlooking the Mediterranean, was regarded as the world’s most significant kitchen. The chef was Ferran Adrià. Adrià started experimenting with a cream-whipper siphon and nitrous oxide cartridges sometime in the 1990s. Pureed fruit and vegetable juices were forced through the canister to create something that was light, airy, highly flavorful, and nearly weightless on the tongue. What else would you call a foam? That’s why he called it espuma. The phrase stuck. It transcended national boundaries. It developed into a method.
This has a slight irony. Foam, froth, mousse, and even the older French culinary term déume were already present in the English language. None of them managed to catch Espuma. Perhaps it was the sound, which was round, gentle, and somewhat exotic on a Western menu. Perhaps it was because he was associated with Adrià, whose reputation gave his words a certain culinary weight. For years, critics have debated whether molecular gastronomy was costly theater or true artistry, and the issue is still up for debate. However, the word made it through the dispute.
In technical terms, an espuma is constructed on a liquid or puree base, stabilized with gelatine, cream, lecithin, or sometimes agar, and then aerated via a siphon. The outcome falls somewhere between air and mousse. Mousse has a body. In the past, foam was structured. Really, Espuma has neither. Part of its appeal is that it only lasts for a few minutes before collapsing. Before it goes away, you eat it.
It’s difficult to ignore how the word has strayed from its original meaning. Espuma still primarily refers to the head on a pint of cerveja in Lisbon’s small bistros. It indicates a chef has spent the afternoon using a thermometer and a cream charger in a classy dining room in New York or Copenhagen. The thinnest layer of context separates the two very different functions of the same word.
Walking through restaurants these days gives the impression that espuma has subtly become commonplace. Pasta with parmesan foam. Salad with beetroot foam. Dessert with coffee foam on top. As is perhaps the inevitable fate of any technique that makes it far enough, what was once considered avant-garde now seems almost expected. Meanwhile, the word retains its earlier connotations. In Barcelona, kids continue to chase espuma along the beach. It is still skimmed from the top of a stout by bartenders. A chef shakes a siphon and waits somewhere in between.
