More Food, More Wine, More Sun

A couple of weeks ago, we had dinner at the home of our friends Vibeke and Eirik.  When Vibeke told me the glasses from which we drank our cava came from a flea market in Barcelona, my ears pricked up.  I grew up going to flea markets.  Other families played tennis, or gardened, or went hiking; we went to flea markets.  Very early on Saturday and Sunday mornings.  So I could not believe I had been in Barcelona for more than six months without knowing about Les Encants.  We made a date to go together yesterday morning.  I dropped my workout bag at Vibeke’s apartment and we walked to Diagonal together, and caught the #7 bus almost all the way to Glories, where the flea market is.  I felt the adrenaline rush as we made our way through the tables of new shoes, bolts of fabric, and sundries to the section where people sell old stuff, a lot of it junk.  We rooted around looking for treasure.  I found a couple of old TinTin books in Spanish for the kids, and some terrific, extremely heavy old seltzer bottles that have great graphics; I’ll use them for flowers.  Vibeke bought some silver plate serving pieces and a copper fondue pot.  I had not known about “the sandwich,” and, unfortunately, I had to leave to meet Alec before experiencing it, so I will have to go back another day.

Alec and I had a noon appointment to conduct an interview with some folks at Vila Viniteca, which is probably the best wine shop in Barcelona and also has a gourmet food shop across the street and some tables where you can lunch on the wares.  We were doing research for one of our i-wine review blog pieces.  Vila Viniteca stocks a great deal of food and wine from Catalunya and from the rest of Spain, but also has select products from the rest of the world—arborio rice from Italy, jams from England, and the elusive Bordier butter—in huge rounds from which you order a wedge, like cheese—from France. We talked to Eugenia, our primary contact, about the philosophy of what they carry and she told us, “We just sell the best of the best.” 

The shop started, three generations ago, as a neighborhood store carrying basic provisions.  The proprietor had an interest in wine and so started stocking it in the basement.  Eventually they began selling both, and specializing in cheese as well.  Vila Viniteca now carries over 300 cheeses and is one of a very few shops that carries the famous Joselito jamon.  We talked to the woman who specializes in the food part of the shop, a family member who has worked there for 25 years.  She had us taste two cheeses that are made by small producers exclusively for the shop.  When we asked her how they create these relationships with producers (several wineries also make special blends for Vila Viniteca) she told us, “Well, we have been in this business for a very long time.  We know everyone.”  A couple of bunches of bananas always hang outside the store, ripening, as a link to the shop’s past.

We walked out, full of cheese, jamon, artichokes and olives, laden down with olive oil, more cheese, and wine.  I put Alec in a cab with our loot, plus my flea market purchases, while I went back into the Born.  It felt like summer, so I found a table on the Passeig del Born, ordered a lemonade, and spent a couple of hours reading a student’s dissertation prospectus.  As I made my way toward Via Laeitana, I passed Santa Maria del Mar and heard amazing organ music coming from inside.  The doors were open and so I stepped into the cool interior.  It is a beautiful church, simple in its way, but dignified.   Built during the better part of the 14^th century, Santa Maria del Mar has its roots in the community.  Wealthier residents contributed money to get it built, while those with fewer resources volunteered their labor.  The main doors depict bastaixos, laborers who loaded and unloaded the ships on the nearby beach, carrying stones, one by one from Montjuic to the construction site.  It is hard to imagine how they did this, often in bare feet, for such a long distance. 

I listened to the music for awhile and then went on my way, having enjoyed a real “sacred pause.”  Friends of our friends Jim and Raquel (who arrived this morning) had come the night before from the Netherlands, and we all went out for tapas at Cerveseria Catalana.

