Author: zora

NY Times: Caged Pork Fanatic

Last week, Peter sent me a link to this lunatic op-ed in the NY Times. Short version: foodies are all wrong in promoting free-range meat, because it will surely kill them. Factory farming is so much safer. Or I guess that’s what he was saying. It gets pretty loopy at the end.

I read it, thought about it, sputtered a little and did not really have time to articulate what was so totally wrong with the guy’s thinking. In fact, I read it, and then went out and had a piece of toast with tasty free-range jamon serrano on it for breakfast, along with my fresh-squeezed orange juice. Call me a foodie, whatever–I’m sure I’m eating better than this ass in Texas.

Fortunately, while I was digesting, the incisive Ms. Julie Powell came along and wrote something sharp about it for me, and noted the addendum the Times had to print. Que sorpresa. (That’s Spanish for “no doy.”)

Spain–He Is Risen!

Now that I’m Greek Orthodox, I’m not supposed to say this, but today is Easter. And you’d think that would be a day of rest in Spain, right? I mean, teams of 40 men have been carrying immensely heavy statues through the streets nearly all day, every day for a week. There was a special 100th-anniversary-of-something procession yesterday with all of the statues. Today everyone kicks back and eats, right?

Yeah, no. Three more groups are parading today, starting at noon. Como se dice ‘overkill’?

But to be fair, even last night I was still stunned by a procession. We caught one coming up a hill, without much of a crowd around. There’s this great super-slow Doppler effect with the band, which follows behind the statue. So the music’s getting louder and louder, but if you’re around a bend you can’t really see anything. And then the music is bouncing off the walls of the buildings super-loud just as the statue, surrounded by candles, emerges from the side street.

And then, as the statue goes by, and you’re boggling at how heavy it is, the band finally emerges and it is even LOUDER. And the bass drums go by last.

I saw this effect for the first time a few nights ago, with a statue of Christ hauling the cross, surrounded by centurions with huge feathers in their helmets. When the statue emerged from the side street, with the band blaring, all we saw first was the feathers. By the time the whole statue was visible, I expected Jesus and the soldiers to be doing a big kick line routine.

On the research front, things have gotten a little easier. We’ve figured out the route to break out of our little procession island, and know better to avoid bars right on the routes, because they’re mobbed and are basically pulling tapas out of their asses. “Beer coasters? Toss ’em in the fryer! Forty more people just showed up!”

Yesterday was a good day for research–I checked a fair amount of stuff of my list, and it even felt a little easy and like I was ahead of the game.

Then I looked at my watch, and I realized I’d been walking, with Beverly tagging along behind, for ten hours straight.

We started out after our churros and chocolate–the logical thing to eat when it’s 44 degrees out. But apparently the rest of the city thought so too. I have never seen bars so frenzied, even at night. The place where we did finally get our ch-and-ch fix–an excellent rec from AV–looked like a war zone inside, with empty chocolate cups four deep and two high stacked all along the bar. So we sat outside, which was for the best, since we were wearing every layer of clothing we packed (six each), and it would’ve been too difficult to adjust to a heated room.

The chocolate was thick as pudding, and the churros actually had a little ridgy texture, which I have seen only up in northern Spain–down south here, they’re usually they’re just smooth round tubes. And they were so perfectly fried and light they were almost empty inside. We shared a table with an older Spanish couple, the only people we saw all day who were as bundled up as we were.

Later, I admit, we did stop for a fairly nice lunch. Lovely baby beans with ham, and some nice fancy mushrooms. A real live green salad. And some too-creative-sounding veal with cardamom that turned out to be good. Finished with a little dab of orange wine that the waiter, who looked like Peter Dinklage, gave me for free, because apparently it was available only by the bottle. Crazy.

And later we took a 15-minute break in a bar that went from funky-neighborhoody to totally skeevy in the time it took for the foam to settle on our beers. While I was looking in the kitchen and noticing that when the sign said “food cooked with love,” they really meant “food cooked with cigarette butts and dirty wads of paper towels,” the older regulars at the bar were replaced by strung-out hippies, one of whom was doing the junkie lean into his beer. The review I was writing in my head was quickly discarded, and I pushed my octopus tapa around, feeling bad that it had died in vain. We fled up the street and took solace in a church with a very strange collection of artifacts, none labeled.

