Pretty much all the countries I have visited in Europe so far seem to have been conspiring to make me the size of a blimp, and Spain was no exception.
I spent two consecutive November weekends in Spain – the first in Madrid with my friends Wei and Alec, and the second in Barcelona with Sean. If you have been yawning through the nerdiness of my recent Berlin posts, rejoice: I simply had no time to do thorough background research on Spain before I went, so my knowledge of Spanish history remains only marginally less shocking today than it was before I visited. You are spared the lecture. My Spain posts are going to be all about food, and pretty buildings, and stuff.
One afternoon in Madrid, Alec, Wei and I visited San Ginés chocolateria, an institution in the city for its mastery of a single dish: churros con chocolate. I’d eaten churros before in California and Peru, and enjoyed them – there isn’t much not to like about hot, crispy sticks of deep-fried sugary dough. Along with Chinese roast pork and mozzarella sticks, churros are one of those things I eat only once every two or three years, simply because most of the time I don’t feel like eating them – I feel my arteries clogging up at a mere glance.
So I was pretty blown away when I found out that in Madrid, churros are not sufficient on their own. No, in Madrid you must take these giant cholesterol delivery mechanisms and smother them in a bowl of oozy-goozy molten chocolate. I was simultaneously intrigued and repulsed at the idea.
At the counter at San Ginés, we simply ordered “tres” (there isn’t anything else on the menu), and sat down elbow-to-elbow with the locals in the cosy, green-and-white basement.
It was good. Don’t get me wrong, it was GOOD. Yet at the same time it was just too much oil, too much sugar, too much cream for a Women’s Health/Runner’s World gal to handle intellectually. The entire experience was a weird disconnect between my mind and my body. Obviously homo sapiens is hardwired to enjoy anything calorie-dense, so my taste buds were sighing “Oh, baby. Oh, baby.” My brain, on the other hand, was saying to me incredulously: “Err… I’m not sure if you noticed, but this is death. You are eating death.” I just couldn't quite enjoy it with the abandon one needs on such an occasion.
So, maybe the churros-and-chocolate concept is a bit over the top, but really I can’t complain about any of the meals I had in Spain. Quite the opposite. For one, I love the Spanish concept of tapas. Whenever I go to any restaurant, I end up wanting to order everything on the menu, so for me a meal structured around sharing many small plates of deliciousness rather than each person ordering a big plate of one thing is a dream come true!
One night in Madrid, we ate at Restaurant Botin, which claims to be the oldest continuously operating restaurant in the world. Ernest Hemingway used to eat there, apparently. It was not technically a tapas place, but the portion sizes still lent themselves to sharing many dishes. We tried the local specialties of squid-ink rice and roast suckling pig. Delicious!
Every tapas place we went to was as meticulous on presentation as it was on taste. Here are the amazing desserts Sean and I shared in Barcelona the following weekend – washed down with a big jug of sangria, naturally…
It was nice to be in a place where eating outdoors is doable all year. In Munich, the restaurants packed up their patio chairs weeks ago, but in Barcelona and Madrid the outdoor tables were still going strong. On many streets, the two car lanes are separated by a broad pedestrian strip full of dining tables. The waiters have to cross the road to bring you your food! Gives a new meaning to the phrase “drive-thru”.
I know this post makes it sound like all I did in Spain was stuff my face, but that’s only about 92.3% true. There’ll be more in my next post about art galleries and architecture, and such things that might lead you to conclude incorrectly that I am cultured.
In the mean time, I will leave you with this not so high brow observation: In Madrid, buskers make money by scaring the shit out of you. Wei and I almost died of fright when these street performers in Plaza Mayor yelped at us. When we recovered from the shock, we realised would be supremely easy to take revenge by running off with all their money. They have no legs to chase us with!
We were about to execute the heist when we realised that the severed heads had brought backup, in the form of Joker and Winnie the Pooh's love child. Luckily we both had necklaces of garlic around our necks to ward off the evil eye.
So yeah, don’t mess with Spanish buskers. They will probably come to your house and club you to death with Bratz dolls and colourful balloons.
