Sal DeTraglia

Spain’s annual Christmas Lottery is probably the biggest event of the holiday season. Make no mistake—this is no normal lottery.

It is, in fact, the world’s biggest gambling competition; and the sums involved are enormous. In 2002, the Christmas Lottery paid out 1.6 billion euros in prize money. Little wonder, then, that up to seventy-five percent of the Spanish population plays it. But the Christmas Lottery process can be as confusing as a Buñuel movie, so let me provide a quick primer.

Lottery tickets come in two varieties: décimos and participaciones. Décimos are a full ticket, and cost 20€ each. Participaciones are fractions of a décimo, and can be bought for as little as 1€. Of course, a winning décimo’s pay-out is similarly discounted.

With tickets in hand, all of Spain waits for the ceremony to take place a few days before Christmas. The ceremony is a rather formal affair that is broadcast on TV and radio. On stage are two giant, spinning, gold cages. Each cage is filled with numbered balls. The cage on the left determines the winning ticket numbers; the cage on the right determines the amount of prize money.

A pair of orphans from Madrid’s San Ildefonso Orphanage bound onto the stage. The cages are spun under the watchful eye of an auditor, and balls drop out of each. The orphan tending the cage to the left grabs his balls (heh heh…sorry ‘bout that) and chants the winning five-digit number (“Treinta y dos – ochenta y uno – cinco”). The orphan at the cage on the right then chants the amount of prize money payable to that winning number (“Un mil E-uuuuur-oooooos”).

These chants, I should mention, will continue echoing through your head for days after the Lottery has ended. If you thought that ABBA songs were sticky on the brain, then you’ll probably find the after-effects of Spain’s Christmas Lottery downright torturous.

Anyway…the scenario described above repeats itself hundreds of times during the next three hours of the ceremony. As such, there is not a single winning number as in “normal” lotteries, but rather hundreds of winning numbers. Most of the winning tickets pay out small to moderate sums. But not all do!

First prize—the BIG prize—in this competition is known as El Gordo (“The Fat One”). This is the reason that so many people play the Christmas Lottery. El Gordo can pop up at any time during the ceremony—it all depends on when that naughty cage on the right decides to cough-up the magic ball. In 2002, there were 180 people whose tickets matched the El Gordo number—and each of these tickets paid-out nearly 2 million euros. Not bad for a 20€ investment, eh?

When the El Gordo number is announced, TV crews rush to the place (usually a bar or Lotto shop) where the stack of winning tickets were sold; by which time, the winning ticket holders have already broken out bottles of cava (i.e., Spanish “champagne”) and are well on their way to getting drunk before millions of envious eyes.

…just look at the logo of this soon-to-be-opened baby/children’s store in Guadalajara, Spain!

At first I thought, “Looks like a mouse on a mouse pad…must be a computer shop.” Then I read the name more closely. “Somos Papás” translates to “We Are Parents.” Then it dawned on me. That’s not a mouse! That’s a sperm cell fertilizing an egg!!!

Now…I don’t know about you folks, but I’d be reluctant to go shopping for my two year old daughter in a store with this logo. What’s next? Buy 50€ worth of diapers and get a free lap dance?!

This must accompany the infamous Prawnography photo in the Virtual Tapas Bar Marketing Hall of Shame.

Roman Catholic nuns have many talents—not all of which involve the infliction of corporal punishment. In Spain, at least, nuns wield a wooden spoon as skillfully as they do a wooden ruler.

Perhaps I should clarify that last statement.

Cities and towns throughout Spain are dotted with cloistered nun convents. Most convents run some sort of commercial venture – e.g., charging admission to view their art collections, or selling needlecraft and other hand-made trinkets – in order to support their existence and charitable endeavors. But the most common (and popular) way for nuns to raise funds is to make and sell sweets.

Nun-made sweets range from almond-based cookies (like the Rosquillas de Almendra pictured above) to jellies and marmalades to moist little buttons of sugar and egg yolk called yemas. Some convents specialize in one or two items; others offer of a long list of choices. Offerings are typically influenced by the availability of local products—and donations. Yemas, for example, are often available at convents in wine regions. Why? Because many wineries use egg whites to clarify their wines, then donate the yolks to the nearest order of nuns.

But it’s not just the sweets that cause me to seek out convents whenever I visit a new city. I get equally excited by the transaction itself. Suffice it to say, a certain etiquette must be followed when buying from nuns. Let me tell you what it is.

When a convent is open for business (typically between the hours 9am to 2pm and 5pm to 8pm), the front door will be cracked open. Enter through the door and you will often find yourself in a foyer. Built into the far wall of the foyer is a Lazy Susan-type revolving tray. If you’ve seen that famous M*A*S*H episode in which the doctors gave an abandoned baby to a community of cloistered monks, then you know what I’m talking about.

