Tastes of fall

Mr. Thomas, I will not join you in raging against the dying of the light. It is fully autumn, with brisk mornings and great bushels of maple leaves making the sidewalks as slick as skating rinks. Sidewalk vendors are dispensing roasted chestnuts in paper cones alongside sweet potatoes cooked over a fire until their sweet sap dapples their russet skins.

All the fall produce has been in the markets for weeks now. At my favorite local fruteria, Carme Miranda (pun intended, presumably), there are no fewer than five kinds of fresh wild mushrooms, including ceps (boletus, called porcini in Italy). And chanterelles, oysters, and a couple I've never seen before: one is reddish with medium-sized caps and a green tinge to its gills and is called rovello (accent on the last syllable), and the other is tiny with dark caps and long, string-like yellowish stems. Sauteed in a mixture with a splash of excellent Spanish sherry from Jerez, they are redolent of earth and forest. Alongside the mushrooms are tiny wild leeks that are the subjects of a festival in Catalunya in which it is practically worshiped. Oh and of course the radicchio is out, and there are tons of figs - persimmons had a short but glorious season the past couple weeks - and pomegranates, and there are jars of skinned hazelnuts and dried wild mushrooms in the fruteria.

See these links for more articles about wild mushrooms in Spain:
http://travel.latimes.com/articles/la-tr-mushroom21oct21
http://mallorcaphotoblog.wordpress.com/2007/10/10/wild-mushrooms-season/

Customer service

The BIG department store chain in Spain is called El Corte Ingles. It is fantastic. You can buy everything from ice cube trays to designer suits, and when you're done accessorizing yourself, in the basement there is a gourmet grocery store. The branch in central Barcelona is the size and shape of a cruise ship. They boast about their excellent customer service and easy-return policy, things that are nonexistent throughout most of Spain. So:

I bought Hannah a backpack there since she now rides a motor-scooter to school. The first time she used it, the zipper jammed, so I took it back and it was cheerfully exchanged by a pleasant young woman for another, identical bag. The first time she used that one, the straps ripped off. So, back I went.

The imperious, well-dressed man behind the counter (whom I had witnessed, on an earlier occasion, rudely snubbing an American woman when she asked him, in English, if he spoke English) asked me: "Did you put books in it?" "Of course," I countered, "it is a book-bag." "Too heavy," he replied, then called for assistance. Shortly, a brisk, officious older woman appeared and asked me the same question and gave me the same reaction, demonstrating to me that the straps allegedly had ripped because we had overloaded the bag. "Defective," I insisted. "I don't want it." There ensued an argument in Spanish, half of which I did not understand in detail but all of which amounted to, "We're not going to give you your money back." I just kept repeating, "Ridiculous. I don't want it. It's defective." Finally the woman threw up her hands, turned on her heel and stalked off. The officious clerk grabbed my credit card, swiped it with an unnecessarily elaborate flourish, and gave me the refund slip to sign, all without seeming to acknowledge my existence. I turned on my heel and stalked off, quietly triumphant. I had won my first argument in Spanish!

Fiesta del Camp nou 50 Aniversario By www.zonadeportes.com

Hannah and company are the ones who tossed the giant golden futbol balloons onto the field during the 50th-anniversary celebration at Camp Nou, Barcelona's soccer stadium. The normally sober Catalans go utterly nuts over their cherished team, FC Barcelona.

The jeans, and other ruminations and digressions

I have been under the weather since yesterday morning. It has been a good kind of sick: nothing too awful, but enough to justify lounging around all day in my nightgown and nestling into the sofa with a good book.

Just now, Wednesday at 2 p.m., I emerged into daylight for the first time. I'm still not 100%. What, then, could draw me out of doors and across the Vallcarca Viaduct? The early-morning rain gave way to bright blue cloud-dotted skies, but actually...I ran out of cigarettes. (More about smoking and Spain later.)

I'm happy because it's sunny - the kind of day, seemingly typical in Barcelona, when it's too cool for a T-shirt but too warm for a jacket. And I'm happy because I'm wearing my new jeans.

The jeans that Hannah does not like. But then, she is not here to criticize.

The jeans are big and baggy in the legs and, I imagine, provide me with the silhouette of a chic puppy. Who could resist that?

When I brought the jeans home, Hannah went to the closet to fetch them. "Ohhh Mommy," she sighed, holding the jeans between thumb and forefinger as if they were a dead rat, sorrow and pity saturating her words. "Only teenagers wear a denim rinse like this!"

