Maybe next time...

At first I was devastated.

When I came home from class for the big meal of the day—comida—I was greeted by a large pot of eels. Don’t get me wrong, I wanted a large, steamy pot of eels, but I also wanted to help make it. Unfortunately, my senora’s daughter swung by the house, saw the goodies in the fridge and made up the all I pebre all by herself.

I was distraught.

I was upset.

I wanted to cook too!

As I silently cried to myself I was handed a large bowl of the stuff. Invisible tears rolled down my cheek as I air-planed a small chunk of stewed eel into towards mouth. The little guy was alive only hours ago, bravely wiggling around in the fridge after having his head separated from his body. He was waiting for me! All morning I envisioned my senora and me, dancing around the kitchen stewing eels, talking Spanish and sharing our excitement about the delicious meal we would soon share. We would lovingly cook our eels while singing songs of homage and bonding over a simmering stovetop.

It didn’t happen like this; I was crushed. I kept on reflecting on my broken dreams when I realized there was an eel bone lodged between my teeth.

!Joder!

Eel is one of the smoothest sea creatures I have ever eaten. It has the consistency of other fish, only with much more meat. The flavor was rich but doesn’t have that overpowering seafood feel (fresh water creatures know where it’s at.) The mighty eel was the perfect complement for the potatoes, onions and tomatoes sharing the spoon and I look forward to meeting him again.

After a few more bites I stopped sulking and quickly finished off my pebre. It was delicious and although I didn’t get to help cook it, there are more eels in Valencia waiting for me.

9:30 - Eels and Coffee

It’s 9:48am and I have just returned home with this bag. Its contents? Eels.

Tonight I am making all I pebre, a traditional eels stew with my senora. I plan on documenting the whole things but having eels in the house made me too excited to wait until later. I have no idea how to make it, but I do know that I was informed to go to the market and purchase 2 kilos of potatos, 2 cebollas and 3 anguillas. This will probably be my favorite task today.

I was going to photograph the woman (eelmonger?) preparing my critters but I figured it’d be better to leave those pictures off of the blog. Basically, after ordering the woman fished three eels out of her tank, plopped them into a large, rectangular stainless steel box located next to a cutting board, knife and steel glove. Three minutes later, I am presented with the bundle of excitement you see above.

On the way home I had to stop several times on the walk home because I thought they were still moving.


Fresh.

The Search Begins...

Seville is known to most as a lovely, old town in the southern Spanish communidad of Andalusia. It is a city famous for it cathedral—which is the third largest in the world—as well as its flamenco, bull fighting and most importantly, its tapas.

Like most cities in Spain with strong ties to bull fighting, there are lots of bulls to be eaten. Since Spaniards don’t want these animals to go to waste after being killed during the fight, the most sensible thing to do is feed them to the people! I hear that back in the day, there were butchers at the back door of the Plaza de los Torros, waiting for the carcasses. I’m not sure how it works today, but I know Spaniards still eat bull.

About a month ago I discovered that certain people believe the tastiest part of the animal is los testiculos. I am still searching for a menu with Cojones on it, but I feel that I came one step closer in Seville. The restaurant I ate at was a classic Seville tapas joint: long bar adorned with various cheeses and meats, racks of wine behind it and a few employees furiously cooking away. After spoke to the bar man with the help of Miguel—the guide for my group—I learned the restaurant had no balls. However, the man could offer me colas del torro. Excitedly I ordered and fifteen minutes later was treated to a bully delight.

(I would love to post a picture of my colas, but stupidly I left my camera in the hostel before going out. I borrowed a camera from a friend of mine, so hopefully I’ll have some proof of my first bull experience. In the meantime, here is an artists rendition.)


All I can say is that colas are the bull version of oxtail; it is the tough cut of meat connected to the muscular tail. It’s braised or stewed until it reaches a delicious brisket like consistency, served with a side of potatoes and quickly inhaled by me. The bones look like chunky white stars and they force a hungry traveler to meticulously chomp the meat from between narrow crevices. I can assure you that it is worth the effort.

Although I have yet to sample bull pelotas yet, my first taste of bull was quite good. It gave me the strength I need to keep the search on, knowing that if the ass end of the animal is this delicious, I can only imagine what other wonders await me. Besides hope, the only other thing I can offer is a delicious look tapa I ate the following day—bread and some of the famous iberico jamon topped with a luscious looking quail egg.


