Sal DeTraglia

Dear Sirs:

I’m sure that I speak for all aluminum garden shed consumers when I request that future shed models should require somewhat less than 497 bolts and screws in the assembly process.

I assume that the barrier to a more user-friendly garden shed is not technological. The technology needed to produce pre-fab houses and pre-assembled automobile components has existed for decades. Surely then, you should be able to develop and market an aluminum garden shed that homeowners can assemble in less than 15 hours.

I estimate that my current garden shed – which, by the way, required this entire weekend to assemble – will need to be replaced in the year 2010. If by such time your product line does not reflect the improvements detailed above, then I shall be forced to make my displeasure known by going out and buying a much larger house.

Sincerely,
Fat Sal

[Dictated, due to severe forearm cramps.]

You think I’m kidding? See for yourself. Our neighborhood grocery store is selling 68 cent bottles of wine. That’s less than one-third the price of Two Buck Chuck. Even a bottle of Night Train seems a luxury item in comparison.

I haven’t tried this stuff – nor do I intend to – but it makes you wonder: What does one do with a 68 cent bottle of wine? You can’t serve it to guests. I wouldn’t fill a bota with it. And its probably not even fit for cooking.

Aha! I’ve got it! The perfect use for such a wine: TOURIST SANGRIA!

Are you in Spain? Is a 1 Euro coin burning a hole in your pocket? Does your pulse quicken at the thought of owning a wicker napkin holder? Or a nylon, mini-backpack embossed with a Japanese cartoon character whose sex or species you can’t quite decipher? If so, then I have just the place for you: a 100 Peseta Store!

100 Peseta Stores are Spain’s equivalent of the US’s anything-for-a-buck shops. They are little mom and pop establishments that stock a wide assortment of items, the majority of which cost – not surprizingly – 100 pesetas; or 60 cents when converted to Euros. Merchandise ranges from essentials like mop heads and batteries, to “luxury” goods like wine glasses and decorative candle holders, to kitschy delights like incense burners and penis-shaped plastic key chains.

I’m not joking about the latter item. The 100 Peseta Store here in Cabanillas del Campo has two such key chains dangling proudly next to its cash register. They’ve been dangling there for months. I don’t know the reason for their low turnover. It could be that there’s no demand for key chains of this sort; at least, not for those that don’t vibrate. Or it could be that the woman behind the register simply refuses to part with them. Retail can, after all, be a lonely business. But let’s get back to the point.

I’m a big fan of 100 Peseta Stores. I can’t pass one without popping in for a gander. And apparently I’m not alone, because you’ll find one in nearly every town in Spain that has a population greater than 7, and in nearly every neighborhood in larger cities. Sure, much of what they sell are low-quality, off-brand, knick-knacks, but let’s not be snobbish. Browsing through a 100 Peseta Store is a great way to kill fifteen minutes; and a liver-friendly one at that. At the same time, it’s a painless way to scratch that compulsive buying itch that so frequently strikes.

Think of it this way. If you are hungry, you can satisfy the need just as effectively by spending 1€ at McDonald’s as you would by dropping 100€ at Arzak . Admittedly, your choice in this regard says a lot about whether you’re likely to ever see the inside of Buckingham Palace, but that’s beside the point.

The same logic applies to 100 Peseta Stores. If you are suddenly stricken with a compulsion to buy something – anything! – while walking down the street one afternoon, then wouldn’t it be better to blow 1€ on a smiling Buddha paper weight than 100€ on a pair of red, spaghetti-string sandals? My wife doesn’t think so, but I do.

If any of this sounds appealing, then start probing between the couch cushions for loose change because I’m going to tell you where to find the Holy Grail of 100 Peseta Stores. Ready? It is called “HIPERQIU” and is located at calle Fernán González, 31 in Madrid. This store is run by a Chinese family, and is densely packed with just about every item produced since the start of the Industrial Revolution.

Every item, that is, except red, spaghetti-string sandals.

Radio personality, ninjitsu grandmaster and avowed pastrami fanatic Drew Crosby passed through Cabanillas del Campo today to sign autographs, kiss babies and take full advantage of the four-inch high stack of unused lunch vouchers accumulating in my desk drawer.

Drew is an on-air personality for Vaughan Radio (101.0 FM); a growing Madrid radio station that broadcasts English-language programs – twenty-four hours per day – aimed at Spaniards trying to learn English.

Given the station’s target audience, one might reasonably ask why it chose a name as difficult to spell and pronounce as “Vaughan.” Perhaps it was more popular with focus groups than were the station’s other proposals, “Floccinaucinihilipilification Radio” and “Vanha-mies-jolla-on-puujalka Radio.” But, I digress!

