Gastronomy 2: Fiesta

Craig and I were invited to a friend of a friend’s party and so, we actively attended a fiesta not knowing what to expect, where we did not know anybody, and, most importantly, could not speak the language. The small home was charming, with its grape arbor, bunches of raisins drying in the storage, a geranium-fringed tile porch, and the garden out back in autumn transition. It was on the outer edge of the city, and worked on a gasoline generator and non-potable water…but you would never know if someone didn’t warn you not to drink from the tap!

I was surprised when no one offered me a drink upon arrival. In the United States we use this as a social tool to take the awkward edge off party talk with strangers. Wine, for example, provides not only a conversation subject but also allows for brief pauses for thought as one swallows. But no one even gave a thought to drinks until the resident cook arrived and the food preparation began. Then, people began to break out the favorite cheap beer and mixers. A popular drink here is cerveza con límon, or beer with lemon Fanta. Most people were sipping on these and, although there were cases of liquor in the kitchen, those weren’t touched yet.

To me the most important and most interesting element of parties is and always will be the food. Unable to communicate without painful effort, I was especially drawn to the cooking, which requires no language. As with most cooking that takes place outdoors, the men were manning the ship, assembling a gigantic pan and propane burner set-up, dealing with the technical side of sticking cardboard beneath the stand to prevent wobbling. I was excited: I would be able to watch the preparation of and then sample the famous Spanish dish, homemade paella.

They heated oil in the pan and tossed in chicken pieces. I tried to count the bones; thigh chunk, ribs, wing joint. When it was mostly cooked they removed the chicken and replaced it with a mountain of very finely chopped onion and red and green bell pepper and sautéed them until the onion was translucent (just like my own momma always taught me). They added two jars of what I think was a very mild roasted tomato salsa. Slowly, the remaining ingredients were added: tightly closed clams, salt, strips of calamari, fish stock, green vegetable stock, ground saffron, three large sacks of rice, then ever so gently, langostinos, or prawns, their dark eyes glazed over, and one by one, mussels still in their wet shells.

In my experience thus far, it does not matter where in the world you are—men will always practice the same ritual while cooking outdoors. Be it a campfire, a propane stove, a barbeque, a pig in the ground, a turkey fryer, or a giant pot of jambalaya, the male chef will inevitably halt, assume a wide-legged stance, cross his arms, and stare into his meal for however long it takes for the satisfaction to set in. Craig and I came to the conclusion that this is genetically programmed into the male DNA, dating back to the dawn of humankind, when, in our hunter and gatherer societies, providing the tribe with food truly was a day’s work, or a week’s work, or more. Men truly fought for their meat and, as it slowly crackled over the first fires in our evolutionary history, they watched it with (hungry) satisfaction and pride.

In this case, we were all hypnotized by the bubbling concoction before us, by the smell of cooking food in the cold air, by the aesthetics of it, the yellow broth so bright against the dark black of the mussels, the warmth powerful in the weather. Our chef finally shook off his trance, realizing that more needed to be done. He lit a cigarette and distributed pages of newspaper to his onlookers and we each ceremoniously lay our sheet on top of the first, covering the pan to steam the contents. With the food covered, people wandered away, refilling their glasses, changing the music, making idle conversation. I found myself attracted to the baby in residence, the only other person besides Craig in linguistic isolation. Soon, plastic plates were handed out, loaves of crusty bread were set on various tables and finally—the newspaper was removed.


The dish was breathtaking. Bright yellow rice, seemingly decorated by the meats and shells, dressed with lemon slices. And the taste? Magnificent. What a beautiful balance between fluffy, tasty rice, and food you have to fight for—shrimp to peel, mussels and clams to pull from the shell, chicken meat to coax off the bone. I had to stop myself after two plates (though I felt like I could have eaten it all night long) and it left me with a content stomach and brightly dyed fingernails.



I give homemade paella five stars.

We caught a ride home with a man that had to put his baby to bed. We had been there five hours. “You’re going to miss the party,” our friend told us as we left, “It’s still early. La fiesta hasn’t started yet.”