Which reminds me–earlier in the day, we saw an honest-to-God shrunken head in another museum! Why that museum is not listed in the guidebook I cannot for the life of me imagine. I can’t wait to rectify that oversight, and type the words “shrunken head” in the manuscript! First I will have to figure out what the whole point of the museum is, though–the guided tour was in Spanish, and while I thought I understood what the guy was saying most of the time, when I strung it all together at the end for Beverly, I realized it made no sense at all.

I’m sure a million other funny things have happened, but they’ve all been beaten out of my head by those bass drums. Monday is going to be quiet, right?

Spain–Live Blogging: Semana Santa

Ooh, they’re cheering outside!

Ooh, the brass band is playing!

Ooh, the drums are drumming!

Ooh, they’re singing!

Repeat, for seven hours.

Actually, the singing is novel. And that did just happen as I was typing it. Otherwise, no need for actual live blogging–you get the idea. And it will go on till Sunday.

I’m in Granada now. We started running across Semana Santa events a few days back, as we’ve moved to progressively larger towns, and now the big city. In each case, the bands have gotten tighter, the statues have gotten more humongous and the crowds have gotten more giddy and festive, rather than somber. They’ve also gotten monstrous, to the point where we could not get home tonight for a couple of hours because we happened to be on the wrong side of a procession.

It’s like New Year’s Eve, Halloween and the Fourth of July all mixed together. (Not for the fireworks–just lots of brass bands.)

Oh, also, for us Americans, toss in a smidge of a good old-fashioned lynching, what with all the pointy hoods and the fires blazing. I did a little research today, and no one seems to know why the KKK dress up like Catholic penitents, when they hate Catholics so much. And now they’ve gone and given a whole country an image problem. Maybe the Spanish can get together with the Navajo and lament the misuse of the swastika as well.

And can I just emphasize the not-somber factor? I was surprised by this. I’m used to New Mexico, where, aside from the occasional clown at a pueblo dance, religious ceremony is Some Serious Shit. No teenagers are taking pictures of their friends with their cell phones in NM, and damn sure no one’s ducking out of their band duties to have a glass of wine at the nearest bar.

Oooh, they’re cheering outside again. This happens whenever the team carrying the statue successfully negotiates a curve in the street. This involves a great deal of shuffling in place–like a 200-point K-turn.

Every time I see them do it (and you can only see their feet under the whole howda-like construction upon which the Virgin Mary or Christ is resplendent), I have flashbacks to all the times I had to turn the car around in tiny villages in the past two weeks. I may not be Catholic, but I am with them in spirit.

Oooh, there are some woodwinds chiming in. That’s new.

What else? Well, the guys in the hoods are supposed to be the penitents, but they’re followed by this enormous crew of women in very glam black gowns and long lace mantillas and sleek black stockings…and tippy little pointy high heels. Dudes might be hoisting a wooden cross–but walking stop-and-go, museum-style for seven hours in stilettos? Those women probably just have to cut their feet off at the end of the night and start fresh. I hope they’re in religious ecstasy.

OK, totally dazed by lack of sleep. Putting my earplugs in and calling it a night, at the weak-ass hour of 1 a.m. There will be plenty more opportunities. Somehow, just now, I am not singing “I Love a Parade.”

And, before I could get to the earplugs, the street… I was about to type ‘has gone completely quiet.’ But no–there’s the brass band again. Nighty-night. Tomorrow I try to figure out whether any of the tourist attractions I need to research will actually be open.

Spain–I Love a Bidet!

Not much more to say about that, really. Except I sing that to myself (to the tune of “I Love a Parade”) every time I see one in my hotel bathroom. And I do kind of love a bidet. But the separate one? That, what, you have to sort of stay crouched and shuffle over to from the toilet? I have never really understood that procedure.

Anyway, away from the toilet and onto the food. Things are sort of looking up. I all on my own, not cribbing from any guidebook but using only my inborn restaurant Spidey-sense, found us a super-tasty place for lunch in a little village up in the mountains. It looked like a promising village because there were a bunch of small trucks sporting the names of different cheese companies, all with addresses there.

