Sal DeTraglia

My favorite summertime Spanish drink is not sangría. To be honest, I don’t find sangría appealing during any season. Nope, my favorite summertime drink is horchata. Horchata tastes great, refreshes and unlike sangría, doesn’t leave me with a crippling hangover the next day.

Horchata is a thin, sweet, milky-white drink from the Valencia region of Spain’s southeast Mediterranean coast. Contrary to what many believe, it is not dairy-based. Nor is it made from rice, as is its Mexican counterpart.

Spanish horchata is, instead, made from chufa – a.k.a., “tiger nuts.” But chufas are not nuts at all; whether from a tiger or otherwise. They are round, brown tubers found in the roots of an Egyptian plant that grows especially well in the Valencian soil. I could tell you the Latin name for this plant, but why bother? This blog has no following amongst botanists, nor is it on the Vatican’s recommended reading list.

To make horchata, chufas are picked, washed, soaked and re-washed. They are then ground into a paste and infused with water. The chufa paste steeps in the water for several hours, then is pressed and strained. Finally, the resulting liquid is sweetened with sugar. Served ice cold, horchata is wildly popular with both children and adults.

Surprisingly, I am not aware of any cocktails in which horchata is a component; although I suspect that it would taste pretty good with a shot of dark rum and a paper umbrella.

A well-made horchata should be smooth and clean tasting, with a proper balance between its sweetness and nuttiness. If a sip of horchata leaves your tongue feeling as if it were coated with chalk dust, you’re not drinking a good one. If it’s so sweet that the fillings in your teeth begin to throb, look elsewhere for the next round. If it tastes like liquid rice pudding, then double-check your airline tickets because you’ve probably landed in Mexico.

You need not worry about these flaws, however, because I am going to tell you where to find the best horchata in all of Spain. In Madrid on the southwest corner of Calles Narvaez and Jorge Juan – within shouting distance of the Goya El Corte Inglés – there is a white, metal shed in which a mother and son sell drinks from (roughly) May until September. Go there. Log off your computer and go there NOW, because the folk in that little shed serve the best horchata on this side of Pluto. They serve a stellar granizado de limón (lemon graniza), as well.

But they don’t serve sangría; which, perhaps, explains the absence of British tourists amongst their client base.

Coffee is a well-loved drink in Spain. Its popularity is, perhaps, second only to “anything with alcohol.” A Spaniard will drink a coffee for breakfast, at mid-morning break, after lunch and, quite often, after dinner.

Nearly every Spanish home has a chrome, art deco-style, stovetop coffee maker, but coffee is best – and most often – drank in a bar. And there is no creature on earth that makes better coffee than a crusty Spanish bartender.

Spanish bartenders make coffee on large, steam-driven espresso machines. They use high quality, medium-roasted beans rather than the astringent, jet-black espresso beans favored by Starbucks and the Italians. A thick, brown stream oozes into cups propped below the machine’s chrome spouts, while the bartender simultaneously froths a stainless steel pitcher of whole milk with the steamer arm. Served in a ceramic cup or small, thin glass (but NEVER in a waxed paper cup), Spanish coffee is velvety, rich and flavorful. The well-established paradox that coffee, like roast chicken, smells a whole lot better than it tastes simply doesn’t hold water here.

But the language of coffee can pose problems for foreign visitors to Spain. I often imagine the following dialogue taking place at various bars throughout the country:

I think you’ll agree that such a cross-cultural disconnect is not conducive to the spirit of international goodwill and brotherhood that so many people outside the White House are trying to nurture. It obstructs the bartender from earning his livelihood, and the jet-lagged visitor from his much-needed jolt of caffeine. I therefore – under strict orders from Kofi Annan – am pleased to provide the following roadmap for ordering coffee in a Spanish bar.

Now that I’ve provided the basic tools for ordering coffee in Spain, I’d like to close with a nugget of advice that I’ve verified countless times during the past five years: Look for a bar that has little natural light, littered floors, a dense cloud of cigarette smoke, and an older, disheveled-looking male bartender – never taller than 5’7’” – wearing a collared shirt. Preferably a white, short-sleeve collared shirt. A bar that satisfies these criteria will most assuredly serve you a stellar coffee…and serve it to you well.

If there is an artfully-lettered sign hanging above the bar area listing its various offerings and their prices, turn around and head to the next.

