Christopher Howse: A Pilgrim in Spain
Spain - It's Champions League Cup Final day here in Madrid and here's the Olive Press with valuable advice for visiting fans.
- And here's The Local with advice on how to deal with tomorrow's hangover.
- There was a pretty horrific goring in the Las Ventas bullring here in Madrid a couple of days ago, You can see it here at 1m40, if you really want to. As I clearly did. The (long-horned) bull looked feisty, fast and dangerous from the outset but you'll have to start the video from the beginning if you want to see it in action.
- The New York Times reviews the PSOE's recent electoral successes here. Of course, the world 'socialist' doesn't have the same connotations in the USA - where it's basically synonymous with 'communism' - as it does here in Europe. BTW . . . The 'socialist heavyweights' referred to in the article are known as regional 'barons' here in Spain.
- On a very light note . . . I had an experience in my kitchen last Wednesday (Spanish) midday. It's recorded in the article below, entitled: Life in Spain: Lesson 265. I hope it raises a smile or two.
- Hitherto, you might have thought the acronym TNT stood for the chemical compound trinitrotoluene. But now it also stands for True Never Trumper, a label attached to special investigator Mueller by Fart. Who, of course, defines everything in terms of himself. Up to now, Fart has called Mueller one of '12 angry Democrats', even though he's a registered Republican. I guess it's possible that the new term is accurate.
- Of course, in my world it's TNF - True Never Farter.
- You probably know the answer to this very good question.
- I tested both my Madrid-resident daughter and her Madrileño partner on these slang terms used here. He got 100%; she didn't; and I knew only 1 - Esfumarse:-
Piba/pibe - girl or boy
Sobar - sleep
Esfumarse - disappear or run away
En zero coma - very fast
A pachas - go halves
Mazo - a lot
Estar al loro - to be aware
Keli - house
Pirado - crazy
Chachi - good or great
Pipa - fool or silly person
Jeta - face
P. S. A Galician friend has just told me: Keli y pipa son menos usuales aquì. El resto se utilizan bastante.
THE ARTICLE
MAGIC MOMENTS
HOW IT BEGAN
It all started when a young Irish friend, Sarah, called to say she was learning to be a demonstrator of a new Thermomix machine and asked if I knew anyone who'd be interested. I replied that I certainly wouldn't be but perhaps my 2 neighbours might be.
And, indeed, they were. Despite the fact they each already owned an older model. Or possibly because of that.
Eventually, it was agreed we'd meet at 12 noon on Wednesday 29th May, a week after my return from doing the Camino Invierno. At least, I thought that's what we all agreed but this is Spain.
Anyway, I then promptly forgot about this commitment until Friday, 24th May, when Sarah called me to confirm the arrangements.
So, I talked again to Amparo and Ester and we agreed to move the event from 12 noon to 14.00, for their convenience. Somehow or other, an event for the benefit of 4 women - Sarah, Amparo, Ester and the trainer - was now to take place in my kitchen. Worse, all the food was to be bought by me. The most disinterested party in this event. The logic of this continues to escape me.
So, on Tuesday evening - armed with a long list of ingredients in 10 categories supplied by Sarah - I set off to Mercadona. Need I add that, by this time, I was determined that none of the food would leave my kitchen other than that already in stomachs. I was particularly resolved to keep at least 90% of the almond biscuits.
I had occasion - during the waste of an hour of my life in Mercadona - to call Sarah to clarify certain needs, in particular almonds of the whole and ground varieties. There being none of the latter, I bought two 200gm packets of the former, intending to use my coffee grinder on the second one.
One of the other things I checked with Sarah was whether I should get the supermarket's brand of fresh powdered yeast or the 5-times-more- expensive branded product. By the time she replied, I'd already chucked the cheaper packet into my cart. Incidentally, there was nice harmony between Sarah and the Mercadona women I asked where the yeast was. Sarah had told me it'd be next to the flour. Which is exactly what the Mercadona lady told me. "Fine", I replied. "Where's the flour".
Having got everything we needed - apart from what I knew I already had or was in Ester's garden (oranges) - I set off for a glass of wine in town. Treating myself to the entire bar of chocolate I'd bought as the last -(not-on-the-list) item. In lieu of my dinner. You can do this when you live alone.
ON THE DAY
I'd told Sarah I'd be back at my house by 1.45 and, when I arrived, she was already there, fruitlessly ringing my bell.
We cleared all the surfaces in my kitchen and Sarah set out all the ingredients on the table, while I went to steal 4 oranges - as it turned out, 3.85 more than required - from Ester's tree. And a couple of lemons from my own tree.
