Saturday, September 18, 2010

Catalan Food Coma

Human Highlighter Suit Tally: 5


I checked the New York Times website when I got up yesterday morning, as I often do, and learned of the ferocious storm that had hit New York City.  A tornado?!?  How odd.  At that very moment a wall-shaking thunderclap sounded and the living room was lit up by the glow of the lightning that followed.  Suddenly I felt as though my two homes were strangely aligned; parallel universes perhaps.

It is the first rain we´ve had since we got here, unless you count the downpour in which we got stuck when we were hiking in the Pyrenees.  Normally heavy morning traffic slows to a crawl, if this first experience is any indication of what happens in Barcelona when it rains.  My rainboots and slicker have not yet arrived from New York City—any day now, they tell us—so I donned my platform sandals in order to raise myself as high as possible from the puddles.  It worked, sort of.

Once I got to my office I found myself a comfortable chair in the Open Source Room, which is furnished with couches and good reading lamps, and a coffee makers.  And then… I started to read a book.  This may not seem like such a big deal to you, but it is one of the first intellectual books I have read in many months.  I have started some, skimmed others.  But this one I intend to finish.  Sharon Zukin´s The Naked City: The death and life of authentic urban places, which is about the transformation of New York City over the past few decades, and it has an interesting resonance in Barcelona, which has a real air of authenticity about it but also shows indications of threat by gentrification.  You can see the Mediterranean from this particular room—it is beyond the urban landscape, but it´s there.  And for me the sea is life-giving, so I like to put myself within its range whenever I can.

I have a colleague in New York who once told me that when he was on sabbatical after a particularly gruelling turn in administration, he put himself on a schedule to train himself how to read again.  I am so accustomed to moving quickly from meeting to meeting, to reading many things at once, that my attention span has diminished.  I revel in the opportunity to read for long stretches, but I am not sure I remember how to do it.  So it was a good idea for me to move away from my computer screen and phone, and isolate myself with the printed word.

At lunch with Alec and a colleague I ordered the merluza, a sweet, flaky white fish.  It came not only whole, but presented in such a way that it was curved into a circle, it´s mouth open and positioned to chomp on its tail.  This was unfortunate for me, and also seemed ignominious position for the fish who, at that point, could do nothing about it.  Once I convinced myself that he was not giving me the evil eye, it was quite good.

After a brief respite from the rain, it poured again in the evening, right when we headed out the door to go to dinner with Doc.  We ate at Cinc Sentits, which means Five Senses in Spanish.  You have to get one of two tasting menus there, and we all had the Menu Essencia—6 courses—rather than the 8 course Menu Sensacions.  The chef uses only ingredients he can get in the market, and cooks a lot of things sous vide, a technique where the food is sealed—often with juices and spices—into a plastic sack and cooked in warm water for a very long time at a very low temperature.  The method has been a bit controversial because some believe that the food can’t be safe unless it’s cooked at a higher temperature.  But let me tell you, the results were outrageous.  Very tender and highly flavoured meats, like my pork belly that had been cooked for 12 hours and melted in my mouth.  What else did we have—squid and beef albondigas with romesco sauce and squid ink foam; Crema catalana flavoured ice cream bathed in cold, creamy citrus soup.  And a little plate of sweet delectables at the very end, one of which looked just like a sunny side up egg on a spoon.  You put the whole thing in your mouth and suddenly got a burst of passion fruit and white chocolate.  Amazing, and I don’t even like white chocolate. 

It was a memorable meal, although I have to say I think I’m getting too old for these multi-course tasting menus, especially when you don’t start eating until 9:30 at night.  After 4 or 5 courses I begin to feel like I’m saturated with richness.  The courses are small, so it’s not really the quantity of food, but rather the practice of boiling down a bushel full of mushrooms to get a thimble full of sauce.  I had to go straight to bed when we got home, even though I felt too full to sleep. But I did, slipping into a
Catalan food coma until C.C. woke me up to change the batteries in her video camera. She’s been busy, so stay tuned!

www.cincsentits.com



Photo of the Day

Thursday, September 16, 2010

Sweet Home Barcelona

Human Highlighter Suit Tally: 5


Without really planning to, I continued my sweet tour of Barcelona today.  First, as I walked downtown from the trainstation to the bookstore, I came across another horxateria that looked too good to pass up---stainless steel, white tile, bright green uniforms and writing on the cups and menus.  And the horxata?  Top notch.  Really, really cold, which is as it should be, milky and with a nutty richness.  Horxateria Parlament at Balmes, 130.  They also sell ice cream that looks pretty darn good.