So we wound up with wild mushrooms, all sauteed till crispy and caramelized and drizzled with garlic cream, and some rabbit in an almond sauce and little chicken croquettes to die for. Oh, and extra-nutmeggy chicken croquettes. No green vegetables, but who needs ’em? Name of tiny town and restaurant available on request. (Oh please, oh please don’t tell me it’s already in Fodor’s…)

Then, uh, things got bad again. I stupidly followed the advice of the same book that had led me to the wicker-chair-and-foie-gras horror show. And for my trouble (and it was a fuck of a lot of trouble–there is no parking in Baza!), I got chicken soup that tasted distinctly of margarine. Beverly got some macaroni that was Chef Boyardee-like in its gumminess. And we both got disapproving glowers from the waiter who cleared our main dishes. They were just 10 percent eaten and the rest shoved under a pile of soggy fries.

The cruel part is that I stopped in what smelled and looked like a great restaurant to ask directions to the crappy restaurant.

There was another hideous lunch, too, but I think I’ve just blotted that out.

The last two days, we’ve skipped lunch altogether (I mean, except for that ice cream today…), mostly because I’m sensing a mutiny in the ranks. Beverly goes to bed every night whimpering about how full she feels and saying plaintively, “Tomorrow will be a light eating day, right?”

So I’m a little fried on the food front. Have seen neither hide nor hair of the tortillitas of Bittman fame. Am only semi-hopeful…

On the general charmed-by-a-foreign-land front, though, things are going well.

For instance, the pillows in Spain are all exactly as wide as the beds. Granted, I’ve only slept in twin beds–I don’t know if they expand on larger beds. But very comfy.

Also, in Spain, they have these ingenious electric heaters that fit into the base of a table, which you then cover with a heavy blanket, and stick your feet under the blanket and on top of the heater to get all toasty.

If I’d had one of those when I lived in Cairo, I might’ve actually sat and done my Arabic homework instead of crawling into bed to get warm and feel less depressed. In fact, all those places where they think the weather is balmy enough not to warrant proper indoor heating could benefit.

Finally, in Spain, as if it needs to be said, they are into the ham. Creepily so. I saw a cartoon mural in one town of a Catholic king and a Muslim emir sitting down to a giant pig dinner. Sort of malevolent, no?

More heartwarming, though, are the words I’ll leave you with. Overheard on a street one morning in Laujar de Andarax, from one old Spanish man in a cardigan to another old man in a cardigan:

“Eat some ham. It’ll make you feel better.”

Spain: F***ed by Grandma

My mom has this joke involving a guy who sees a sign for Grandma’s Whorehouse. He gets all excited, and follows the sign all over the place, then after a long time through streets and down hallways, he winds up in a back alley facing another sign that reads “You’ve just been fucked by Grandma!”

We’ve said that twice now, after meals, which is not a good track record.

See, I have this ethic that if a restaurant is expensive and/or far away, that’s the restaurant that I should definitely eat at (as opposed to cruise by and ogle the food and the people, which, it’s true, is the case for some restaurants in guidebooks). Because if it sucks, it’s going to suck extra hard, and the bad vibes from the angry traveler will rain down on me.

Now, after two nearly back-to-back meals that were both expensive and far away, I’m thinking…maybe expensive and far away is just a guarantee of terrible? I can certainly think of a few examples from places I’ve lived–there’s that special-occasion/Sunday-drive factor that puts people in the frame of mind to enjoy whatever crap is put in front of them. But if I lived by this new judgment, and just ignored all restaurants in this category, there’d be no room for El Bulli. (Which is not my territory for this book, but you get the idea.)

The first act of Grandma was a couple of days ago, in the beach town of Almunecar. Following the recommendation of another guidebook (I know, bad form–but it happens!), I drove out to this place that allegedly merged Belgian and Spanish. It was the tail end of lunch (see, already I’m getting late for things), so when I saw some of the initial warning signs of badness, I didn’t feel like I had other options. These warning signs were: painted wicker furniture, a menu in a terrible curlicue font and many tables full of families.

The waiter glided up and told me it was a “menu gastronomico,” which I thought might be a polite way of saying “It’s a little fancier than you’re used to, honey,” but was in fact referring to the set eight-course menu that they were serving that day.

As we sat down, I noticed some food on other tables. I saw red-leaf lettuce as a garnish. I saw something that looked suspiciously like fish fingers. I saw that the waiters’ vests fit them all poorly, and that one of the waiters had a palsy. And yet, I still did not run.

We settled into our slightly-too-low wicker chairs (as those damn wicker chairs always are). The first course was unobjectionable–avocado, goat cheese and pimientos in a twee little column.

But it went so downhill from there. I’ve blotted the traumatic details from my mind, but suffice to say, I now know how to say “fish fingers” in French. (Goulettes, I think it is.) And I’m saying that even though there was foie gras and prunes soaked in Armagnac. Somehow, in the world of high-end dining, even that has become a horrible, horrible cliche.