Photos of the Day

Cava and Calçots

I have a propensity for taking on jobs for which I have absolutely no experience.  Take, for example, the time when I was in high school and got a job teaching aerobics at a local health club.  It was 1982—the height of the Jane Fonda era.  Not only had I never taught an aerobics class, I had never even taken one.  Then there was the job I got as a financial analyst at an investment banking arm of a commercial bank in Philadelphia when I graduated from college.  I had very big college loans to pay off, and I needed the money. I reported to work on the first day and one of the associates poked his head into my cubicle and said, “Grab your calculator, Lisa, and meet us in the conference room.”  “Calculator?” I replied.  He rolled his eyes heavenward. “Somebody go down and get Lisa an HP 12C,” he called out.  At the end of the day he gave me a copy of his Brealey and Myers corporate finance textbook from business school.   Some might argue that my deanship follows the same pattern, although I would argue that in that case I was asked by colleagues and my boss to do the job.  Still, I did agree to take it on.

All of this begins to explain how I found myself at a winery that produces cava (Spanish champagne) yesterday, interviewing the producers for a piece I’m writing for another blog.  Here’s how it happened.  One of Alec’s mentors—a man who sat on Alec’s dissertation committee and for whom Alec worked at the World Bank—is also a true oenophile.  Indeed, we have shared many a fine bottle at his table. As he transitioned from the Bank to consulting, he also started a very serious wine blog, the i-wine review.  When Don found out Alec and I would be spending the year in Barcelona, he asked us to be stringers for his blog and to write about our finds this year.  We currently have three pieces in the works.

So we agreed, even though food and wine are clearly a hobby for us and, for me at least, I’m not exactly on terra firma when it comes to going in-depth on the wine part.  I do eat a lot, and variously, so I suppose that’s my primary qualification.  I’m smart, I know how to interview people and do research and, for better or for worse, I’m not afraid of exposing what I don’t know.

Don had been to a tasting in DC at which he fell hard for the cavas produced by Canals I Munne.  I asked him whether he thought it would be a good idea to visit, and he liked the idea.  So he introduced me, via email, to Carmen, who is head of exportation at Canals I Munne.  After a bit of back and forth, she picked me up yesterday morning in a Canals I Munne minivan and we headed out of the city.  Carmen is little firecracker of a woman, with bright red hair (which can only come from one place) to match her personality.  We connected instantly, and she couldn’t believe I’d been living in Barcelona for so long without having been introduced to her earlier.  Before we were halfway to the winery she had offered me the keys to her country house in Teruel.

Much of Spain’s cava is made in Catalunya, in or near Sant Sadurní d'Anoia, about 40 minutes’ drive from Barcelona.  It’s amazing how quickly the transition from city to country occurs; before you know it, you’re driving through rolling fields covered with neat rows of grapevines.  As soon as we exited the highway, signs for Freixenet, Codorniu and other, smaller cava producers began to appear at every turn.

We pulled up at the Canals I Munne building and went inside, where I met Oscar, the fourth generation winemaker—Canals was his grandmother’s name and Munne his grandfather’s.  He greeted me warmly and we went into a side room where he talked about the history of the place, the philosophy of the business (quality over quantity), and the difference between cava and champagne.  In answer to the latter, there is none, at least in the process of making it.  About thirty years ago, the French decided that the “champagne” moniker could only be used for products that came from the champagne region.  As a result, everyone else had to come up with a new name.  In Spain, we have cava.  In the US, sparkling wine.  In Italy, prosecco.  Spain, at least, took a hit as a result, because most people believe champagne is a superior product.  But I’d put Canals I Munne cava next to French champagne any day and wager that the cava is at least as good, and that you probably couldn’t distinguish one from the other.  The two regions are quite different, climate-wise.  Champagne is in the north of France, and is rainy and cold, which results in more acidic grapes; sugar is often added to achieve a better balance in the final product.  The Catalan Mediterranean, where cava is produced, is sunny and drier, and so the grapes are less acidic, and sugar is added much less frequently.