The demonstrator, Gabi, arrived at 2 prompt. Amparo arrived at 2.20 and Ester - who has no concept of time - at 2.30. Just as I'd anticipated.
Gabi plugged in and set up the machine, which I have to admit looked very compact and impressive. I'd been expecting a huge Magimix food-processor of the type owned by my sister and my younger daughter. And actually used in the former case. But the Thermomix is a combination of measuring scales, mixer, grinder, microwave, and probably one or two other things. And it connects to the internet without seeking your wifi code. On reflection, it probably feeds everything back to Amazon and Google. And operates the garage doors.
Even before the (belated) arrival of the main participants, a problem had been identified. My plan to crush half of the almonds in my coffee grinder - or in the Thermomix - was ruled out, on the grounds that the powder would still contain too much oil, screwing up the machine. So . . . no bloody biscuits. The only thing I was interested in.
The next issue was that I'd forgotten to make enough ice. But, by this time, both Amparo and her (uninvited) son, Pedro, had arrived and he was sent back home for some. When he returned, I couldn't help noticing that he was in his pyjamas. Which I pointed out to him but got no explanation for. But, then, he is 17. And 3pm is conceivably quite early in the day for him.
The day now turned into something resembling performance art. Amparo, Ester and I were all given roles and scripts therefor. Amparo was to be the Photographer, Ester the Cook and I the Food Critic. Each of us was given an apron and a badge. Plus a form to fill in about why we were interested in knowing about the new Thermomix. Needless to say, in line with my normal practice, I made mistakes when it came to my email and phone details. Or, rather, I did this for my phone number but gave drossbin@gmail for my email. Which I do have.
After we'd received our respective instructions for the imminent 3-act drama, Sarah and Gabi set out to make mango lassi, which I have to say was truly delicious. An excellent start.
As Gabi and Ester worked on the bread rolls filled with cheese - or jamón in my case - I set the dining table for 6 persons, only to have Ester re-set it according to Spanish fashion. Which was rather ironic, considering what happened later.
By this time, it turned out, Amparo had been sufficiently impressed as to decide to buy one of the all-singing-and-dancing machines, which really did seem to be easy to operate and very efficient. Ester whispered to me that she'd really like to buy one too but found the price of around €1,300 rather daunting. Even in 36 'easy' monthly instalments.
By now, my role had been reduced to one of partaking of both the bottle of godello wine in my fridge and the bottle of albariño that Sarah had given me. And that I'd fortunately remembered I'd put in the freezer when she'd arrived. Oh, and making the occasional acerbic remark.
The result is that I was too merry to worry too much about Amparo and Ester insisting that the 3 of us were not merely neighbours but 'family'. As I know full well, in Spain this means that sooner or later you'll be tapped for a loan that you'll struggle to get repaid.
But I did protest that Ester seemed to know better than I did where things were in my kitchen. She claimed it was down to feminine experience and intuition. I suspect it's down to the fact she has a key to my house and I'm often away. Which is when, coincidentally, some of the detergent sachets on top of my washing machine seem to evaporate. Plastivc and all.
Being rather uninterested in the cooking process - and, indeed, in the machine itself - I turned to the seated Pedro and raised the subject of his change in musical tastes - after a year in Wisconsin - from loud techno crap to equally loud country and western. And I tried to steer him in the direction of blues and boogie-woogie. But without any apparent success.
THE END POINT
The afternoon proceeded midst much chat and jollity, until Amparo stopped snapping photos and announced that she was going back to work. Followed soon after by her son, Pedro.
This left only 4 for the meal of sweet and sour pork which was supposed to follow the demonstration. And this reduced itself to 3 half a short while later, when Ester said she too had to go back to work. I refrained from reminding her that she'd arrived half an hour late, as this means nothing to her. The word 'late' not figuring in her vocabulary.
When the meal was ready, I tasted it and - as the Critic - pronounced it fine. Whereupon Gabi packed up the machine and departed for another demonstration in a nearby town. This left just 2 of us - Sarah and me - to dole out small helpings of the dish, before she also departed. Having kindly helped me wash the dishes post-prandially.
And I was left alone to ponder whether such an 'informal' event could ever happen in the UK.
But there was a bit of a sequel.
As is my wont, I went down town at 8 for a glass of wine and, at 9, started to feel the pangs of quite severe gut rot. By 10, I was desperate to get home. Which I managed, shall we say, just in time.
Whether the cause was the lassi, the bread, the pork dish or the assorted nuts I had with my wine, I cannot say.
But this morning I boiled the sweet and sour pork for 25 minutes before risking some for lunch, half an hour ago.
I now wait on results. If any.
I rather hope there aren't, as I have an overnight train journey to Madrid in 3 hours' time.
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