A few good things no respectable Spanish kitchen would be without

Now that I am, regretfully, packing up my kitchen in Barcelona, it seemed timely to expound on the indispensible items presumably (from my sporadic research) to be found in the arsenal of a Spanish home cook.

Many of these items can be found in the U.S. (try Trader Joe's) but of course, never in the variety, quantity, or at the low, low price for which they can be had in Spain. Some of my nominated essentials have never crossed my threshhold here, either, although most have.

For me, whether or not I return to Barcelona, the combination of these peculiarly Spanish foodstuffs will always evoke old, smoke-filled bars where I've tasted the best (and worst) of tapas offerings; languid evenings at tables in Medieval squares with cathedral doors and cobblestones for a backdrop; and good friends, good conversation all washed down with endless and excellent bottles of good Spanish vino tinto.

1. Olive oil, first and foremost. By the gallon. Ordinary olive oil for frying and sauteeing, and extra virgin for drizzling on salads and bread. Optional but highly desirable: one of the lovely handblown glass cruets, as shown above, that always stands at the ready next to my stove.

2. Garlic. With just about everything. Rubbed raw on lightly grilled, crusty bread that is then smeared with half of a ripe, red tomato and a good drizzle of olive oil - sometimes to accompany a meal or tapas, other times as the foundation for a bocadillo - Spanish-style sandwich, almost always made with a baguette - of jamon serrano, cheese, salami, or tortilla, the Spanish omelet made with potato and onion.

3. Paprika (pimenton): comes in at least three varieties, mild (sweet), spicy, and smoked. Used liberally in Spanish cooking. The smoked version imparts an indescribable depth to dishes.

4. Olives. My favorite are the fat, green, aromatic manzanilla, but there are many varieties, green and black, oil-cured or in vinegar, with herbs, peppercorns, stuffed with anchovy...to my tastes, good hearty Spanish bread, a semi-aged manchego cheese, a dish of olives and a glass of good table wine are the holy quartet of Spanish gusto and can always be relied upon to sate the sudden onset of peckishness. A close relative is the olive paste, usually from the ripe black olives, which I have discovered is heavenly when spread on a crusty, charcoal-grilled hamburger.

5. Saffron. Flavors stews, soups, and of course, Spain's most famous culinary export, paella.

6. Jamon serrano, the famous cured ham of Spain. Comes in varying quality, with the most expensive - the jabugo, pato negro - costing up to 200 euros per kilo or more. It is lean, low in salt, utterly delicious, and ubiquitous. Sadly, it cannot be exported, I understand. Whole legs of these prized hogs hang behind nearly every bar in Spain, and many families buy an entire ham, taking paper-thin slices as needed; there is even a special culinary device to hold the ham in place to be sliced.

7. Bread. No Spaniard will sit down to a meal without loaves or slices of fresh bread bought that morning, or very commonly, both that morning and evening. Bread is sufficiently indispensible here that even on Sundays, when all the supermarkets and shops are closed, every panaderia in town will be open until at least 1 p.m. A Spanish barra (long, thin loaf) comes in many varieties, from a French-style baguette (called by the same name here) to my favorite, the gallega - a long, thin oval with a durable crumb and a rich, fermented flavor that stays fresh until the next day - to cracked or whole wheat, seeded, even rye. Good bread here is a birthright. I will miss it.

8. Tempranillo, quince paste: a sweet, vitamin-C-packed firm jelly that is exquisite with either an aged manchego cheese or a slice of jamon.

9. Asparagus. Bottled. Fat, thin, white, green, a multitude of varieties and brands can take up an entire three-foot section of supermarket shelving, top to bottom. I can't say why the Spanish are so crazy for bottled asparagus - they also love their bottled and canned wild mushrooms, precooked beans, corn, and green beans - but once in a while, it's nice, chilled, with mayonnaise liberally seasoned with freshly cracked black pepper. By the way, the Spanish assert that mayonnaise, that quintessential French preparation, actually originated in the Balearic Islands, not far off the Barcelona coast, in the town of Mahon. It has a ring of truth.