Oscar—who, like the cava, sparkles with excitement about his work—is animated, passionate, larger than life. We walked through the entire production process, stopping to fill our glasses with a rosé cava from a spigot attached to a hose—it was to be bottled the next day.  The cellars had a lovely, musty-sour smell, and were filled top to bottom with racks and racks of green bottles.

After our tour we tasted four of the cavas—three that have begun to be distributed in the US—and the Grand Duc, bottled in a special bottle (second from the left in the photo below)—to increase the intensity of the flavor and aroma.  All were terrific—beautifully sparkling with the tiniest of bubbles—but I especially liked the Grand Duc and the rosé.  It was a gorgeous spring day and seemed to be just the right thing to be drinking.  Carmen had rejoined us by this point and confided that she drinks about a half a glass every day at noon.  “Let me tell you something,” she said, looking at me intently and rubbing her stomach, “there is nothing better for the digestion.”

We piled into Oscar’s car to go get lunch at Restaurant la Garrofa, which is run by a good friend of Oscar’s mother.   We all had the menu del dia—I started with spinach cannelloni which, on its own, was more than I usually eat for lunch.  When I saw the grilled vegetable plate Carmen had, I wished I had ordered it.  It included an entire artichoke, eggplant, peppers, a whole potato and . . . calçots.  Calçots are spring onions, their size midway between a regular onion and a scallion, and this is their season.   Catalonians go crazy for them and there is only one way to eat them—chargrilled until black, with romesco sauce.  Romesco is typically made from nuts, roasted garlic, olive oil, and nyora peppers.  Sometimes it has tomato in it as well.  I asked someone once where I could get them in Barcelona and was told “Nowhere.  You have to go outside the city.”  I’m not sure why—maybe it’s the grilling thing.  Apparently, people make reservations at these calçot places and have long, leisurely, messy lunches on Saturdays and Sundays while the calçots are available.  I meant to get myself to one, but somehow I never made it.  So I was glad to see them at La Garrofa, and even gladder that Carmen did not want hers, which meant that I got them.  The waitress gave us thin plastic gloves—the kind deli counter workers wear in the US (I have never seen a deli worker wearing gloves here in Spain).  Oscar showed me how to hold the calçot by its leafy end, pull off the outermost layer of charred leaves, and end up with a beautifully roasted onion stalk.  You take it for a swim in the romesco, hold it up high, position your mouth below it, and chomp.  Now I know what the fuss is all about, and I’m hoping I can get my mouth around some more of them before the season ends, around Easter.

I had already missed the train I meant to take, and we had not even had coffee or dessert.  Once we finished our turron ice cream with chocolate sauce, and drank our cortados, the gang zipped me to the train and packed me off with a couple of bottles of cava.  I got back just in time for a focus group I needed to attend, and hoped I’d be able to stay alert given all the digestion my body was engaged in. 

So, here are two handy facts I learned about cava yesterday, which you might find useful:

1.     Always chill your sparkling wine for 24 hours in the refrigerator before you drink it.  I fessed up to having shoved a bottle in my freezer on numerous occasions when I needed to get it cold fast.  Oscar forgave me, but encouraged me to change my ways.

2.     Contrary to popular belief, sparkling wine will not give you a morning after headache if it is of good quality and not too young.  If it is young and cheap, with big bubbles, you are in for a headache to beat the band.  The bigger the bubbles, the bigger the headache.

Photos of the Day

La Nena

La Nena is the perfect Barcelona granja.  Granja, as I believe I’ve written before, means “farm” in Spanish, and granjas tend to serve things like churros and chocolate, milk drinks, and other baked goods.  There are a couple of terrific old ones on Carrer Petrixol in the Barri Gotic, but I still prefer La Nena. 

La Nena, located a block off of Travesera de Gracia and just off one of the many small plazas in the Gracia neighborhood, inhabits a small, welcoming storefront with one always full table outside.  It is truly a neighborhood place and is as yet undiscovered by tourists.  The word “authentic” comes to mind, although I myself have problems with that word, as it tends to imply fixing a place in time rather than appreciating inevitable dynamism.