So…that was interesting. And cost about $100. (Can I just complain at this point that I get paid in dollars, and the euro has of course gained value since I did all the math for my expenses and signed my contract? Argh.)

It was also illuminating because this other guidebook that recommended the place sounds very authoritative on the food front. But if that gets a fancy best-of-the-best star, then I think I can safely chuck that book, and no longer feel a twinge of guilt every time I think about poaching from it.

Grandma’s Round 2 came last night, in Granada. We drove up a million mountain roads (it’s true–the Moor’s Last Sigh is just a highway pullout now), toured the Alhambra and finally found our hotel. We’re on the edge of town, because we have the car at this juncture, and I noticed we’re actually very close to Granada’s expensive, out-of-town-but-allegedly-worth-the-drive place. It’s listed in all the guidebooks I have as being stupendous.

It’s a Monday, but I call to make reservations. Actually, I ask, “Do we need reservations for tonight?” and the guy says, “Why, yes, indeed!” So I get a reservation for half an hour hence, using my new alias, Sara. (Turns out Zora means ‘whore’ in Spain Spanish–no wonder people look at me funny. Also, when I ask waiters what ‘cogollos’ means–I just did a Google image search, and all I got were pictures of pot plants.)

We get ourselves looking moderately fancy–as fancy as possible, considering it’s freezing outside and I didn’t pack for a nice restaurant and cold weather. Suffice to say I’m wearing my fancy shoes with socks.

We trundle down there, and even from our hotel it seems like a long haul. We stride in through the door–nobody. We walk up the grand alabaster stairs–re-nobody. Just the toilets, marked with cheesy brass flamenco dancers and bullfighters. (Did I mention? The place in Almunecar had those terrible pissing-children plaques. Another terrible sign.)

Finally, I try one of the many unmarked inner doors–ah, there’s the party. Or at least a couple of members of the waitstaff. I give my alias, they consult the list seriously, and then…we’re whisked into an empty dining room. In the next room over, we can hear a few people–but we’d foolishly chosen non-smoking when given the choice. I thought back to college, when smart people I knew said they were smokers on their housing forms, so they’d get cooler roommates.

So, we sit alone in this giant tchotchke-filled dining room, every table set with every piece of silver and possible glass. The walls are so crammed, it’s like a Spanish version of TGIFriday’s.

Our waiter, however, doesn’t have much flair. In fact, he’s a little skinny and anxious. He gives us English menus, but I have to ask for the Spanish because the English is so strange and unappetizing.

After we finally order, the waiters arrive with a plate of toasted bread with olive oil–appealing, not stupid-fancy–and our amuse-bouche. Which is hideous. It’s this poor denuded, hollowed-out tomato that’s hiding a wad of inferior tuna, set on a bed of pimiento. There’s some gratuitous eight-inch-long spiky cracker thing sticking out of the top. The tomato is horrible, all sickly and wan (when over in Almeria province, there are special tomatoes in season–argh!), and the whole thing reminds me only of what I had for breakfast the day before.

Worst of all, it’s cloaked in this horrendously bitter olive oil. And our toasted bread is soaking in the same vile bitterness.

It all goes downhill from there: the first artichokes in my life that I’ve not been able to eat, some off-tasting shrimp and this blood-pudding lasagna, which is actually the best of the bunch, but the sweet tomato-carrot sauce on it is cloying.

By the time our main dish, a baby leg of lamb, turned up, we were very dispirited. Which was sad, because the lamb was pretty good. Not trying to be anything but lamb, with a little rosemary, and nice crispy skin. But it was so wee (it was billed as suckling lamb), it was depressing. There’s no reason to eat suckling lamb–it doesn’t taste any better than regular lamb. Let the little guys frolic a while! Eat some grass… I’ll check back later, when it doesn’t seem quite so pointless to kill it and serve it in some random restaurant by the side of the road on a Monday night.

Anyhoo, we at least had a little room for dessert. But the dessert list looked lame, except for one thing. Which they were out of.

We high-tailed it out of there. The diners in the other room had just left, and we were the only people in the place. We went upstairs to the bathrooms, we peered at the weird decor… Why was a reel-to-reel tape player sitting next to an old Singer sewing machine in a tableau of Olde Thinges? And why did that giant oil painting depict a naked boy with a very prominently shaded penis, and a creepy-looking man with his arm around his shoulder?