10. Aioli, or allioli in Catalan, means 'garlic and oil.' It's essentially a thick mayonnaise fortified with industrial-strength amounts of fresh garlic. Spread it on grilled breads or meats, stir a spoonful into a hearty soup, or dip your french-fried potatoes in it. Just don't breathe on anyone for the next 24 hours unless they've shared your meal.

11. Last, but never least: wine. I don't pretend to know much about wine, although I've tasted some incredibly complex, deep and well-constructed Spanish vino tinto. But give me a good table wine for every day, and I'm perfectly happy. There is an amazing abundance of wine in Spain, much of it very drinkable and cheap. I'm talking under 5 euros per bottle - in fact, in my local supermarket, any wine 6 euros or over has an anti-theft device attached to its neck. I even found a very drinkable house-brand rosado (rose) at one supermarket chain for the unbelievable bottle price of 75 centimos! If this could be duplicated in the U.S., it would put Two-Buck Chuck out of business.

This is a random and woefully incomplete list. If you want to know more, come to Spain and find out why its cuisine and wine and gastronomical bounty are beginning to conquer the world of food.

Endings and beginnings

After several weeks of waiting, during which her schoolmates were all studying for their 'selectividades' (qualifying exams for Spanish high school graduates to gain admission to university), Hannah proudly received her diploma on June 13, 2008 at the American School of Barcelona in Esplugues de Llobregat, a nearby suburb.

Of her graduating class of 32 - about 85 percent of whom are Catalan or Spanish - Hannah was one of five to receive an award for maintaining a straight-A average during her time at the school. During the ceremony (during which clouds threatened to unleash a late-spring deluge but thankfully held off), she was a point of shining gold in a sea of dark-haired young men and women. The delight with which she gracefully strode onstage to receive her diploma was unmistakable. Her dad couldn't restrain tears of joy and pride. There is something about a high school graduation - all that hope and promise and joy residing in those intelligent young faces - that even the hardest cynic would find impossible to deny.

As for me, a sense of disbelief pervaded me. I could not register that here was my baby daughter, after all the years of struggle and work and hope and fear, striding through the most important door of her life so far. Nor could I get over the idea that this confident, shining beauty was really my own.

Afterwards, the family, joined by Hannah's boyfriend Renato and three of her closest girlfriends, celebrated with a lavish dinner at a restaurant serving 'New Catalan' cuisine. Everything, of course, was washed down with plenty of cava and a fine Spanish rioja or two.

No tears for me until I awoke the next morning, when it hit me: She's leaving. It was a mixture of sadness and incredible joy. I've done it. I've launched my girl into the world.

Tinto de verano

Summer's coming and we want to drink something lighter. Admit it, you've got a case of 2-Buck Chuck in the closet and you're wondering if it will cellar well until next fall. The Spanish have that one all figured out.

Tinto de verano: the red wine of summer. The term refers to a mixture of red wine with various carbonated beverages, spiked with lemon. Forget sangria; not only is tinto de verano a no-sweat version of this summer classic, but it's also refreshingly delicious, and can be varied to suit one's taste.

Beer gets the same treatment in Spain, mixed half-and-half with sparkling lemon soda - Fanta limon is preferred here - and the resulting mix christened a 'clara.' The term refers to the white of a raw egg, precisely the substance that a clara resembles, at least in color.

While you're sipping a tinto de verano on a hot summer (or spring) day, you can remind yourself that you're still getting your antioxidant quotient but cutting your alcohol consumption by half. Here are a couple of recipes.

TINTO DE VERANO

One-half liter of cheap red wine
One-half liter of sparkling lemon or lemon-lime soda, or tonic water, or sparkling mineral water
Dash of red Vermouth (to taste; optional)
One lemon, sliced

Mix ingredients and serve over ice.

CALIMOCHO

Pour half a glass of cheap red wine; top with Coca-Cola. Add lemon slices and ice and serve cold.

Day of books and roses

Today (April 23) is the Festival of Sant Jordi, and although this is my first, it is already my favorite. Sant Jordi (St. George, of the dragon) is Catalunya's patron saint. Since medieval times it has been traditional to give gifts of roses on this day. In the early 20th century the custom of exchanging books was added.

