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runswithscissors


Tuesday, March 12, 2002

[Continued from entry of 11 March.]

Soon as we sat down, a sizeable loaf of hard-crusted bread materialized, along with a large knife. Marco took to carving the bugger up and strewing slices around, us gnawing on them as we tried out the cider. Before long the first course appeared, a large platter of tortilla de bacalao. On the chance you don't already know this, a Spanish tortilla has no relation to a Mexican one except that they're round and get eaten. Spanish tortilla: essentially a kind of omelet, usually in a form that suggests a quiche/omelet hybrid. Thick and round, made with eggs, with potatoes and/or green or red pepper, often with other ingredients –- ham, shrimp, greens, sausage. They're delicious, and have been a near staple of my diet here. Bacalao is salt cod, which is what this tortilla contained. Though I'm not generally a fan of fish (pescado), bacalao is usually mild enough that I can deal, which proved to be the case here. (Bacalao: also the Spanish word for techno, as in music of the 210 beats per minutes variety. Why? Got me.)

We were given no plates apart from the platter with the tortilla, leaving us no option but to use forks to cut pieces off rapidly-shrinking mother tortilla and ferry them directly to mouths. Between the four of us, the tortilla dematerialized in no time flat.

Next course: a chuletón. A chuleta is a chop, often a pork chop (chuleta de cerdo). A chuletón is a massive version of a chop or, speaking technically, a huge freakin' slab of meat. In this case a gigantic slab of beef, done dark on the outside, which gave the appearance of having been well-cooked. (Brief pause for snorts of laughter.) On cutting into it, we found ourselves staring at meat of such a deep, shocking red that Curtis wondered aloud if they'd actually cooked the bugger or if they'd just slapped some black paint on it. It was, apart from the seared exterior, some of the rawest flesh I've ever eaten. And, I'll admit it, pretty good. The four of us quickly demolished the first one. Jim called for a second, it appeared. I'd about reached my limit for consumption of raw flesh, but as this one turned out to be bit more well-done, I had a little. When that one disappeared, Jim called for a third. Even the proprietor seemed impressed with that. That final slab essentially went to Jim and Curtis.

During all this, more diners arrived, the calls to cider continued. A couple of times, those calls led the growing crowd down into a sub-basement where two more casks lurked. At one point, the proprietor led everyone outside and around the corner of the building to a storage room, redolent of hay and crisp country air, housing two large metal tanks off at one end, each containing a batch of cider. After the afternoon's initial cider round, Curtis, Jim and Marco collectively decided they preferred wine, they spent the rest of the event working their way through a couple of pitchers worth. I stuck to cider, being immune to the alcohol and enjoying the semi-chaotic ritual of it all.

The crowd sharing the basement with us: an interesting, motley group. Entirely Spaniards, I think, apart from our table, including families with children -- the children sitting together at a table coloring with crayons -- and at least two infants, who received a lot of attention. There were a fair number of 20-somethings, including one anarchist at the table behind me who got some marijuana circulating. We didn't realize this until we saw the proprietor standing by one of the casks near our table finishing off a joint (un porro). We got talking with the 20-something, he immediately laid half of a porro on us, which Curtis and I stared at as if someone had just handed us a live grenade. I prefer to stay more or less lucid, so took a fast, cosmetic, token hit and tossed it to Curtis, who appeared completely perplexed. We tried to give it back to the 20-something, he insisted it remain in circulation, Curtis finally handed it off in another direction.

[Continued in entry of 13 March.]

rws 1:26 PM [+]
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BLATHERINGS

August 2001
September 2001
October 2001
November 2001
December 2001
January 2002
February 2002
March 2002
April 2002
May 2002
June 2002
July 2002
August 2002
September 2002
October 2002
November 2002
December 2002
January 2003
February 2003
March 2003
April 2003
May 2003
June 2003
July 2003
August 2003
September 2003
October 2003
November 2003
December 2003
January 2004
February 2004
March 2004
April 2004
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June 2004
July 2004
August 2004
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November 2004
December 2004
January 2005
February 2005
March 2005
April 2005
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November 2005
December 2005
January 2006
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April 2006
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June 2006
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August 2006
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October 2006
November 2006
December 2006
January 2007
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June 2007
July 2007
August 2007
September 2007
October 2007
November 2007
December 2007
January 2008
February 2008
March 2008
April 2008
May 2008
June 2008
July 2008
August 2008
September 2008
October 2008
November 2008
December 2008
January 2009
February 2009
March 2009
April 2009
June 2009
July 2009

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MORE FOCUSED BLATHERINGS


Travels:
London '01
Pamplona
Italy '03
U.K. '03
Sevilla
Casablanca
Stoke-on-Trent
Barcelona
Québec/Ottawa
Boston/Lisbon/Madrid
Italy '04
Montréal
La Sierra

Events:
Madrid -- arrival
9/11
Emergency Room I
Holidays 2001
Holidays 2002
Holidays 2003
Holidays 2004
Holidays 2005
A neighbor's passing
Madrid -- March 11 bombings
  and aftermath
Emergency Room II
Israeli friend/Madrid Marathon
Madrid -- Royal Wedding
The DELE exam

GONE, a novel:
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10

THE BASTARD CHILDREN OF
JOE ROCCO, a novella:
-- Part 1
-- Part 2
-- Part 3

BURBANK SHRUGGED,
a screenplay:
-- Part 1
-- Part 2
-- Part 3
-- Part 4

Short stories:
Murphy's Wife
Another Autumn
La Queja de Una
  Hermanastra Muy Conocida

Autobiography
-- Personal History
-- Hormones On Parade
-- Accidents, Random Mishaps,
    Personal Problems

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OTHER SOURCES OF WHOLESOME ENTERTAINMENT

People/Weblogs:
dooce
foxvox
fudge it
fear not
rebekka
bookslut
802online
idle words
madhaiku
wockerjabby
grow-a-brain
rebel market
letting me be
out and about
kung fu grippe
fanatical apathy
baghdad burning
wfuv's music blog
kexp's music blog
mimi smartypants
between the miles
just a hippie gypsy
the impossible cool
tomato can brushes
vermont homestead
sugar mountain farm

Good Clean Fun:
gizmodo
futurismic
postsecret
dave barry
human clock
mcsweeney's
spaceweather
book-a-minute
internet archive
self-portrait day
my cat hates you
out of context quotes
surrealist compliment
  generator
strindberg and helium

Makin' Musical Whoopee:
last fm
stereo8
pandora
soma fm

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ABOUT RWS/CONTACT





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