As I continued my walk, I recognized a pasteleria, Casa Vives, that’s in the Sweet Barcelona book, and I realized that I need to bring something to two meals we’ve been invited to this weekend—what better present than chocolate?  I couldn’t resist a tiny macaroon—more French than what we call a macaroon in the States.  A small round, moon pie shaped lovely.  Crispy and almondy on the outside and flecked with fleur de sel, creamy chocolate on the inside.  Yum.  www.casavives.com

And then… well, the kids and I have been talking about making a “Churro Chart.”  Churros and chocolate is a traditional snack in Spain.  Churros are like long skinny donuts, fried and sprinkled with sugar.  They are often served alongside a thick, pudding-like cup of chocolate, into which you dip them.  Anyway, we decided that we should devise our own churro rating system, and try several churrerias to figure out which are the best.  So we had our first tasting to day, at a little place in Gracia.  We decided to use a 1 – 4 rating system, and Milo said he’d give these churros a 2, while C.C. thought they rated a 3.  Me?  1 at best. The churros were already made, and sitting on a counter, so they were cold and kind of chewy.  The chocolate was not bad, but made with powder.  I just don’t think these kids have had enough churros.  We can do better.  And we will.  Stay tuned for the churro chart…

Photo of the Day

Wednesday, September 15, 2010

Albondigas!

Human Highlighter Suit Tally:  5


If you shop for meat at a traditional market in Spain and your carnivorism ranges across the standard farm animals, like mine does, you don’t just go to the butcher. You go to three different vendors—one for chicken, one for beef and simple pork (chops, tenderloins, etc.), and one for charcuterie, like sausages.  At the Mercat de la Libertat in Gracia, which we have begun to frequent, Mari sells us chicken (and rabbit, which we have not yet tried), Antonio sells beef and pork, and Henrik vends sausages (which he makes from scratch), cured meats such as jamon iberico, cold cuts and cheeses.  We went to the market on Monday morning this week because we had been thwarted on Saturday (see post called “September 11, Barcelona Style). 

After exchanging pleasantries with Mari and ordering three chicken breasts, we asked if they’d keep in the fridge until Thursday.  “Hombre, no,” she began, explaining that, since the market had been closed on Saturday, the meat had been there since Friday; we should cook it that night or freeze it.  It’s rare that you get that kind of honesty and advice from a butcher these days.  Normally I find myself pawing through cellophane-wrapped Styrofoam trays in the grocery store, trying to divine when the meat was packed and whether it’s still safe for consumption.

Albondigas (al-BOHN-dee-gahz) is the Spanish word for meatballs, and it is one of my favorite words in the Spanish language.  It’s not because I’m such a huge meatball fan, and the word “meatball” doesn’t really do it for me.  But the word albondigas just sounds so happy and enthusiastic to me—it begs to be followed by an exclamation point.  Something lifts in my heart when I say albondigas, and I can’t help but smile.

So maybe it’s that I’m in Spain, where meatballs are called albondigas—I don’t know, but this week I just felt like making some.  So I found a recipe, and went to the market for the ground pork, which Antonio’s wife ground fresh for us, and pork sausage, which we purchased from Henrik.  The recipe called for me to remove the sausage from its casing, but since Henrik made his own, he just sold me the sausage mixture, dotted with tiny flecks of truffle, which saved me a step.

The meatballs, succulent little bundles studded with pine nuts, were delicious.  Some of the pine nuts escaped from the albondigas during cooking, but they were none the worse for it.  Cinnamon adds a slightly sweet note, while the sweet pakrika adds a deep depth and the pine nuts lend richness. I served them over rice, in a light tomato sauce, with sautéed zucchini on the side.