Mounted on the wall next to the Lazy Susan are a buzzer and (usually) a list of the sweets for sale. Press the buzzer and – sooner or later – a nun’s voice will chirp from behind the Lazy Susan. Now this is the important part. Before the transaction takes place, you must recite the following script:

Nun: Ave María purísima. [Translation: Most pure Ave María.]

You: Sin pecado concebida. [Translation: Conceived without sin. Don’t ask.]

Now you may place your order. Once you do so, the nun will tell you the price. Put your money on the Lazy Susan, and give it a gentle spin. The nun behind the wall will take your money, put the box of sweets that you ordered (plus your change, if any) on the Lazy Susan and spin it back to you.

And that’s it! The transaction is over. The nuns walk away with the money. You walk away with the sweets. And nobody’s knuckles get whacked with a ruler.

Pictured above is the “Lazy Susan” at the Convento Dominicas Dueñas in Zamora, Spain. I highly recommend the Rosquillas de Almendra.

Dr. Spock’s Baby and Child Care book contains no recommendation that toddlers should periodically visit Bar Alcázar. I find this omission puzzling.

After all…“Ring Around the Rosies” and “Pin the Tail on the Donkey” are fine diversions, but nothing develops a two year old child’s hand/eye coordination like a brisk game of video poker.

If you don’t believe me, then check out the latest report published by the Wayne Newton Center for Pediatric Studies.

Nothing says “Merry Christmas” like the effigy of a man defecating behind a manger.

But strange as it may seem, Christmas in Spain’s Cataluña region simply would not be Christmas without the Caganer.

A Caganer is a little figurine of a man – typically carved from wood or molded from clay – with his trousers around his ankles doing “number 2.” Catalans hide the Caganer in their private and public Christmas-time Nativity scenes, and children delight in trying to find him. This has been a tradition in the region for hundreds of years.

The “classic” Caganer is that of a bearded peasant wearing a floppy, red hat called a “barretina” and smoking a pipe. But this is not the only model. Caganers now come in all shapes and sizes; the most popular being likenesses of celebrities, politicians and sports stars – ranging from David Beckham to George W. Bush to Osama bin Laden.

Caganer spectators typically fall into one of three camps: the amused; the repulsed; and the outraged. I obviously fall into the first camp. My in-laws (curiously enough, considering their surreal senses of humor) fall into the second. Catholic groups in the US fall into the third. Allow me to elaborate on the latter.

The Catholic League for Religious and Civil Rights – a New York-based group representing 350,000 members – went positively ballistic in 2001 when it learned that an exhibit at a California museum by the Spanish artist Antoni Miralda featured Caganers in the forms of nuns, angels and Pope John Paul II. The CLRCR wrote a snarling letter to the museum, complaining that the exhibit was offensive to Catholics. But alas, they don’t speak on behalf of all Catholics. The Roman Catholic Church in Spain, it should be noted, doesn’t complain about Caganers. They wouldn’t dare.

So, what is the point of the Caganer? How did it come to be? I’ve read various theories about this; the most prevalent being that the Caganer symbolizes fertilization of the earth and thanks for the sustenance that it bears. Put another way, the Caganer represents the poor farmer who, having taken the earth’s agricultural bounty during the harvest, lovingly returns the favor through the gift of his own, man-made fertilizer. Sort of a stinky quid pro quo, if you will.

Now…no offense to the farmers of Cataluña – and in particular, to those who prefer to drop their loads al fresco – but this explanation strikes me as the type of pretentious baloney that one might read in a Ph.D dissertation. Fortunately, however, I have my own theory about the origins of the Caganer.

Hundreds of years ago in rural Cataluña, a poor farmer named Jordi Puig (everyone in Cataluña is named Jordi Puig) became fed up – once and for all – with the local priest and his meddling ways. The priest had, for years, forbade Jordi from eating meat on Fridays. From drinking alcohol during Lent. And then, there was that pre-marital sex thing on which all priests are so fixated. Having reached the limit of his tolerance, Jordi decided that a bit of revenge was in order.

It was December, and the priest had set up an elaborate Nativity scene in the town center. Jordi, working at his kitchen table, carved the world’s first Caganer out of a two day old chicken croquette. Under cover of night while the town slept, Jordi placed the Caganer discretely behind the three wise men’s camel.

The next morning, the priest awoke to a crowd of excited children laughing and dancing around the Nativity scene. He pushed through the crowd to see what the hub-bub was about. And what did he find? Blasphemy!!!

Well…the priest was so outraged and distraught that he was unable to cook his own meals for six months thereafter. Or maybe it was six years. You know how priests are. In any event, a Christmas-time tradition had been born.

Now, I readily admit that I have no historical evidence to support this theory. Truth be told…I made up the story last Friday while drinking a café con leche at Bar Gema.