Inside the café there is a front room and a back room, the latter housing shelves bursting with books and puzzles that signal a welcome environment for kids.  My collaborator Sarah and I have chosen La Nena as the place where we meet to discuss our research on Slow Cities every week or so.  We sit there discussing the work for hours sometimes, while the crowd ebbs and flows.  It’s perfectly fine with the folks at La Nena if you linger.  In fact, they encourage it.  A hand-lettered sign posted behind the cash register reads: “Aqui se puede leer” (“Here, you can read”).  And indeed, readers typically occupy several tables.

The counter overflows with home-baked pies, cakes and breads, and the menu features an entire section of milk items:  a glass of “our cream,” homemade kefir and yogurt, and milkshakes.

Today I got there before Sarah, and just after a yoga class; I ordered a fresh juice of orange, carrot, and celery in order to keep the healthy theme going.  It hit the spot.  After we had been there awhile we had open face sandwiches of mushrooms, tomatoes and asparagus covered with a light layer of cheese and toasted.

As luck would have it, I needed to meet Alec in Gracia for an interview (more on that later in the week) later that afternoon, so after I picked the kids up from school, I brought them back to La Nena—they had never been—for chocolate and churros.  Milo found a puzzle of the world which got him excited because he has just finished a unit on the continents in his class.  If you run into him, ask him to sing the continent song for you… (“North America, South America, Asia, You-rope….”).  C.C. rummaged through the books. They loved it, too.

* * *

By the way, we broke open the tonka truffles from Pierre Marcolini in Brussels, when Ann was here.  Alec did not like them, but Ann and I did.  I’ve seen the flavor described as being like vanilla, or cinnamon, but I don’t find any of the descriptors to be adequate.  It is distinctive, unique, not subtle.  And so far, no one has suffered any side effects.

Another Great Sandwich

Somehow the weekend flew by, without me doing much. And yet I didn’t feel so rested at the end of it all. I got home from dropping Ann at the airport by 7:30, and lay on the couch until the kids begged for pancakes. After breakfast it was time to get the kids ready for their soccer game and head out the door. C.C., who was very clear in the fall about not wanting to play soccer, recently decided that she did, in fact, want to play. Milo´s team is for kindgergarten and first graders, and C.C. is in second grade, but even though the club has a girls´team for her age group, she only wanted to join Milo´s team. Spain is pretty relaxed about these things, so they let her join. As the only girl, a latecomer to the team, and Milo´s sister, she had a rough first couple of weeks. One evening she reported to us that she overheard one of the kids ask Milo, “Who´s that girl?” And Milo replied, “That´s my sister. She´s not very good.” You can imagine how C.C. felt about that. Milo, fortunately, expressed his remorse.




As it turns out, it was their last soccer game at the place they’ve been playing. The place has been so disorganized that the parents have revolted. It seemed as though we had a new coach every week, the kids were getting bored, no one ever told us when the games were. Once the lead scorer decided to move to another club, everyone else followed. The team won its last game, on penalty kicks, and we took a team photo to memorialize the era before moving on.



Alec went to the market and I brought the kids home, monitoring them from the couch while they played. When Alec returned I took a nap—yes, that would be two naps in two days—and was so out of it when my alarm rang that I actually thought it was 7 am, not 7 pm.



Sunday should have been restful, but we set our clocks ahead, and C.C. had a birthday party to be at by 11 am. It was raining and we were disorganized—I had to stop on the way to pick up a gift at OpenCor, and had mistakenly thought the party was on Carrer Argentina (close to our house) when it was actually on Carrer Argenteria (much farther). Dolores, our GPS, kept telling me to go the wrong way on one way streets in the rabbit warren that is the Born. We finally found an illegal parking spot where I could pull over and put on the flashers; we were already a half hour late. I cursed Dolores under my breath and apologized to C.C. for getting the there so late. “That’s okay, Mama,” she said. “I can see that you’re doing the best you can. But if you are frusterated [C.C. gives the word “frustrated” four syllables], maybe you should take three deep breaths.” So I did.