Drew hosts the popular show “Highways and Bi-ways,” which airs from 1730 to 1830 on Mondays through Wednesdays, and from 1630 to 1730 on Fridays and Sundays. The show’s theme is to “share impressions and discoveries from off the beaten path [in] English.” He also co-hosts the show “Tea for Two,” which airs from 1700 to 1730 on Mondays and Wednesdays.

You can listen to both of Drew’s shows on-line. Check them out!

I can personally vouch for Drew’s skills as a communicator, and his mastery of the English language. The fact alone that he’s regularly able to sustain a conversation with me – the most introverted creature outside the Rhesus monkey population – should win him his own time slot on BBC World Service. And in the nearly ten years that I’ve known him, I’ve never heard him BURP. Not once!

Yet despite his impressive broadcasting credentials, Drew differs from his industry colleagues in an important way: He doesn’t do weddings or bar mitzvahs.

I suspect, however, that this point may be negotiable if pastrami is served.

The Osborne sherry and brandy company has one of the most recognizable – and in my opinion, best – logos in Spain: the Osborne bull.

For years Osborne’s marketing gurus posted huge, black, bull-shaped billboards throughout Spain. When the government passed a law in the ‘80’s prohibiting billboards on motorways, they made an exception for the Osborne bull. It is, after all, as much a part of Spanish culture as are double-parking and tax evasion.

Pictured above is our local Osborne bull, proudly standing guard over the city of Guadalajara. Osborne bulls are usually perched tastefully amongst groves of sunflowers or olive trees rather than power lines, but we’re glad to have him nonetheless. Better to have this Osborne as a neighbor than Ozzy or any of his offspring.

Believe it or not, there are some editors in the world who’ve been foolish enough to publish my writings in reputable publications. Listed below are links to a couple of these.

Hey…man does not live on blogs alone.

I’ve never understood the appeal of country music. It’s an odd genre that, to my ear, sounds like a kitschy form of blues music performed by people wholly lacking a bluesman’s talent and soulfulness. Yet there are many who not only love country music, but view it as part and parcel of the American identity; indeed as American as Al Capone, corn dogs, and meter-wide buttocks.

These aficionados would be quick point out that neither my background nor upbringing is compatible with an understanding – let alone an appreciation – of country music. And they may have a point. It’s certainly true that I’ve never owned a hound dog or pick-up truck. The closest thing to grits in my mother’s pantry while growing up was apple and cinnamon flavored Instant Cream of Wheat. I’ve never ridden a mechanical bull, eaten ‘possum, used the phrase “thank you kindly ma’am” in a sentence, or shot a man after drinking too much whiskey in a honky tonk.

Yet while I might concede that Loretta Lynn and I share little in the way of a common upbringing, I do not agree that I am somehow “hard-wired” to dislike country music. I am, after all, slightly bow-legged. I’ve had a deep appreciation for Dolly Parton’s rack since the age of 14. And I do like the song that’s played at the end of each episode of “The Benny Hill Show;” which, I’m told, was recorded by a famous Nashville saxophonist named “Socks” or “Boots” or something foot-related.

Regardless of the reasons, I haven’t exactly lamented the dearth of country music in my life since moving to Spain nearly five years ago. In fact, I wasn’t even aware of it until one night last month when I was listening to Radio Nacional de España (Spanish National Radio).

RNE has a number of radio channels catering to different listener tastes. Its “Radio 3” channel broadcasts an eclectic musical mix – ranging from hip-hop to Chicago blues to late 60’s psychedelic rock – that is targeted toward the “under 45” age group. It’s a fantastic channel that I listen to almost exclusively during and after working hours. Despites its many merits, however, Radio 3’s eclectic format has a dark side.

Radio 3 plays an hour of country music at 7am and 7pm every Saturday and Sunday. I discovered this program quite by accident while laying ceramic tiles around my house last month. My first reaction to hearing a twangy steel guitar was, predictably, to lunge for the radio’s tuning knob. But I resisted the urge – partially because it had been years since I last heard a country song; partially because my hands were covered with cement – and decided to simply tough it out during the next 60 minutes.

I’m glad that I did. As I continued laying tiles and listening to the preposterous lyrics of these songs, it dawned on me that country music – if approached with the proper frame of mind – can be remarkably entertaining; albeit in the same cheesy way that a dashboard-mounted hula doll or Christmas light-studded reproduction of DaVinci’s Last Supper can be entertaining.

But talk is cheap, and I wanted to provide you – the reader – with concrete proof to support this bold statement. I therefore stiffened my jaw and tuned in to today’s broadcast of the Radio 3 country music hour. Listed below are the plot lines of all the songs played:

First Song: A man gets back together with his woman. Miraculously, his “tears stop fallin’.”

Second Song: A man declares that if he can win back his woman’s love, he’d be very happy. He’d make her very happy, too. He then goes on to grovel for her love for another two minutes and twenty-five seconds until the song ends.

Third Song: A woman recounts a lengthy list of things she would do if she could just see her man’s face one more time.