Gastronomy 1: Restaurants

On one of our first nights here, Abbie remarked that the Spanish worship the pig. I replied that, generally, if a culture worships an animal, they refrain from consuming its meat at every meal. She laughed with a Spanish friend and replied that the pig is so upheld because of its importance in the Spanish diet. Indeed. I quickly learned that pig (this is what it is referred to, rather than ‘pork’) is included in essentially every meal.

Here in Alcalá, people will drink their morning coffee or tea and eat lightly, perhaps a toast with tomato and jamón (thin-sliced cured ham). Lunch is the biggest meal; it is taken around 2:00 in the afternoon. In restaurants, the standard lunch is two courses, perhaps a rice or pasta dish followed by a meat plate: sliced lomo (back meat) and sauce, albondigas (ground pork meatballs) and sauce, or another combination of pork. This is generally accompanied by fried potatoes and bread, a drink, and a dessert or coffee. People then take their siesta and return to work at 5:00, so dinner time does not roll around until 9 at the earliest. Dinner is meant to be light, thus the tapas tradition, which promotes bar-hopping to sample a wide array of what I can most easily explain as snacks. Occasionally, one might find a tapa constructed from smoked salmon or fried egg or canned tuna, but generally speaking, at least in Alcalá, tapas consist of lomo, jamón, chorizo, thick sliced salami, or another accented word that indicates pig, on a hard roll or toasted piece of baguette, sometimes with a bit of cheese. Sometimes one might find an option for calamari or pan tumaca (toast with a tomato-garlic-olive oil spread). As a salad and vegetable lover, I have struggled with this diet plan.

The important thing to realize is that when a pig is slaughtered in Spain, the entirety, minus perhaps the skeleton, is consumed; the ears, the stomach lining, the skin, the hooves, the blood, EVERY body part, can be found on a menu in this nation. It is a matter of pride! My approach is to give every dish a chance once. At the insistence of a local, in fact, Craig and I recently sampled black pudding. For this dish, meat is ground into sausage and pushed into intestinal lining, then injected with the drained blood of the animal, cooked, sliced, and squished into a pudding that is eaten on bread. It is, according to both my mind and my tongue, a giant, dark, thick scab. Yummy! A friend noted that the restaurant we tried this dish at does not prepare it wonderfully and that if we did not like it, we should really try it again at a different place. Right.

Dessert is, generally, a lunchtime luxury. Think custard and cream based cake or a caramel pudding like flan. Late at night, though, the chocolate appears. To a night-life adventurer, there is nothing better than a gofre, a waffle smeared with whatever topping you could imagine: chocolate sauce, whipped cream, strawberry jam, caramel, whatever combination thereof. Or perhaps you might prefer a napolitana, a pastry similar to a croissant rolled around a thick chocolate sauce. Or simply a chocolate croissant, a croissant sliced down the center, filled with chocolate, heated, and sprinkled with powdered sugar. Gofre shops are quite popular from, say, 3-5 am, when the night life is winding down on the weekends.

It’s a difficult schedule to adjust to. We, as Americans, are accustomed to small lunches and large dinners, for example. Here, Craig and I have had to learn to remember to eat lunch, to wait until 9:30 to head out for tapas, to expect a call at midnight or later to meet a friend, to expect everyone to show up much later than planned, to not question the ingredients of a dish set before us. I haven’t learned to love every cut of pork yet, to eat without peeling off strips of fat, to ignore dripping grease, to accept chunks of sausage as a meal. But I sure can appreciate and respect the whole consumption of a slaughtered animal, and I can understand the love and reliance on an animal that give itself up wholly to the nourishment of a nation.

The Cervantes Festival

Since Alcalá de Henares is the birthplace of Cervantes (and thus, some claim, the true birthplace of Spanish culture) it is not surprising that he and his work are celebrated throughout the city. Everywhere, there are bronze or iron or wooden Don Quixote characters and his recreated home is open for visitors. Childrens’ parks and tourist shops are dedicated to the characters in this most-famous work. Cervantes’ recreated home is open for viewing. And, every year on his October 9 birthday, the town shuts down to celebrate him, his work, and the period he lived in. This year Cervantes Day fell on a Thursday; every business throughout the city shut down and the Medieval Festival was erected and opened in the early morning.