The  recipe for the albondigas appears below.  It’s from The New Spanish Table, by Anya Von Bremzen (not a Spanish name, but please do not hold it against her). I do not have her permission to reprint this but I hope that if she ever comes across this blog, she will be grateful that I’ve sung her praises and made even more people aware of her fabulous work. Happy cooking!

Pine-Nut Studded Meatballs (Albondigas con piñones)

1 slice white sandwich bread, crusts removed (I used some leftover brioche)
6 oz. ground pork
4 oz. fresh pork sausage (preferably w/o fennel), casings removed, meat mashed w/a fork
1 tsp. sweet (not smoked) paprika
½ tsp. coarse salt
½ tsp. freshly ground black pepper
½ tsp. dried oregano
1 small pinch cinnamon
1 large garlic clove, crushed w/a garlic press
2 heaping Tbsp. pine nuts
1 large egg
olive oil, for shaping the meatballs

1.     Preheat the oven to 425 degrees
2.     Place the bread in a small bowl, add water to cover, and let soak for 2 – 3 minutes.  Drain, squeezed out the excess liquid, and finely crumble the bread.
3.     Combine bread and all other ingredients except the olive oil in a large bowl.  Gently knead only to combine thoroughly—do not overmix,
4.     Lightly oil your hands w/the olive oil, then shape meat mixture into 1 ¼ inch balls and place on rimmed baking sheet.  Bake the albondigas, shaking the tray once or twice until they are lightly browned and firm to the touch, about 12 minutes.
My batch made 15 meatballs

Photo of the Day

Tuesday, September 14, 2010

Horxateria El Tío Ché

Human Highlighter Suit Tally:  4


My office building sits in a neighborhood consisting largely of big, slick new buildings crowding out old factories and warehouses.  On my ten minute walk from the metro to MetroTIC (the name of the building), there is nothing I find inviting, no store, or restaurant or street that draws me in.  Which leaves me disappointed, because I had hoped for a second base from which to explore the city.  I had pretty much resigned myself to getting in and out as efficiently as possible, and finding other ways to wander and explore.

But today I had lunch with another woman who is spending the year at the Universitat Oberta de Catalunya (UOC); she does pretty interesting work, and has written several books, including one called Women and Bullfighting: Gender, Sex and the Consumption of Tradition that I plan to check out.  Anyway, Sarah and I had lunch on the block and then decided to take a walk—she and her family live not far from the office.  We walked north a few blocks and suddenly found ourselves in Poblenou, a neighborhood with a completely different vibe—it feels very authentic, very Spanish.  We turned right on the Rambla de Poblenou—a rambla is a wide street with a pedestrian median, and is typically an avenue on which people stroll.  Ramblas are often dotted with outdoor cafes—they are a center of neighborhood life.  The most well-known ramblas in Barcelona are the uber-touristy Las Ramblas and the more elegant Rambla Catalunya.  I don’t think many tourists make it to Rambla del Poblenou, which made it all the better to be there.

We walked for a good 10 or 15 minutes until we found ourselves at the end of the street and the beginning of the beach.  People sunbathed, a few swimming in the Mediterranean, and I silently schemed about how I could change into my bathing suit at the office, slip out and go for an afternoon swim.  Mark my words—it’s in my future.

On the way back, I spotted an Horxateria that looked familiar, and then realized I’d seen it pictured in my Sweet Barcelona book.  Sarah had been there and said the Horxata was really good, so we walked up to the service window and ordered some.  The server ladled the white liquid out of a frosty, refrigerated aluminum tank and into our paper cups.  The stuff is really good—icy cold and refreshing, sweet but not cloying.  And it actually tastes like it might be good for you.  I don’t know if these are old wives’ tales or not, but some say that horxata lowers cholesterol (the bad kind) and triglycerides, fights arteriosclerosis and aids in digestion.