Ole.

Force Feeding

I never thought I’d do it, but I finally cracked. A month ago I would have never agreed to eat at a noodle bar while in Spain, but a few things forced me to this point. Spanish food is fantastic, don’t get me wrong, but I feel that it is a natural human tendency to desire change once in a while. Combine this with the fact I was feeling too lazy to engage in Spanish conversation before filling my starving stomach, and you end up with me at a tasty little noodle bar in the north of Valencia.

Noodle bars are fantastic; I’ve been waiting to try Momofuku in Manhattan for a while now so I decided to sample the Asiatic delights of Valencia. The place was legit: benches instead of tables, small menu that doubled as a place mat, food made to order, when you ordered and a pushy Indonesian woman keeping a sharp eye over every corner of the restaurant.

The food was good enough but the experience is what I really want to write about. As I dined with my friend, an older Spanish woman sat down on the bench next to us. She asked a few questions about what we were eating, then kept to herself. After a few slurps of soup, we started talking. She was a pediatrician who has lived in Valencia for 30 years and had just finished a trip to the modern art museum. Her English was superb and she was happy to be practicing it on us. After my friend and I finished our meals, we stayed and chatted with this charming lady. She asked us why we didn’t order dessert (almost unheard of at a Spanish table) but seem satisfied when we explained our situation as poor students. This is when the magic happened.

The whole time she was waiting for her dessert, she explained how to make flan and enlightened us to other Spanish postres. When the waitress brought out a large plate of Flan with pumpkin custard, we were salivating. Whether she noticed the hunger in our eyes, or is just the nicest lady ever, she offered us a sample. I sat back and watched.

First, the woman expertly crafted a forkful of every morsel and flavor in her dish, as she handed the fork over to my friend, she didn’t release the utensil as it reached his hand. Perplexed, my buddy made another attempt for the fork, but the woman was relentless. My buddy eyed me, glanced at the lady, looked at the tantalizing dessert and finally opened his mouth. Like a loving grandmother feeding her sweets-crazed children, the lady proceeded to spoon feed her flan to both my friend and me. We were shocked, confused and satisfied all at once. Thank goodness for noodle bars.

Sausage fest

February 9, 2008

Tales from festival Embutido Artesano y de Calidad

This morning I traveled to an old Spanish town called Requena for a food and wine festival. In my head were visions of me chomping suckling pork, huge plates of paella and succulent seafoods. I was totally wrong. I soon found out that Spanish food revolves around one thing—the almighty pig sausage. Now don’t think I dislike pork products, I would be the last person to pass up on a tasty salchicha offered at the dinner table. However, this particular festival featured only two things: sausage and wine.

At fist I was bummed. I paid for a ticket that basically got me only two glasses of wine and a whole lot of the same thing. The main tent had a large wine table in the middle filled with large samples of very good wine. The perimeter was lined with nothing but sausage stands, all giving samples of the same stuff. The lines were long, there was no diversity and I was annoyed. The only change to the monotony was a booth run by grandmother who gave out codfish tapas. Although these were all right, I was still discouraged.

Salvation came at the last minute.

Fifteen minutes before I was supposed to meet back at the bus I forgot I had to bring home some longaniza—pink, hotdog looking links—for my senora. I decided to get the most of my money and redeem my unused sampling tickets. I hit up three more sausage stands and piled a napkin full of cured delights. Tasting them side-by-side, I realized that these little pig rolls are really delicate little creations. One butcher’s chorizo wasn’t anything to write home about while a different chorizo made me cry out for more pig. The first morcilla, or blood sausage, I ate made me wish I didn’t, but the second sampling almost made me buy a kilo of the stuff. Each bite made me a little happier, a little wiser, and quite a bit more full.


Some pictures from the day:

Spanish Grandmas shelling out the fish paste.

Local winery or bodega.

Olives from the Medieval fest near my apartment the same night.

That’s right…even more sausage.

Measuring Progress with Cheese

February 8, 2008

A breakthrough occurred on my daily market trip today. I arrived at my cheese counter, Botique del Queso, at the usual time and was happily surprised at the lack of customers. Instead of the usual throngs of cheese loving Spaniards, there was only a cluster of charming old ladies. As soon as I ordered a savory hunk of cheese I knew this trip was different.