A French kid in C.C.’s class had invited the entire class to a hospitality school, and I rushed her up the steps and into the impressively professional, stainless steel kitchen, where all of her classmates stood around a long table wearing chef hats and aprons, stirring bowls of cookie batter. C.C. suited up and I headed home, to a date with Alec and Milo.



If we had known where the party was, we would have planned it all differently. But we didn’t. After many long conversations, Alec and I had made the difficult decision to move Milo from the wonderful, international Spanish-language school he attended for the two years prior to our Barcelona move to the fabulous public school in our neighborhood that his sister attends. We figured that this would be a good time to break the news to him, without C.C. hovering nearby. We gave him our best sales pitch and he seemed fine with the whole plan; he and C.C. have really enjoyed being at the same school this year.



By then it was time for Alec to go back to the Born to pick up C.C.; Milo and I walked around the corner to pick up his friend, Peter, and I took them both swimming. The plan was for Alec to pick the boys up and leave me to have a workout. We had a phone date with a family in Brooklyn who are thinking of coming here next year. But it turns out that Barcelona’s version of the Tour de France was also happening, and between the time that I dropped C.C. off and Alec picked her up, all of the streets anywhere near the Born were closed, and traffic slowed to a standstill. Which meant that I had to rush home to make the phone date—no workout for me.



Sunday, the day of rest, took my stuffing out of me. But I did make a delicious and easy dinner—sandwiches. Not just any sandwiches, but Flower Market Eggplant Tortilla sandwiches from The New Spanish Table. Here’s the recipe:



Ingredients:

• 2 medium size green bell peppers, cored, cut in half, and seeded (see NOTE below)

• Extra virgin olive oil

• 1 small eggplant (7 – 8 ounces), peeled and cut crosswise into 1/3 inch thick slices

• Coarse salt

• 5 large, very fresh eggs, beaten together with a pinch of salt

• 2 pieces (each 10 inches long) crusty French bread, or focaccia, split horizontally

• 1 ripe tomato, cut in half

• 2 – 3 tablespoons Allioli



1. Preheat the broiler.

2. Roast the green peppers. NOTE: I skipped this step and used roasted red peppers from a jar instead. If you do this, dry them well or you will end up with a soggy sandwich.

3. Place the eggplant in a colander and generously sprinkle salt over it. Let stand for 30 minutes, then rinse off the salt and pat the eggplant dry with paper towels.

4. Heat 3 Tbsp. olive oil in a 10 inch skillet (preferably nonstick) over medium heat. Add as many eggplant slices as will fit in one layer. Cook until soft and golden, 3 – 5 minutes per side, adding olive oil as needed, 1 tsp. at a time if the skillet looks dry (resist adding too much). Pour the eggs over the eggplant and cook until the bottom is set, about 3 minutes, loosening the tortilla with a thin spatula. Reduce the heat to very low, cover the skillet, and cook until the top is set, 2 – 3 minutes longer. Using the spatula, loosen the tortilla from the skillet and slide it onto a plate. Cut the tortilla into strips/rectangles about the same width as the bread.

5. Brush the cut sides of the bread with olive oil and toast under the broiler or on a grill pan until lightly charred and crips. Rut the cut sides of the tomato halves over the cut sides of the bread. Place the bottom half of a piece of bread on a work surface and spread some of the allioli on it. Arrange tortilla and pepper slices on top, then cover with the top half of the bread. Serve immediately and enjoy!

Anya von Bremzen, author of The New Spanish Table, ate these sandwiches at Barcelona´s flower market when she was living here and researching the book. One of these days I’m going to have to get myself to the market and track down the original.

photos of the day