The festival is a market, a gastronomical adventure, and a chance for Alcalá dwellers to bugger off work and drink a cheap bottle of cider. It’s crowded and fantastic, somehow beautiful and wretched at once, addicting and frustrating, like any festival across the world. Because the festival blocked our main path to work and markets and cafes, and because Craig and I liked it, we walked through it at least twice a day, pushed and pulled by the crowd and lured by the merchandise, and by the time it closed on Sunday we knew the booths thoroughly and often visited our favorites to pine (and be reminded of the thin state of our wallets!). There were tented palm readers, acrobats, musicians, made-up men on stilts, fire blowers, dancers, bird trainers with their troops of decorated eagles, owls, and hawks. There were potters, wood carvers, bakers, candle makers, ironsmiths, soap makers. There were burro rides and petting zoos, face painting, and beggars. There were vendors of all goods: shallow baskets of spices, burlaps sacks of healing herbs and teas; great molding, pungent wheels of cheeses, ropes of garlic and linked chorizo hanging from the wooden eaves of the booths, cured pig thighs and fat slabs of pork, baskets of salted sardines and vats of olives;


freshly fried potato chips, roasted corn, endless tables of cakes and pastries, homemade ciders and wines, freshly baked breads, cardboard cones of roasted chestnuts, dried fruits, and candy; aloe vera plants and products, potted herbs, dried bunches of lavender; freshly cut and aromatic chunks of soap, handmade candles, hand-dipped incense, carved and dyed and perfumed wooden roses;

jewelry made of stone and clay and metal and leather and shell and watermelon seeds; gemstones, bows and arrows, knives, wineskins, leather shoes and bags, medieval clothing, belly dancing costumes; kids’ toys, drums, bird whistles, balloons shaped like Spider-man and panda bear; Cervantes t-shirts, plates, and cards. There were restaurant booths with beer, wine, and tapas (appetizers, usually small sandwiches or crudités, that accompany a drink), plates of fried pig back fat, grilled ribs and chorizo, and every other cut and preparation of pig you could ever desire.

There were pulporias with their great copper vats of pink liquid and tentacles—the octopus is boiled then chopped into pieces and served with a sprinkling of paprika. There were booths for mojitos and pina coladas, crepes of all kinds, Arabic tents serving sweetened Tunisian tea. There was the smell of cooking pork and smoke in the air, complimented by the candles, soaps, perfumes, herbs, and the occasional stab of sewage.

It was very interesting and enjoyable! I would be lying though, if I said that I was upset when the vendors broke down their booths and disappeared. After four days of crowds, of late night yelling in the street, the smell of cooked pig clinging to my clothing, and the children—with their relentless drums and bird whistles and bows and arrows—I was glad for some quiet.
more pictures: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2124961&l=66f2e&id=6312129

Stork Sighting: Check!

I spotted my storks! They are awe-inspiring, somewhat terrifying, large, LARGE birds. The residents of Alcala aren't particularly fond of them for the "garbage" they produce, and the city has built support platforms for the nests (which are large enough to fit at least me, I'm fairly certain) to keep them from crashing down into the streets. Well, I like them!

I am a Teacher!

I taught my first class today at the British House. This particular class is very advanced. Today we discussed challenges in life: how births and deaths, weddings and divorces, illness or disease, living abroad, learning a new language, leaving for university, working stressful jobs, raising teenagers, etc, make us feel and how we deal with them emotionally. In Spanish, I can say, "Dos cafes con leche, por favor," and then ask for the check. Sometimes I think that's pretty gosh darn good. Today, one of my students said, while looking at a photo of a new mother in the hospital, "I think she is very glad because she is smiling. But also, the twins look like they may not be healthy, because they have tubes for oxygen. So maybe the mother is very scared that they will not live or they might be ill. And, she must also be feeling apprehensive about raising two children at the same time." How impressive! And yet, I feel that I was able to teach them some new vocabulary, etc. I also taught someone how to spell 'brief' properly! Not bad for my first hour and a half class!