Horxata is popular in many Latin American countries—in Mexico and Central America it is called horchata and is usually made with rice but can also be made with sesame seeds, barley or almonds.  Here in Spain, it is “horxata de chufa,” chufas being tiger nuts.  The tiger nuts probably came here from Egypt or the Sudan, where they are used in all kinds of things.  I’ve seen them in the market here, and they are small, hard and wrinkly—kind of  like walnuts in the shell, only the size of raisins. 

To make horxata, you soak the chufas in water for many hours, and then strain them and grind them in a blender with some fresh water.  Strain again, add sugar, chill and serve.

El Tío Ché has been making and serving horxata since 1912.  (They also make granizados (granitas) which I’ll try next).  It’s the perfect drink for strolling the rambla.

www.eltioche.com


Photo of the Day

Monday, September 13, 2010

A Word About Laundry...

Human Highlighter Suit Tally:  4


And now on to the more mundane aspects of life in Barcelona (as if grocery shopping was not mundane).  First, a confession:  it has been many, many years since I was the primary person responsible for doing my laundry, much less that of my husband and children.  I know what many of you are thinking:  “Cry me a river, Lisa.” But that’s just the way it’s been, and I’ve grown accustomed to it. When we first moved to our place on the upper west side, washers and dryers were not allowed, nor was there a communal laundry room, so we dropped our dirty clothes off at a laundry. Twenty four hours later our clothing would be returned to us—clean, folded, and packed into an impossibly small bag to form a perfect rectangular solid.  What do they do to compress the clothing that way?  The laundry closest to our home once lost my favorite pair of jeans, my black t-shirts often came back gray, and the life span of most items ended up being considerably shorter at the hands of these laundresses, but I did not complain.  I could live with the tradeoff.

We won the fight to legalize washers and dryers—no small feat in a New York City co-op—right around the time Blanca (and C.C.) joined our household, and Blanca took over doing not only the baby’s laundry, but all of it, including sheets, towels, folding, putting away, and ironing.  That was nearly 8 years ago.

Fast forward to the present, or at least to last April, when I came to Barcelona to look for suitable places for us to live.  I saw several really nice apartments, and not one of them had a clothes dryer.  Nor did I see a single Laundromat or drop off place (still haven’t, and the dry cleaning costs a bloody fortune). Instead, it seems that most people here have only a washer, and they hang their clothes out to dry.  Sure, I have been to a few homes that not only have a washer and dryer, they have entire laundry rooms, with sinks and space for an ironing board to be set up all the time.  Even in New York City, where I have a massive set of machines, this is my dream.  But as far as I can tell, these people seem to be Americans, and also in another income bracket.

So I was delighted to find, as we settled in to our place, that our machine was not only a washer but also a dryer—a clever, compact, European 2-in-1.  I had heard about such things in New York.  I have friends I will not name who have smuggled them into their co-ops in refrigerator boxes and installed them behind locked doors when the super is not looking.  But despite my delight, I have always been suspicious of machines that claim to do double duty.  I will not buy a TV with a built-in VCR, or a coffee maker that also grinds beans.  Research shows that it’s not effective for people to multi-task; it certainly can’t be good for machines.  Something, I believe, is being compromised.  And what happens when one part breaks and it’s too expensive to fix? What a waste to throw the whole thing in the garbage.

It took me a good long while to figure out how to set the various dials and buttons so that our cute little 2-in-1 machine would wash and then dry.  But I did figure it out.  I know I did.  And yet, and yet…  This machine does not dry clothes—it simply makes them hot!  There are three settings on the dryer dial, and as far as I can tell they correspond to hot, roasting, and burn-your-fingers-off-if you-touch-the-clothing.  So that was a bummer.

Luckily, our lovely flat came equipped with both a drying rack AND two sets of clotheslines—one that you get to out the guest room window, and the other which runs across the airspace between our apartment and the other people who live on our floor (see photo below; the lines on the right, with white clothes pins, are mine, and the ones on the left are Francesca’s).  I met our neighbor Francesca one day across the clothesline, and once when I dropped a towel, it caught on the line of the people who live below us, so it got me to meet them, too.  It seems that the clothesline is not only a utilitarian object but also serves a community-building function.  I have met more people in the building hanging my laundry than I have in six weeks of riding the elevator.

