Lois Eats a Jamon Sandwich

After a nine year streak of vegetarianism, my mom broke down and ate one of my specialty jamon sandwiches for dinner.  Baguette, rubbed with garlic, tomato half squeezed onto each side, fruity Italian olive oil (I like it better than the Spanish) drizzled on.  Nothing but jamon iberico in between top and bottom.

It was more curiosity than anything else that got her to try it—if everyone was making such a fuss about it, she didn’t want to miss out.  I told Henrik—our pork guy at the market—that my vegetarian mother was thinking about eating some jamon, and he insisted I buy the best he had.  No arm twisting needed—I trust Henrik with my pork products.

I have to say, she didn’t rave.  Frankly, I don’t think she liked it very much.  But she did eat the whole thing.

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Funeral for a Fish

Given the title of this post, you are probably thinking that Fishy followed Cyclone out of the tank and that we are dealing with our second fish suicide.  But no, the fish I’m talking about is a sardine.  Like much of the world, Barcelona has spent the past week celebrating Carnival.  In truth, Carnival is not so big here—it’s much bigger, for example, in Sitges, which is about a half hour away.  But the kids dressed up at school last week and had a parade, and there were festivities throughout the weekend.  We did not attend any.  But when I learned that the end of Carnival and the beginning of Lent is marked by a sardine funeral—well, I couldn’t stay away.

I heard about this sardine funeral through the grapevine, and did enough research to learn what it was all about.  From what I can put together, the funeral part signifies the end of all of the partying that has taken place during carnival, and the sardine part reminds people that they will be eating a lot more fish in the weeks to come.  Why do they bury the fish?  This seems to be the missing link. 

Still, I couldn’t figure out how one could attend the funeral.  Was it an invitation only affair?  I emailed a couple of local contacts for help.  Iu, a Catalan friend who lives nearby, replied quickly with all of the information I needed, including the times and places of a couple of neighborhood funerals. 

My favorite yoga teacher had invited Lois and me to a class she was teaching in the Born with live music, and I figured we’d have just enough time to finish class, have a coffee at El Magnifico on Argenteria, and get to the funeral in Poble Sec.  On the way to El Magnifico, we passed the chocolate/pastry shop Bubo, which had a display of bunyols de quaresma  (sweet Lent fritters) in the window.  These bunyols are miniature sugar-coated donuts, and I figured we had to have some given the occasion.  So we bought a small bag of them and had them with our coffee.   Not too sweet, with a hint of orange, and a nice crunch from the sugar.  Really good.

We hopped two trains and found the Plaza del Surtidor, a small square tucked into Poble Sec a few blocks off of Parallel.  It was about 5:15, and the ceremonies were slated to start at 5:30.  Some folks were futsing with a large charcoal grill, and a large black “casket” rested on a table nearby.  On it was a large fish, a rose, and a cross.  Several people clustered around a woman with a clipboard.  She was handing out long bamboo poles, each with a colored balloon tied to the top.  As we got closer, I noticed that the poles had not only balloons, but also a big sardine—about 6 inches long.  I went up to the woman, figuring I should have a sardine pole, too—but since I had not signed up ahead of time, she told me I’d have to wait and see if there were any left once the parade got started.  Children appeared with fish poles they had made in school or at home, with paper fish.

Two drummers showed up, the pall bearers took their places, and Clipboard Lady handed me a fish pole with a green balloon.  I took my place among the mourners, the drummers began to drum, and we were off.  We were led out of the square and into the streets of Poble Sec.  They wound us up one of the lower hills of Montjuic behind a soccer field, where someone had dug a shallow hole.  We all pulled our fishes off of our poles and threw them into the hole.  The Hole Digger unceremoniously shovelled dirt in the hold until the fish could no longer be seen.