Fourth Song: A gunfighter named “Pancho” gets shot to death in the Mexican desert. His killer is a washed-up singer from Ohio named “Lefty.”

Fifth Song: A man has “sweet dreams” about his woman every night. He can’t forget her; he can’t hate her. The problem is, however, that she clearly doesn’t love him. The man knows this, and even admits that she’ll never “wear [his] name.” Yet those sweet dreams about her keep coming.

Sixth Song: Dolly Parton’s “Coat of Many Colors.” OK, OK…everyone knows this song. And I must admit that – rack or no rack – it’s a great song. I’ll therefore dispense with the sarcasm and move on to the next.

Seventh Song: Unfortunately, not quite in the same league as “Coat of Many Colors.” A woman bemoans her man’s leaving. You see, loving him “was a one-way street.” She therefore vows to go out and find more men on Saturday nights, but not put her heart into any of them. In her own words, “It’s gonna be easy from now on.” Perhaps she should be singing, “I’m gonna be easy from now on.”

Eighth Song: A woman reminisces about the good times she had with her brother and sister in bygone days. They used to “dance the night away” and “walk by the river,” and her brother “knows where all the best bars are.” By the way, I should point out that not a single stanza of this song rhymed with another.

Ninth Song: A man and his woman “Maggie” moved west. Two months later, Maggie left him. But the man doesn’t care, because “it’s midnight and [he’s] got two more bottles of wine.”

Tenth Song: A man informs that “even cowgirls get the blues”…and “sometimes they don’t know what to do”…and “sometimes they get this feeling like she’s [sic] too far gone”…and they spend many nights on the road “staring at motel ceilings.” I’m not sure what to make of that last statement.

Final Song: I listened to this song twice and, quite frankly, found it incomprehensible. There was some talk during the chorus of “rolling on” to something or somewhere, but that’s all I could extract from it. I then rewound the cassette and listened to “Coat of Many Colors” again, so as not to leave with a bitter taste in my mouth.

Do you see what I mean? Each song (except for the last one) is like a miniature soap opera. Granted, I’m referring to one of those melodramatic South American soap operas, but I intend this as a complement nonetheless.

If you were to sit and concentrate – really concentrate – on the message and texture of country music lyrics, you’d probably find yourself roaring with laughter and feeling better about the general state of your own life. Yes, country music lyrics can be therapeutic.

It’s just a damn shame that they don’t put those lyrics to better music.

In the interest of promoting brotherhood amongst the blogger community, I will from time to time highlight some of the blogs that I like to read when I’m not writing my own. Here is my first installment:

The Puerta del Sol Blog

A well-written, attractive blog featuring reflections of life in Spain and Spanish culture.

My Life as a Walt

The best thing about this blog is the author’s portfolio of creative work. I especially like the work posted under the “My Comic Creations” archive. Mel Cool: Mall Cop® is rather cool indeed.

Living in Egypt

Reflections on the daily life of a Canadian woman who’s been living in Egypt since the 1980’s. Not many belly-laughs, but all posts are very well written.

Stay tuned for more “Blogs I Like” as I unearth them.

I must confess…I’ve been a low-down, two-timing scoundrel these past weeks. But don’t worry. It won’t affect my marriage; just my coffee breaks.

My love and fidelity toward Bar Alcázar and its fabulous cafés con leche have been tested and found wanting. You see, Bar Alcázar closed for two weeks’ summer holiday this month and I was forced to seek another spot for my morning coffee. Bar Gema seemed the logical candidate to fill the gap.

Bar Gema is the new kid on the Cabanillas del Campo bar block. Unlike Bar Alcázar, it is sparkling new, surically clean, and run by a bartender who might be the only person on earth more shy than I am. I initially scoffed at this audacious attempt to penetrate the Cabanillas del Campo market that Bar Alcázar has satisfied so ably for so many years. But my principles have limits; and two weeks without an out-of-the-house coffee break is a limit that I wasn’t interesting in pushing. So I went to Bar Gema.

And I’ll be damned if its café con leche isn’t better than Bar Alcázar’s!

I wasn’t prepared for this. In fact, it left me with a bit of a dilemma. I couldn’t just turn my back on Bar Alcázar. I’ve been going there every morning for the past year, and this is a very small town. To make matters worse, the brother of Bar Alcázar owners José and Antonio lives directly across the street from Bar Gema. On the other hand, I wouldn’t dream of turning my back on a café con leche as magnificent as Bar Gema’s. That would be too big a sacrifice in the absence of concrete proof of an afterlife.

In the end, therefore, I decided to follow the example of Brigham Young and spread my affection equally amongst both mistresses. I will, for the foreseeable future, visit Bar Alcázar one morning; Bar Gema the next. This seems a solution that’s both workable and equitable.

I just pray to God that nobody opens another bar.