But you must admit that it sounds a lot more plausible than that “thanking Mother Earth for her bounty” nonsense.

Spain has one of the lowest birthrates in Europe. But you can’t blame that on a lack of storks.

If you look up any church bell-tower in central or southern Spain, you will likely see one. Or two. Or more. Pictured above is a white stork that I spotted on a church in Zamora (Castilla y Leon) last weekend.

Of course, storks are easy to spot…because they are enormous. They have six-foot wingspans. And if you think the birds are big, you should see their nests. I would not be surprised to learn that some stork nests sport a wet bar and home cinema. Rumor has it that Bruce Willis may buy a vacant one in Marbella for use as a winter home.

Spaniards seem to embrace the stork. Churches and other towering municipal structures actively encourage their presence by erecting platforms on which they can more easily build their nests.

Spanish tourists embrace the stork, as well. When my friend “Scott the Texan” visited last year, we took him on a day-long walking tour of the Madrid-area’s historic sites. And what’s the only thing he remembers from the tour? Storks.

Spain’s storkification does, however, require some caution. Specifically, I would not recommend standing too close to a church bell-tower. My grandmother once told me that being hit with a bird dropping is good luck. But where storks are concerned, there is arguably such a thing as too much good luck.

My parents – who were in Spain for a visit last week – come from a long line of great wine drinkers. This should not, however, be confused with coming from a long line of drinkers of great wine.

My paternal grandfather made homemade wine in the basement of his Utica, NY home. This booty was often enjoyed by my father and his teenaged friends during the 1950’s – then dutifully topped-off with tap water for reasons of stealth. In a similar vein, my maternal grandfather attributes his longevity (89 years old and counting!) to a lifetime of moderate jug-wine consumption. That, and managing not to get blown up during World War II.

It therefore made perfect sense that, during last weekend, I should take my parents to my now-favorite Spanish wine region: Toro.

The city of Toro – and its surrounding areas in which “D.O. Toro” wines are produced – is located in Spain’s west-central province of Zamora (Castilla y Leon); just a grape’s throw from Portugal. The terrain is flat – dare I say, monotonous – with sand-colored soil and a cool climate. The city is dotted with convents, monasteries, arches, palaces and thirteenth century churches. But we didn’t go there for the architecture. We went for the wine.

Toro’s wines are made primarily – if not entirely – from Tinta de Toro grapes. They are rich, dense, purplish wines with intense flavor and high alcohol content. They are also ridiculously inexpensive. We bought bottles of fairly good Toro crianza (i.e., moderately aged) wines for approximately 7€ in shops and 12€ in restaurants.

Listed below are the wines that we drank during our visit:

Muruve Crianza

Finca Sobreño Crianza

Colegiata Fariña Joven

Gran Colegiata Fariña Crianza (my favorite of the bunch)

Toro’s wines are amongst Spain’s rising stars, and are gathering a following throughout the world. Just yesterday morning, a friend from Denmark informed that he and his crowd often drink Toros to the exclusion of other Spanish wines. Likewise, I’ve read several recent articles in US publications praising the impressive price-quality ratio of these wines.

One Washington Post article, in particular, reported that the more well-known and well-established Rioja wine region is feeling the heat from Toro and its muscular brethren. It seems that many connoisseurs of Spanish wine are starting to poo-poo the notion of paying more for a less flavorful Rioja. The article further states that Rioja – in quasi-panic mode – is now gearing-up for production of more Toro-esque wines. This may seem like a logical strategy, but I see a flaw. Even if Rioja’s wineries succeed in boosting the octane of their wines, I doubt they’d be willing to match Toro’s pricing. Or perhaps I’m just biased in favor of the underdog.

In the interest of even-handedness, I suppose that I should say something negative about Toro’s wines. Let me think…

A-HA!!! If Toro’s wines have a drawback, it’s that they don’t pair well with Dover Sole. Hmm…then again, who the hell wants to eat Dover Sole in a region that specializes in such delicacies as Arroz a la Zamorana (i.e., rice flavored with pig parts that US kitchens typically throw away) and suckling lamb roasted in a wood-burning brick oven?!

Perhaps it’s best to leave even-handedness to those wine critics who actually get paid.

Back to the trip. Our visit to Toro was enjoyable not only because of its wines, but also because of its wine culture. Most bars we visited served more than a dozen different local wines. And they served them correctly; from bottles extracted from temperature-controlled chillers. Similarly, shops and markets were teeming with botas, barrels, miniature grape presses, cheeses and other wine-related paraphernalia. It was – pardon the pun – intoxicating to be in a place that showed such reverence to my favorite drink.

That’s not to imply, however, that my home town of Cabanillas del Campo doesn’t have a wine culture. It’s just that the wine culture here entails choosing between wine decanted from a red Tetrabrik® box versus a green one.