Then we all paraded back down the hole and into the square, without drumming, where the smell of charcoal filled the air.  The Fish Grillers had been busy filling up metals pans with grilled sardines and the paraders were beginning to line up to get their sardines and perform another kind of burial.  We came home to eat the shrimp curry Alec had fixed instead of chowing on sardines.

And thus ends another eventful day in Barcelona.  Amen.

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Human Highlighter Suit Tally:

Flat, Ice Cream, Arsenal

It had to happen sooner or later.  The streets are very narrow here, especially up in the hills where our kids go to school.  So everyone drives up on the curb to park when they drop off and pick up their kids—half the car is up on the curb and the other is in the street.  This leaves enough room for other cars to pass.  But you have to figure that all of that driving up and down on the curb can’t be good for the car.  Today, after I dropped the kids at school, I came out to find my right front tire completely, 100% flat.  I could not drive even 10 feet.    We don’t have RACC—the equivalent of Triple A—here in Spain.  And the car and everything pertaining to it (save filling it with gas once in awhile) is in Alec’s bailiwick, so I had no idea what to do.  I asked the crossing guard at the school, who suggested I call our insurance.  I did, and fortunately we’re covered for this sort of thing.  With at least a half hour to kill and nothing but Your Body Battles a Skinned Knee in the car to read, I closed my eyes and meditated, then went over some old Spanish flash cards I had made a long time ago and found in the glove box.  Eventually the truck showed up and made quick work of changing the tire.  It crossed my mind that this is a skill I should have in my tool kit.  But I’m sure if I took the time to learn, I’d forget it by the time I needed it next.

That took up more of my morning than I had accounted for, so I went to a later yoga class than planned and then logged some hours in my office.  I had it in my head to try an ice cream place that Katherine the Cheese Lady had told me about—the woman who owns it makes the cheese ice cream for La Seu.  Good ice cream is scarce in Barcelona, so I was eager to follow up on this lead.  Lois and I picked up the kids and then drove to Sarria, where we quickly found Tomo II, a thin slice of a shop on Major de Sarria, just up from Foix.   I had dulce de leche and bitter chocolate—very good.  Not as good as the gelato at Bar Pasticceria Costanza in Noto, but very good for Barcelona.  We’ll be back.

Then we popped into Foix, because you can’t walk by Foix without walking in.  Lois just walked back and forth in front of the cases for a long time, looking and looking.  We left with a brioche, one of Foix’s famous panettones, and a chocolate/orange/caramel cake, which we have yet to break into.

Alec scored an elusive ticket for the Barça/Arsenal game, and kids under 7 can go free if they sit on an adult’s lap, so he and Milo are there right now.  They practiced the Barça song before they left so that they could sing it at the end of the game. Barça has just won 3 – 1—playing without Pique and Puyols—and the game is almost over.  Milo is wearing his Victor Valdez jersey and is most definitely over the moon.

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Three Day Weekend

Saturday was too beautiful not to be out, so we decided to go to the Barceloneta.  The Barceloneta neighborhood juts out into the sea, and it has a vibe that’s part hip European city, part surfer dude. I don’t spend enough time there.  We had a lovely paella outside at Kaiku while the kids rode their bikes on the plaza nearby, stopping at the table only long enough to wolf down their plates of pasta.  Despite the sun, the breeze was chilly and we had to eat quickly before our food got cold.  Alec got a bike out of one of the Bicing racks, and rode with the kids along the promenade while my Mom and I strolled.  We all met up at the Frank Gehry fish sculpture, where Lois took Alec’s bike and rode back with the kids.  74 years old and she’s still got it!

Some other parents from the kids’ school had invited us to join them for dinner, so we had a drink at the Dry Martini Bar, and then dinner at Semproniana, a Mediterranean place.  The food was good, but I won’t rush back.