Craig and I have both been assigned several hours a week by British House. They want Craig to teach the bulk of the advanced students since he has the technical side of the grammar down, and they want to eventually put me with children...which, although I'm not too excited about it, is the best way to utilize my own talents. I am actually also working as a private teacher for a 14 year old girl. I interviewed for the job this week, and I was hired to begin Monday. I am no longer scared of being able to find work, and I am much more confident about teaching. I think paying attention in class all my life is really paying off now!

This Place is Old, Man

We live in a very good location: we are two streets away from the Plaza de Cervantes, which is more or less the center of the historical district and of the part of town that concerns us. We are a three minute walk from our employer's office and several of our classrooms. We are close to a convenient grocery store and not far at all from the supermarket, several cafes, a few parks, and the river. Luckily for us we can walk where ever we might need to go. This area of Alcala is one of UNESCO's World Heritage Sites. Many of the streets are still cobblestone and the sidewalks are chipped brick. This limits traffic and pedestrians are encouraged by the sights. We live essentially next door to the University, which is still functioning despite its reputation as one of the oldest in Europe. She is over 500 years old!! (Pretty impressive to me...my own university was built in 1917 and has yet to survive Roman conquest or civil war). We are also surrounded by massive footprints of Catholicism, gargantuan (working) convents, hermitages, and incredible cathedrals, including the one in the Plaza de Santos Ninos, built to honor children that were martyred for their families' beliefs in (according to what I was told) the 400s. On the rooftops of these aging buildings, especially those with towers overlooking the city, one can see the nests of storks. I am told I will be able to hear their bill clattering communication during mating season. I am determined to spot a stork and have not even come close in succeeding.

Alcala de Henares is the birth place of Cervantes, the Spanish writer who produced Don Quixote. Here, you can visit a recreation of the Cervantes home and the city celebrates this celebrity with vigor. Every place you go, you see Cervantes and Don Quixote, in bronze statues, on the coins, in the shop windows, and of course, in the Plaza de Cervantes, where Cervantes stands tall, overlooking the square, quill poised to record what he sees.

The View from the Kitchen Window

Our apartment is quite nice for the price. We viewed several "pisos" and finally decided, rather than spend the 700 euros (plus 700 euro deposit) for privacy (and self-maintained cleanliness), we would rent space in a four bedroom, two bathroom apartment. We are in a very central location and have wireless internet (which we use nonstop), a TV (which we never use), and heat for the winter months. As you can see in this picture, we have a laundry room as well...or a strung wire outside the kitchen window. We are equipped with a washer (thank goodness) but do have to air dry our clothes, something that I couldn't have imagined I would mind. Of course, when I think of line-drying clothing or sheets or towels, I picture it like anyone else from my technological generation would...overlooking a soft field in a golden breeze and fresh, mountain air. Or something. As it is, we'll now wear our jeans 3 or 4 or 5 days without washing them, since when you hang them out the kitchen window they pick up every aroma (of trash, the neighbor's frying fish, the traffic smog, the mold from the shaded walls). We don't get any sunshine on our side of the building, so they take a day and a half to dry and are long crunchy boards when we pull them back in.

I make it out to be worse than it is, but please do believe me, things don't smell very good here.

But back to the apartment. We have a small kitchen with a fridge and a freezer, a tiny porch with a bit of sun and a view of the busy street and a square the children play in after siesta. We have a microwave and an oven that we can't figure out how to work.

Most importantly, we have good roommates. One, as I mentioned before, is from the United States. Blake is an English MFA student, so we have a lot in common with him, and with his girlfriend as well, who is also a Georgian. Blake is fluent in Spanish (when he is not speaking English with a strong southern accent) so he helps us to communicate with Jorge and Isaac. Jorge is a hermetic local and speaks no English (we don't see much of him), but Isaac is a student from Barcelona. He is learning English, so we practice our foreign languages on one another. We watched the futbol game with him the other night, then he watched the Georgia-Alabama football game with us. All in all, everyone is friendly but mostly busy and out of the apartment.

I'm very content living here. There are a lot of strange sounds to adjust to (and strange hairs in the bathroom) but it is SPAIN!