Although this most Catalan of holidays occurs on a workday, the Ramblas and plazas are jammed with people buying books from the many vendors who have set up tables, and roses of every color, although red is traditional. Each rose is combined with a stalk of wheat.

I asked Barbara, my Catalan landlady, to explain the meaning of this festival, and here is what she so beautifully wrote:

For Catalunya, the day of Sant Jordi is the day of: a) the rose, which symbolizes love and the commitment to family, one’s partner, and loved ones; and b) the book, which symbolizes the culture and reading, and which permits the meeting between the authors of books and their readers. But also it is the day of catalanidad. For a Catalan, the day of Sant Jordi is a workday that is lived with the collective enthusiasm of a holiday, a day of which all the citizens feel proud. The wheat [stalk that is included with the rose] can have two meanings: first work (one of the identifying characteristics of the Catalan population); and second, the yellow color, which along with the red of the rose, constitutes the Catalan flag: Yellow with four bars of red, which [symbolize those] a king painted with his fingers with the blood from a mortal war wound.

In the tradition of Sant Jordi, I share with you here a poem by the Catalan poet
Maria-Antonia Salva (1869-1958):

Like a monstrous reptile with spotted skin,
with slimy entrails, it lay
in its corner drinking in the sunlight.
All at once, its malice awakened,
reviving, it cracked the flowerpot.
Beyond the orchard, to be lost track of,
it was hurled over an arid wall,
and after a time, upon the rugged stones,
poking among the crevices and seams,
I found the old dragon still raging and clinging.

City of pomegranates

[NOTE: first of a series of posts describing my recent journey to Andalucia in the south of Spain with my friend Barry from California.]


Granada: the name evokes the mystery and grandeur of the authentic Spain, the Spain of flamenco, bullfights, Moorish palaces, olives, and oranges. Indeed, we were on the trail of Moorish Spain in the era before the Catholic Kings, Ferdinand and Isabela, banished the Muslim conquerors on the Iberian Peninsula, ending centuries of Islamic rule and sweeping the long-established Jewish population from its territories.

'Granada' means pomegranate, and Granada is named for the three pomegranates on the mighty gate that stands guard over the entrance to the Alhambra, the legendary fortified complex dating from the 11th century.

Present-day Granada is a serene, lyrically beautiful city of small squares, gitanos (gypsies), guitar makers, university students, Arabic baths, and dignified elders, dominated by the Alhambra and spanning both banks of the quiet Darro river. A walk through the narrow, steep maze of the Sacromonte - the old gitano quarter - is punctuated by the ruffle of guitar chords from the open doors of artesanal guitar makers or floating down from a second-story window where a guitarrista is practicing; by a spontaneous outburst of hoarse, complex flamenco song from a dark young girl crouched in a doorway with her little brother.

We are to be two days in Granada, one of them to be spent navigating the sprawling complex of the Alhambra. We have secured lodging in a clean, modest hostal in the former Jewish quarter. All of the cities we will visit in Andalucia will have a former Jewish quarter, their ancient sinagogas and baths faint echoes of once-thriving communities where three cultures coexisted more or less in peace. Our room overlooks a bustling square ringed with bars and second-hand clothing stores that is criss-crossed by students hurrying to their university classes.

Soon after arriving, a happy discovery: Every drink ordered in a bar comes with a free tapa, or little snack! We immediately feel welcomed. According to tradition, tapas originated in just this way, a savory mouthful on a small plate placed on top of the drink. ('Tapa' means 'cover.')

We have arrived on the heels of an uncharacteristic cold spell, and we bundle up and head out to sample the local cuisine. In a tiny restaurant we are introduced to a version of gazpacho (originating in Cordoba) called almorejo, a thick and creamy salmon-colored cold puree of bread, tomatoes and garlic garnished with hard-boiled egg and slivers of ham.