Yesterday we headed down the coast to Tarragona, a large-ish city that contains a Medieval walled city that is home to some very cool Roman ruins.  As is typical in Spain, much was closed because it was Sunday, but the kids managed to find a shop that sold medieval regalia and Grandma remembered that she had not sent them birthday presents, so they left with knights’ helmets and shields, and knight pajamas which I am certain they will want to use as street wear as well.  A group of singers serenaded people on the plaza having drinks, and we had a huge lunch at the Palau del Baro, a converted 18^th century mansion.  It had a large terrace where the children could play, which allowed us to relax and eat.  Afterwards we found a local park where C.C. could play in the playground and Milo could play soccer with the locals.

We flopped on the couch when we got back and watched Raiders of the Lost Ark—which was much more violent than I remembered.  Milo:  “I don’t really like this movie, but I want to keep watching.”

It’s some obscure only-in-Barcelona holiday, so the kids did not have school. Alec headed to Valencia early this morning for a conference, and I somehow slept until 12:30!  I couldn’t believe it.  I think the last time I slept that late was in college.  The kids were happy to have a lazy morning with Grandma, and after I made pancakes, we all went to the pool.  Some of their schoolmates were there, which made it extra fun.  Three days seems like the perfect amount of time for a weekend.  I think it should be normal practice.

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Formatgerie La Seu

Friday dawned grey and chilly, and my intention was to head to the gym after dropping the kids off at school.  But by then the sun had begun to burn off the grey, and my car turned up the hill instead of down.  I went for a fabulous walk on the Carretera de les Aigues.  It had been weeks since I’d been there, and it felt good.

After a few hours in the office, I met Lois for a late lunch at Formatgeria La Seu, the most fabulous cheese shop in Barcelona.  It is on a TINY sliver of a street in the Barri Gotic.  The shop inhabits a spot that was a butter making factory long ago, and it has much of the original equipment.  Katherine McLaughlin, a Scot who started the business 11 years ago, features only a small number of Spanish farmhouse cheeses.  They change depending on what she can get from her sources.  According to Katherine, cheesemakers are not the most reliable folks.  “I’ll order 20 cheeses from this bloke and I’ll get 4!” she told us.  “It’s bloody impossible to predict what I’ll have from one day to the next.”

I know from past experience that Katharine can seem a bit prickly, but she is a lovely person who is absolutely passionate about cheese.  She closes the shop for six weeks every summer to work with cheesemakers.  There is a small space in the back of the shop where she has two high tables with stools.  She had just finished serving a larger group when we got there, and she seemed glad to have the place quiet down.  “I don’t like groups,” she told us.  “I’ve been avoiding that one that just left here for five years.  But they gave me six dates they could come and, hell, I was trapped.”

There is no real menu to speak of, just olives, cheese, wine and, for dessert, cheese ice cream.  We ordered a tasting plate of six cheeses that came with membrillo and some jam, and bread.  All were perfectly aged and just the right temperature.  Katherine had left the wine bottles that our glasses had come from on our table, and my mom and I spent two hours eating, drinking and chatting with Katherine.  I couldn’t resist bringing home a few—El Cuirol—a lovely Catalunya goat cheese with a mild flavor and texture that is dense, and somewhere between creamy and crumbly; Las Gormills—an unbelievably buttery cow cheese from Cantabria; and Queso de la Serena, a somewhat strong cheese from Extremadura. Queso de la Serena is reminiscent of Torta del Casar—it’s so gooey that you just slice the top off and scoop out the cheese with your bread or a knife.  But I like the Serena much better—the flavor is more subtle and complex; it doesn’t wallop you over the head the way Torta del Casar does.

Although I’ve been to La Seu many times, I learned on Friday that Katherine had opened a wine bar—Bar Zim—two doors down with her sister and her business partner.  The bar was not open for the evening yet, but Katharine gave us a peek of the space.  It’s miniscule, consisting of a few stools and a counter, and about 15 varieties of Spanish wine.  Now that it’s on my radar, I’ll have to figure out when I can get there.

We all hugged, and Lois and I headed out into the early evening happy and warm from the wine, and full of good cheese.

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