My father-in-law attributes much of the blame for his recent heart bypass surgery to 72 years of eating churros. I’d be willing to bet, however, that he views this as an equitable trade-off.

I can see his point.

Churros – those heavenly little pastries that, if eaten without restraint, can send you to heaven much earlier than expected – are nothing more than fried dough sticks. Flour, eggs, salt, baking powder and water are mixed into a dough and piped through a star-shaped nozzle to form ridged, little logs. The dough logs are deep-fried in olive oil until golden brown, drained and lightly sprinkled with sugar. Unlike their Mexican counterpart, churros in Spain are never dusted with cinnamon or filled with cream.

Fresh, well-made churros have a crispy crust and tender core. They should be neither oily nor rubbery nor pasty, and are best eaten as soon as possible after frying.

They are addictive little bastards that, when paired with a café con leche or cup of hot chocolate, form the basis of many a Spaniard’s morning meal. Certainly healthier than a breakfast cigarette, but a far cry from oat bran or Actimel®.

WHO SELLS THEM?
Churros are easy to find throughout Spain, although they go by different names in different regions. Catalans call them “xurros.” Sevillanos call them “calentijos” or “tejeringos.” No matter. They all look the same.

Many bars will display a tray of churros during morning hours…but be careful. If you are ever to eat a churro with the texture of a garden hose and the mouthfeel of oil-soaked cardboard, it’s likely to be in a bar.

But don’t let me discourage you. There are plenty of bars in Spain that serve-up a damn crispy churro. You just need to find them. Look for bars that have a high churro turnover, which assures that fresh trays are brought out at regular intervals. A chubby clientele is usually a good indicator of this. When a new tray is laid on the bar, order quickly. You will want those prized churros sitting on top of the pile, rather than the ones underneath acting as de facto oil sponges. Or better yet, look for a bar that makes its own churros in the back kitchen. There aren’t a lot of these, but they do exist.

The best place to buy churros, however, is in a churrería. Churrerías are little storefronts in which a mom or pop – often with faces that are amazingly well-preserved thanks to years of hovering over a steamy vat of olive oil – dedicate their lives to the art of perfectly frying churros, potato chips and other crunchy goodies that have never crossed the lips of Ally McBeal. Patronizing a churrería is the surest way to get the most crispy, fresh and tender churros possible. And it’s the only way to get a hot churro that’s never seen the inside of a microwave oven. But alas, there is a downside to churrerías: no coffee. Coffee is important, as I will now explain.

HOW DO I EAT THEM?
Churros are best eaten with a café con leche or cup of hot chocolate. Before continuing, however, I should clarify one thing. When I say “hot chocolate,” I am not talking about the insipid, Swiss Miss-type chocolate that is popular in the US. Rather, the hot chocolate served in Spain resembles a thick, dark, gooey mass of molten chocolate pudding. It’s an intense, face-puckering drink that you might be tempted to chew before swallowing. And man, is it good!

But back to the point. You must dip the churro into your coffee or chocolate, utter the word “Zubizareta” (not because it has any special relevance, but because the time it takes to say it is more or less the optimal soaking time), pull it out and bite it. The contrasting flavors of salty dough, sweet sugar and bitter coffee or chocolate mesh together amazingly well. And if the churro is fresh, it will still crunch despite the soaking you’ve just given it. So forget what you learned in business school. THIS is what synergy is all about.

And by the way…if you – like me – are one of those persnickety people who is mortified by the sight of crumbs floating in his drink, stop worrying. Churros don’t leave any crumbs behind in the coffee. An oil slick, yes; but crumbs, no.

I’VE GOTTA HAVE SOME! BUT FROM WHERE?
It’s now time to put all this theory into practice. At the risk of panicking the cardiologists of Spain (or, alternatively, in the interest of enriching them), here are a few of my father-in-law’s favorite churro joints in Madrid.

– Churrería San Ginés: Located on Pasaje San Ginés, where it crosses Calle Arenal. Extremely popular spot for New Year’s Eve revelers seeking hot chocolate and churros before going home to sleep it off.

– Chocolatería Valor: Located on Calle de Conde de Peñalver. Specializes in hot chocolate, but serves great churros as well.

– Fábrica de Churros y Patatas Fritas: Located on Avenida de Felipe II (Plaza de Dalí), near the Goya El Corte Inglés.

ALRIGHT SAL, LET’S WRAP IT UP!
So there you have it. Everything you need to know about churros. If – despite my praise – you still feel apprehensive about eating this fat-filled, high-carb little devil, then perhaps I can offer a brainstorm. Why not drink a glass of red wine for every churro eaten each day?

I’ll bet the French do it; assuming they have churros in France. I’ll bet Julia Child would do it; if only she were alive today. It’s a pity that my father-in-law didn’t do it.

Hmmm…on second thought, I’ll bet he did.