The cheese lady now recognizes me. She was telling one of the old ladies how she can pick me out since I am so tall and purchase giant slices of cheese every week. The old ladies were instantly intrigued.

I paid for my cheese and tried to make a joke about not having the correct change. After attempting to tell my cheese lady I’d see her next week, we began chatting. I asked her a few questions about the cheese I bought (“es mas suave!”) she asked me where I was from.

I’ve never seen old ladies so happy as when I answered Nueva York. One did a little dance with her bag of fruit.

From that point on I was the golden boy. The old ladies loved me and I could do no wrong. “I’ve been in Valencia three weeks. I study here for four months,” I said in bad Spanish. The old ladies threw up their hands and cheered! After discovering that the cheese I bought came from Galicia, I informed them I would be going to a city in that province soon. “I go to Santiago after I finish school,” I told them. One of the woman feigned passing out due to the beauty of the lands I would soon venture. Although I’ve never met them before, the old ladies said that my Spanish has improved a lot. I don’t know how they came to that conclusion, but they kept insisting it was true.

All of this unfolded under the watchful eye of my cheese lady. After saying our goodbyes, she handed me my cheese and waved me off. As I walked away, I look back to see five old ladies smiling from ear to ear, happily waving to me amidst their bags of produce and cheeses.

Bare Bones

This post will be short. I apologize but I desperately need a nap. I just experienced my first traditional Spanish lunch, or as they say here, Comida. Grandpa and Grandma were there too; it was magical.

The reason for the big feast is the second birthday of Cecelia, my senora’s granddaughter. Luckily, there will be another feast—the birthday feast—in a few hours but until then I will happily nap away my fullness.

The first plate was soup-like pasta with some stewed veggies and garbanzos. The second helping consisted of two monstrous plates of meat and sausage. Towards the end of the meal, my senora Reyes handed me a large cow bone. There were several bones in the cocido (stew) she had made, but the one she gave me had marrow in it, ripe for the eating. She instructed me to eat the gooey interior with some bread and I diligently complied.

It was delicious, absolutely delicious.

I’ve seen a video of Fergus Henderson, the British chef of St. John’s in England, smearing the buttery bone interior on some toast, but never imagined that I would be lucky enough to taste this beefy delight. I patted the marrow on some bread and quickly chomped it down. Think of the most tender steak you’ve even eaten, and then think of how good it would be if you didn’t have to chew it at all, it would melt in your mouth like butter. I could go into more detail about the texture and taste, but it is time for me to take siesta. I have more eating to do tonight.

A Delicious Defense

This weekend I took the time to visit a tiny town south of Valencia called El Palmar. There were a few decent reasons for the trip--there is a large nature preserve committed to the preservation of La Albufera—but most important was the Paella.

Unfortunately, I haven’t eaten much Paella here yet, but from what many people tell me the lakeside town of El Palmar is a great place to try the starchy delight. The town is a touristy area in the summer, but it is pretty dead in the heart of winter. Most of the restaurants were closed, but the ones that were open had menus full of numerous paellas and other delights I’ve never heard of before. Apparently, the local specialty in a dish called All I Pebre, a peppery eel stew made with slithery critters pulled right from the lake. I didn’t get a chance to try any this trip, however. I was too busy chomping into my first sampling of a paella variety called Arroz Negro.

Traditional Valencian Paella is made with rice, chicken, rabbit and these large green pea pods. The rice is simmered in chicken stocked and is served in the circular black pan it is cooked in. It is creamy like risotto, but not as heavy. It takes about thirty minutes to cook but is worth the wait.


To make the dish more interesting, Arroz Negro adds some of the most delicious defense mechanism in the world—squid ink. The stuff looks like tar but trust me, it is delicious. The restaurant I dined in left the paella as menacing as possible, nothing but rice, a few tiny shrimp and an unidentifiable amount of inky goodness. The rice didn’t taste overwhelming or really exotic, instead, it made me wonder why I haven’t had barrels of black ink in my kitchen all my life. Squid should be terrorized more often if they produce such heavenly goo when frightened.


Be wary, this stuff will turns your mouth, teeth and anything else it touches deathly black. But don’t let that stop you.