I don't care. I like the jeans. They make me look a bit sloppy. Not the chic, tossed-off sloppy of the stylish boho girls near the University. I will never look like them, with their agreeably clashing layers and their dreadlocks. Maybe if I grew dreadlocks. It's odd, though, about these dreadlocks. In front, the hair is short, or long, shiny and clump-free. but from the crown back, it erupts into long, white-person dreadlocks. We deem it a strange variant of that 80s-style 'do, The Mullet (which either never went out of favor in Barcelona or is experiencing a huge resurgence). The style is sported by male and female. The oddest one I've seen was on a young, prematurely balding man with no hair on top, but what remaining hair he could marshal cascaded stiffly down his back in snarled ringlets. (I think dreadlocks can only cascade stiffly.) I'll try to find you a photo to illustrate this phenomenon, but I'm kind of shy about photographing unsuspecting people. I'll get over it.

Sunday, Sunday

Some of you (well, just Hannah) have been complaining about the alleged infrequency of my posts of late. Realize, dear readers, that if I am to have something to post, I need to be out doing and seeing things. And I have been gathering material for you.

While the mornings have taken on a crisp edge, the midday hours are still warmed by a benevolent sun here, perfect for afternoons of exploration. This past Sunday brought to a close the three-day holiday weekend initiated by National Hispaniola Day, which marks the alleged discovery of America by Columbus. Despite the presence of the towering column near the harbor crowned by a likeness of Spain's favorite explorer, Barcelona didn't seem to get very excited about the occasion. As usual, half of the city either left town or went to the beach.

Barry rang me in the morning to ask if I felt like going for a bicycle ride. We met at Cafe Zurich, at the top of the Placa Catalunya Metro stop, then strolled over to the harbor to rent bikes from his old acquaintance, Alex. The Parc de la Ciudad, with its zoo and its wide walkways, is closed to traffic on Sundays, and is perfect for wheeling through on a cruiser, zig-zagging to avoid the strollers, darting children, and meandering couples. Leaving the park, we zagged to the beach, where we paused for ice cream and coffees and I ogled the diverting boardwalk parade.

Two hours later, we rolled back to the bike rental, where Alex invited us to stay for coffees, procured from the Greek cafe next door. He then reached for his guitar and broke into a version of "This Land is Your Land," the opener for a medley of American folk tunes, John Denver hits, and Brazilian bossa nova, usually to the accompaniment of Alex's Satchmo-like scatting, my harmonizing, and Barry's air piano. Soon, Alex had invited the Irish couple seated nearby to join us. John plays and sings at bars throughout his hometown of Limerick, and serenaded us with a stirring Christy Moore love song in his light Irish brogue. We ended with a rousing version of "Hotel California" that nearly had the cafe on its feet.

As we threaded through the narrow passages of the old city in search of a grocery, shouldering our way through the strolling pairs and groups of Muslim men, Barry noticed this vision on the pavement that turned out to be the late afternoon sun glowing through a pharmacy sign. I love Sunday afternoons in Barcelona.

Click to see more photos from my Sunday afternoon.

Only in Spain, Vol. 1

With this post, I inaugurate a randomly occurring series describing peculiarities that amuse and amaze me about my adopted country, and, I hope, will tickle your fancy as well. In this issue:

1. Bimbo (yes, Bimbo): a brand of loaf bread (pan molde or "molded bread") sold in supermarkets, that you can buy with the crusts already removed (sin corteza).

2. Yes, Mr. Clean is sold in Spain, but here, he is addressed as Don Limpio. No information as to the nomenclature applied to the White Tornado.

3. The butchers of Spain. Have I mentioned the butchers? They seem to be primarily female, and sister, can they wield the knife. Today I bought a boneless, skinless chicken breast and asked for it to be sliced (en lonchas). She proceeded to slice the meat: not vertically, but horizontally, into four incredibly thin, even layers. Ai caramba!

4. Forget Nestle's Quick. Hot chocolate in Spain is practically chocolate pudding. You can almost stand a spoon up in it - in fact, you have to eat it with a spoon - and it's bittersweet. Best scooped up, though, with a churro, an elongated, sugared fried dough. Yummmmmmm.

sleepless in barcelona: Bored

sleepless in barcelona: Bored

Bored

I realize there's no excuse for being bored in Barcelona. But sometimes there is downtime. Then, you play with your webcam.