We have pre-purchased our entrance tickets to the Alhambra, probably Spain's most-visited monument. Its red-tinged walls and towers loom over the city, framed by the snow-covered peaks of the Sierra Nevada. To read about its history, click on this link: http://www.andalucia.com/cities/granada/alhamhistory.htm. We set out early in the morning and expend much shoe-tread and camera battery life wandering nearly all day amongst the battlements, towers, gardens, palaces, fountains and stone paths that form this amazing complex. We marvel at the extensive system of sluices, canals and gates that regulate the flow of water for cultivation and undoubtedly in ancient days, human consumption and bathing as well as filling the many fountains and pools. We are amazed by the different architectural styles ranging from pure Islamic through mudejar (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mudejar) to Renaissance. We wander alone in the crowds with our audio guides and the words of Washington Irving, whose residency within the Alhambra walls inspired "Tales of the Alhambra."

Thoroughly footsore from traipsing over large, uneven cobblestones, we book a soak at the Baños Arabes, a faithful reproduction of a Moorish bath house. The long, shallow hot mineral pool reflects the flickers of dozens of candles as does the exquisitely tiled, vaulted ceiling. Silence reigns, broken only by discreet splashes and the sharp intake of breath accompanying a dip into the cold plunge. We sip hot, sugary mint tea and are blissed out.

By the next morning we have settled the question of where to spend our one unscheduled night between Granada and Cordoba. Havingprovisioned ourselves with excellent local salami, cheese and bread, we board a comfortable coach bus for Ubeda, a small city in the heart of olive country - Jaen province - renowned for its gorgeous Renaissance square.

Click here to see more photos from Granada:

Barcelona kids

The much-needed thundershower having paused for breath and the sun begun to shine brilliantly, I ventured up the street to buy a baguette, noting somewhat unhappily that the rain had reconstituted the dried dog turds on the sidewalk. My excursion coincided exactly with the moment in which the schools let out (the school day here ends at 5 p.m.), and the panaderia (bakery) swarmed with parents and their children clamoring for their merienda (afternoon snack): chocolate-swathed donuts, candies, croissants. Some were accompanied by a grandmother or grandfather, attesting to what I am told is a failing of the Spanish social system, the lack of affordable child care, so that families with children do not move far from their parents, who look after the grandchildren while the parents work.

As before, I was struck by the warmth of the interactions between children and their guardians. Catalan kids are coddled, hugged, kissed, petted, indulged, and affectionately scolded or regaled to a very great degree. Fathers are very involved, and indeed, Spanish fathers (while largely denied custody rights by the socially conservative courts) are entitled to paternity leave nearly equal to that afforded to mothers. Despite all this coddling (or perhaps because of it), Catalan children grow up to be hard-working, responsible, and well-behaved (if you overlook their refusal to relinquish territory on the sidewalks, perhaps a result of their sense of entitlement). The family is prioritized here, which may be one reason why it can be difficult for a foreigner to break into the social structure of the reserved and businesslike Catalans: between work and family gatherings, there is little time for socializing. How different from our own American culture, in which families are scattered to all corners of the continent and sadly, often do not even know their grandparents. The flip side here, though, is that families can be over-controlling and intrusive. So, which system is better?

On a clear day in Barcelona

When the sun shines and the temperatures are mild, there is no city more wonderful than Barcelona for wandering the ancient center, where the crooked cobbled streets and squares hold delightful surprises. Saturday was such a day. The tourists suddenly were there in force, but away from the main artery of the Ramblas, typically Barcelonian tableaux unfolded.

Sightings of small knots of greyhounds and whippets and their red-bandanaed owners coalesced into a grand convocation of canines in Plaza Sant Jaume, the governmental square, where an animal rights demonstration had just concluded. Here are some of them:


A bit further on, a heladeria proved irresistible with its exotic flavors (mojito, turron), and its gorgeous fruit carvings adorning the stainless steel bins:

Opposite, a colorful bazaar of a shop drew the eye.
And everywhere, bombonerias flaunted their extravagant chocolate Easter displays.

Further on, copas (glasses of red wine), excellent green olives, and a foot-long bocadillo to share, of Spanish ham on a crusty baguette smeared with tomato (pan tomate) in a tiny bar deep in the heart of the Raval neighborhood where a Barcelona vaquero held up the counter while a young family idled in a corner. Then, on to Rondo Sant Antoni where stylish young couples soaked up rays at a large outdoor corner cafe, to watch the impromptu fashion show over cortados, espresso coffee topped with a dollop of steamed milk.

Another perfect day.