And why, oh why, did that basket of decorative apples still have their little produce stickers on? If I’d noticed that when I walked in the door, maybe I would’ve actually run out. But maybe not. After all, I’d driven all this way…

Remember, kids, I eat at the bad places, so you don’t have to. I get fucked by Grandma, so you don’t have to.

More Reasons to Love Spain

As Beverly said while we were waiting idly for the light to change, and for it to be time for dinner:

“Isn’t it nice to feel like we’re actually early for everything for a change?”

Also, Spain is the kind of place where two women can walk into a bar and say, “We’ll have what they’re having.”

And the punchline is: a giant plate of delicate purple-shelled cockles, swimming in wine and garlic; a wedge of bread smeared with spicy sausage paste (sobrasada); two beers; two refreshing glasses of verdejo; a wedge of sheep cheese; a tapa of succulent ratatouille-ish stuff; and some squid in escabeche.

It’s also the kind of place where we get a free, unasked-for plate of deep-fried nuggets of monkfish liver. And the total tab is less than 20 euros.

No wonder I was in a swoon after lunch yesterday. Not just the jet lag, really.

Spain–First Impressions

Estoy aqui. Jet lag in full effect. But all went smoothly, considering. After the passport hurdle, there was the connection-in-Madrid hurdle: very tight, aggravated by slack US Air rep who said he couldn’t check my bags through to Almeria. Not true, of course, because they’d even been able to pull this trick off in Albuquerque, on my mom’s bags–but I didn’t know this for certain at the airport, and couldn’t dig in my heels.

At least I got to stew about this in the business-class lounge in Philly–Star Alliance Gold status in full effect!

As it happened, my bag was the very first one off the belt in Madrid. When does that happen? I feel like it should be the subject of a business-motivation book: First Off the Belt: Someone’s bag has to be–why not yours ?

I’m gratified to find that my impression of Spanish women, forged years ago, has not changed at all: they have terrible hair!

This is great for me–I fit right in! Last time I was here, I had just “gone blonde,” except the salon lady failed to tell me until after the job that I really needed a double process. So I had that distinctive orange hair that Japanese punk kids (and undernourished children) often sport.

With that, and my tight pants and my glasses, I got asked for directions all the time!

I did a little henna on my hair about a week ago, in preparation for this trip…and the magic is working! I already had to beg the stewardess for an immigration form.

Also, when I saw the chick on my Almeria flight with the big green square glasses and the super-tight bright-pink pants, I knew I’d made the right decision when I tossed my kelly green skinny-leg cords into my suitcase at the last minute.

This ramps up the pressure on my Spanish, but it’s worth it just to feel like my fashion sense is appreciated. Unlike in NYC, where poor grooming and bright colors mean people edge away from you on the subway.

As for my mom, she fits in OK–she’s wearing lots of black, and a scarf. But the dead giveaway is that she has white hair–not brassy orange or jet black. Also, she’s about a head taller than most of the older women on the street, and that’s something that pretty much never happens. In most other settings, she’s often mistaken for a gelfling.

After a big nap this afternoon, we immediately fell victim to Spanish dining times…roaming the street, starving, while waiting for tapas bars to open. We would’ve had a little sweet treat to pass the time, but all the seats at the cafes were already crammed with people enjoying their post-siesta pick-me-up, with churros and cafe con leche and juice on all the tables. Another reason to love Spain–two chances for breakfast!

And, once we got into the tapas window, I truly appreciated how great it is to be doing guidebook research here. Here, it’s totally legit, even expected, to have one drink in a place and leave. Everywhere else I go, I have to steel myself for the evening reviewing session, to cover as many places as possible: drinks and apps in one place, mains in another, maybe dessert in a third. But if I drink too much at the first place, and the food is good, my plan goes to hell immediately.

Tonight, I checked three places off my list in just a couple of hours, without feeling a twinge of regret or having to shrug apologetically at anyone when I asked for the bill.

For the record, my body is humming along on a diet of: blood-sausage stew on toast, bacalao fritters, green olives, delectably bouncy baby meatballs and octopus in garlic mayo so blindingly white it looked like whipped cream.

Hmm. Maybe I shouldn’t have made that list.

I also ate half a clementine. That counts, right? Still, Beverly has the advantage: she ate the lettuce-leaf garnish that came with the fritters.