One of my goals in taking this year-long sabbatical to a place that is significantly slower-paced than New York is to remember how to appreciate the simple things—shopping in the market, picking my kids up from school, sitting down while I eat breakfast.  Doing my own laundry—and hanging it dry—fit right into that plan, or so I try to convince myself.

But here is the less romantic side of things.  Like many things European (refrigerators, cars, shower stalls) the washer/dryer that is really only a washer is quite small.  On the one hand, I like the way these size restrictions change my behavior for the better.  My food is fresher, because I have to buy it more often.   Our car goes forever without a fill-up.

However, there is a downside. I have taken to inspecting the kids’ clothes to see if they can get one more wear out of them before tossing them into the hamper. I am not proud to admit this but, more than once, I have sniffed at the underarm of my own t-shirt to see if I can prolong the time before it needs to be washed.  I clean only the chocolate milk spill on my shorts rather than laundering the parts that are not obviously dirty.  I think I now understand why getting caught on a crowded train in some parts of the world can be an unpleasantly odiferous experience—the washers are too small!  Which means that even with all of my sniffing and inspecting, I feel as though I am doing laundry ALL THE TIME!

And, although I’ve had some experience hanging laundry out to dry in less urban environments, it loses some of its romanticism, as well as that fresh, breezy scent, here in the middle of the second largest city in Spain.  There is also the texture issue—without all of that fabric softener, dryer sheets, and high temperature fluffing, the clothes come off the line sandpapery and stiff.  Milo, getting dressed one morning, asked me: “Mama, why are my socks so gravelly?”

I can’t really tell you how, in the largely unspoken shifts in the division of household labor in our new era of Life Without Blanca, I ended up with the laundry.  But since Alec does most of the cooking, packs the kids’ lunches, and is 100% responsible for changing the lightbulbs, I don’t really mind.  As housework goes, I’ll take laundry over almost any other chore.

And just a couple of weeks ago, I read this piece in The Economist that shows that clothes dryers are one of the worst offenders when it comes to energy consumption.  You think you are saving the planet by switching to those funny-looking lightbulbs, but it’s really me who is greener-than-thou.  So when I am finding it difficult to channel the romanticism of the simple life, at least I can feel virtuous.

NOTE:  I have so much passion for this subject, that I felt the need to include 2 photos of the day—one of our clothes lines, and the other of me hanging out the laundry during our vacation in the Pyrenees.

Photo of the Day #2

Photo of the Day #1

Foraging

Human Highlighter Suit Tally: 4


TWO NEW FEATURES:  By popular demand (well, perhaps not popular, but at least a few close family members) C.C. will be producing a “video of the week.”  Here’s the first of a possibly-regular series.  AND, I’ve added a “human highlighter suit tally” to document the number of times Milo wears his Day-Glo FC Barcelona uniform.

The quest for food with which to cook the dinner we planned before we knew it would be impossible to shop this weekend continued today.  The tension increased because we were invited for brunch at exactly the time the OpenCor opened—10 am.  Which meant we wouldn’t be able to shop until 12:30 or 1 pm.

Alec drops me and the roller cart off at the OpenCor on the way home from brunch.  The centerpiece of our menu is Rosa’s Roast Chicken with Wild Mushroom Casserole and Red Wine (from The New Spanish Table, of course).  I quickly learn that, while the OpenCor is perfectly fine for a quick emergency shop on Sunday, it falls short if you need to buy all of the ingredients for a somewhat ambitious dinner.   It’s a bit like a really big, Spanish 7-11.

The recipe calls for a 6 – 7 pound chicken.  There are only two whole chickens left, each about 3 pounds.  I put them both in my cart before someone else realizes they want to serve chicken tonight.  There is not enough spinach for the sautéed spinach with pine nuts and raisins we had planned, so I change the plan to a spinach salad; I’ll use the leftover cabrales and dressing from the other night.  Although this is beginning of wild mushroom season, there are none.  So I get some regular button mushroom and a package of dried.  And no fresh herbs.  I know we have dried thyme at home, and I remember seeing rosemary and bay leaves in the park behind our house.  It’ll have to do.  You may wonder why we didn’t simply decide to cook something else; I don’t really have an answer to that question.  And forget the watermelon granita with gingered strawberries.  At this hour, it’s too late for that anyway what with all of the freezing and scraping required, never mind the absence of strawberries and ginger.  I get three pints of Haagen Dazs instead.