Eat

We haven't eaten in restaurants much here, other than in nameless tapas places that serve pretty much the same (though delicious) fare: patatas bravas (cubes of crisp potato smothered in a piquant, creamy sauce), pinchadas (skewers of broiled or grilled tender pork), butifarra (a local sausage, always served with white beans), various tortillas (which, as many of you know, in Spain are akin to frittatas, flat omelettes), etc. Nor have I been sure what to do with all of the tantalizing ingredients to be found in the local tiendas.

A few days ago, I was perusing the stalls at the big open-air book fair on the Passeig de Gracia and came upon several excellent Spanish and Catalan cookbooks, which I snapped up for a pittance (not counting the devaluation of my home currency). So, I've been trying my hand at Spanish cookery. So far:

Saturday: a stew of lentils, chorizo (Spanish pork sausage spiced with paprika and LOTS of garlic), green peppers (the long, mild ones are cheap and plentiful here), tomatoes, garlic, onions, etc. Pronounced by Hannah to be fairly delicious.

Sunday: meatballs in a homemade tomato sauce, plus a Catalan-style spinach (the recipe called for Swiss chard, but I substituted) prepared with onions, raisins, toasted pine nuts, and cinnamon. My verdict: super delish. (I was surprised to read that cinnamon is featured in many Catalan dishes, a result of its having been a major trading port for milennia.)

If you can find it - and it's entirely possible, as it's published in San Diego - I highly recommend a cookbook titled, "Cooking Spanish," by John Newton (Thunder Bay Press, 2005). Beautiful photos, great writing, fail-proof recipes by a guy who obviously knows Spain and its cuisines.

Our apartment came furnished with a paella pan, which I intend to put to use in the very near future. One of my new cookbooks has about 20 different paella recipes (one of which contains mayonnaise - ugh!). Maybe I should sample one in a Catalan restaurant so I know what I'm aiming for - the preparation of a true paella is quite an art.

Barry

What is it with me and Jewish guys named Barry? I've acquired another one, in Barcelona, of all places. I was wandering in the old city on Saturday and came across an open-air bookstall in the Placa George Orwell. I homed in on the English-language novels and heard the guy behind the table speak with a distinctly American accent. I struck up a conversation...and thus it was that I met Barry, from Chicago, 60-ish, who has lived a fairly peripatetic life with a lengthy stint in Barca. He lives on the Costa Brava and comes into the city every Saturday to sell books. We ended up going to a little hole-in-the-wall bar nearby for lunch - the kind of place that serves honest home cooking, brought to the table by a squat woman in a housedress and apron. A very interesting conversation ensued.

In addition to educating me on the particular dynamics (dysfunctional - what else?) of his Chicago family, Barry gave me the benefit of his 20+ years in Barca. We discussed the history, politics and culture of the region...and the distinctly (according to Barry) anti-Semitic attitudes of the Spanish. He says that 90% of them are pro-Palestinian and thus, anti-Israeli. Of course, the Jews have had a very difficult history in Spain - dating back to the Inquisition, forced conversions, and the expulsion of all Jews in 1492 by Isabela and Ferdinand. To this day, there are only some 20,000 Jews in all of Spain, a drop in the bucket. I am eager to interact with the local Jewish community to get their perspective on current attitudes. (This fall, for the first time since my own conversion, I did not go to synagogue for Yom Kippur or Rosh Hashanah. I rationalized that I was too busy moving into our new place, but I think I was intimidated by the language and cultural differences. Silly me.)

Barry's taking me on a tour of "his" Barcelona tomorrow. I'll report my findings.

I like...

the lady at El Forn Republic 145. Every time I go in to buy bread, I get a different kind and we make a little game where she teaches me the name of it. Except I can't remember any of them. They're all delicious, though.

The ancient man who sits on the same bench everyday, in his natty plaid vest and his bright purple socks. (Does anyone ever wash them for him?)

Hanging the wash out to dry. It dries so quickly in the breeze up here.

The way people dress here. They're so well-put-together and stylish. This fall, for women, it's all about belts, leggings, and boots of every style and height.

My new white patent leather Diesel sneakers.

Reading "Jitterbug Perfume" by Tom Robbins.

The Book Fair on Passeig de Gracia...a big open-air carnival of books, through October 5. Only 2,95 Euros a pop for used English-language books!

Going to the carniceria across the bridge. There is a special cured Serrano ham there that sells for almost 200 Euros per kilo! No, we haven't tried it yet.

Barbara, our landlady. She is just the cutest thing.