Down the hill there was another warehouse, visible as a thin chimney coming out of the cane. Under the aluminum roof, there was a scene that Quintero hates to see: shirtless men smoking while working, chickens pecking, someone passed out on a pile of cane fiber, wooden pots that can produce splinters. But that was the reality of the pan in much of Colombia, he admitted.
It was 8 am, and a pan of an unusual and shiny golden color was being stirred in pots when a weigher named Jimmy Buitrago came in to work, late. We had weighed the pan in Don Manuel since 5 am and, before, in two other warehouses. He hadn’t slept an entire night in three days.
Mr. Buitrago, a skinny 18-year-old, seemed to have suffered nothing from the wear and tear, as he took the hot dough quickly to form perfect half-pound burgers on a table, then stamped them with the initials of the trap owner. Among fresh pots of hot syrup, he sneaked into pieces of breakfast. He had been doing this for four years now, he said.
Mr. Buitrago was unaware of Mr. González’s efforts, or even what a patent was. Lucero Copete, who packaged the chilled hamburgers on paper for marketing, explained to him. “He wants exclusivity,” she said. Mr. Buitrago was incredulous: “Where is he?”
This pot had a different flavor than in industrial plants: richer, softer and sweeter outside the cards. “Very clear!” said Quintero, pointing to a pile of reddish gold rods waiting to be pressed. “See the quality of the cane.”
The pan is more agitated and less predictable than table sugar, explained Quintero, because it contains all the components of the cane juice, not all of which are adjustable. In small mountain plots like this, the individual cane is selected for ripening. The only additive is a little vegetable oil to prevent the caramel from bubbling.
The policosanol content of this deliriously good pan remained undetermined, and as far as it could go, it was only a few kilometers ahead.