Alec, unpacking the bags, asks me where the fresh herbs are.

“There were none—I’m going to go out to the park and pick them.”

“Don’t you think that’s probably illegal?”

“I don’t know.  I’ll bring my cell phone in case they put me in the slammer and I get one call.  Make sure yours is on.”

The kids overhear this conversation and become genuinely concerned that I won’t be returning.  An extreme reaction, perhaps, but they are so whacked from all of the change that it seems entirely plausible to them that I will end up in a Spanish prison.

I tuck the kitchen shears into my pocket and head out.  Fortunately, the park is pretty deserted.  I know Borg (a horticulturist) told us he had spotted bay leaves in our park, and I am confident that I will recognize them. I lived in Northern California after all, and they were everywhere. But as I make my way up the hill, everything looks like a bay leaf.  So there I am, furtively tearing off leaves and sniffing them.  Nothing smells like bay.  Finally I pluck a few branches of something I think smells kind of like it, and figure I can fool Alec, who is a stickler for ingredients.

I’m pretty sure I remember where the rosemary is—at the top of the hill across from the playground.  Sure enough, there are bushes of it.  Also lavender and sage growing like weeds.  I see no inviting signs, saying: “Dear Neighbor, Please help yourself!”  Nor do I see any prohibiting me from taking a snip or two. So I look around to make sure no one is near, snip a couple of branches, and stuff the contraband herbs into my pockets.  Of course, my fragrant hands are a dead giveaway.

When I return home, Alec is not fooled by my bay leaf impostors and decides to go out himself, sure that he will locate the tree.   He returns with yet another impostor, and so the dish lacks yet another ingredient.

In this recipe, you mix the mushrooms with diced red peppers and onions, whole garlic cloves, the herbs, chicken stock and red wine (the herbs are supposed to be in cheesecloth, which makes it much easier to remove them later—I searched in vain for cheesecloth at several well-appointed kitchen stores during the week, but am not entirely certain that I made myself understood.  I tried to translate an English description and asked for “the white fabric for making cheese that is full of small holes”; people invariably returned my request with a look of concern and perplexity).   Anyway, you sit the chickens on top of this mixture and roast them. 

But before I get any farther, I also need to tell you that these lovely supermarket chickens still had several feathers on them.  Which is still several steps removed from the market chickens that come with both head and feet attached.  I know there is this whole movement now that you should not eat anything that you couldn’t kill yourself, but this is an area in which I become completely American.  I do not want my food to look like the animal from which it came.  Please do not serve me fish with the head on; even shrimp head kind of give me the willies.  It pains me to admit this, because I’d like to think of myself as a tougher person, one who could whack the chicken in the morning and serve it for dinner.  But I’m not.

Back to the recipe.  You roast the chickens for an hour and a half, and then take them out while you doctor up the sauce from what remains in the pan.  First you are supposed to skim off the fat.  There is so much fat in our pan that it’s more like bailing out a boat than skimming.  I come into the kitchen to find Alec surrounded by fat-filled bowls as he skims and skims and skims.  Then you need to remove the solids if, like us, you were unable to find cheesecloth.  And then you cook it down a bit.  Alec is muttering, convinced that the sauce is bad and that the dish will be a disaster.  I’ve found that, at these times, it’s best to leave him be, so I go back out to the living room to be with our guests.

Soon Alec emerges, chicken carved and displayed on a platter.  We pass the meat, the sauce, the rice.  And it’s good.  Really good, I think. We’ll have to make it again, next time with the right stuff.

NOTE:  In regaling our friends with the story of our shopping scavenger hunt, they tell us that the OpenCor used to be open on September 11.  But three years in a row, angry Catalans protested that decision by setting several of them on fire!  Folks take this holiday pretty seriously.