If the bar has a TV playing music videos, call the authorities.

If any of the bartenders appear to be younger than 50 or – God forbid – wearing hair gel, don’t walk…RUN!

Always remember…there is no correlation between good grooming or attractive surroundings and good coffee. If you don’t believe me, taste a Starbucks half-caf Latte with skim milk. Even a light dusting of nutmeg can’t save it.

We spent the past weekend in and around Vitoria in the Basque Country. Little did we know – although we certainly would’ve, had we done the slightest bit of research beforehand – that Vitoria’s “Fiesta en Honor de la Virgen Blanca” (Festival of the White Virgin) was in full swing.

The Festival was a boisterous affair full of drinking, dancing and music. Many Vitoria residents dressed the part. Men and boys wore brown leather slippers, white stockings, black knickers, white shirts, black vests, a black and gray checkered kerchief around the neck and a txapela (i.e., a big floppy beret that might be mistaken for a squid-ink pizza). Some carried a bota, although I can’t say whether this was done for reasons of tradition or convenience. Women and girls wore black and gray peasant outfits consisting of long skirts and frilly blouses, and wrapped their heads – Aunt Jemima-style – in a black kerchief. Babies of each sex were likewise adorned…right down to the bota.

Strolling bands of musicians seemed to be at every turn. They were mostly run-of-the-mill brass bands with the odd bagpiper thrown in for good measure, but there was at least one notable exception.

The “Plastic System Band” – a group of high-energy, French-speaking, black musicians dressed as red devils – flew in from the island of Martinique and set Vitoria ablaze with its pulsing rhythms and thrusting pelvises. Crowds parted and heads turned as they marched through the streets pounding on drums made from red spray-painted plastic barrels. Then again, I suppose that a group of French-speaking black men dressed as red devils would turn heads in the Basque Country even if they were quietly enjoying a game of whist in the park.

At high noon, we wedged ourselves into the Plaza de España to watch an umbrella-wielding mannequin of the mythical Basque figure “Celedón” fly across the diameter on a wire strung overhead. I don’t know who Celedón is or why he flies with an umbrella, but I would not be surprised if some patriots should cite him as proof that Mary Poppins is of Basque descent. I might lend more credence to such a claim if, for example, a flowered hat carbon-dated to the year 1416 had been unearthed at an archeological dig near the cod fishing banks of Nova Scotia. But to my knowledge, there’s been no such find.

I was not able to take a digi photo of Celedón’s high-wire act, because my wife thrust a camcorder into my hand and vowed dire consequences if I failed to record the entire event on video. But don’t despair. You can, thanks to the magic of Google, see a photo of Celedón at others’ websites.

Incidentally, we had lunch at a stellar (and inexpensive) little eatery called Xixilu (chee-CHEE-loo) located at Plaza Amárica, 2 in Vitoria (Tel: 945-23-00-68). The ventresca (tuna belly) with tomatoes, menestra de verduras (sauteed vegetables) and green asparagus with Cabrales cheese were outstanding. And the beer was VERY cold. All four of them.

There are few things in life as difficult or intimidating as getting a Spanish driver’s license. It is a process akin to trying to solve Fermat’s last theorem while sitting on death row in a Texas prison. If you don’t believe me, just ask anyone who has been through it.

For purposes of comparison, let me describe the process by which I obtained my driver’s license in the US. I sauntered into the Pennsylvania Department of Motor Vehicles facility two days after my sixteenth birthday. I took a short multiple choice exam in which a perfect score was guaranteed by simply choosing the most conservative answer to each question. I then proceeded to the behind-the-wheel exam, which entailed a ten minute drive through an empty “driving course” (i.e., a parking lot with lines painted to simulate a real street) and concluded with the ever-difficult maneuver of pulling up to a curb. A hearty handshake and quick photograph later, I walked out with a warm driver’s license tucked into my wallet; secure in the knowledge that the State government deemed me fit to propel a 3,000 pound hunk of mechanized metal wherever and whenever I pleased. The entire process took forty-five minutes and cost me $30.

With this benchmark in mind, let’s turn out attention to the finer points of obtaining a driver’s license in Spain; a process that I naively assumed could be completed within the four month grace period that Spanish authorities allowed me to continue driving on my US license.

THE DRIVING SCHOOL:
First, you must join a driving school. This is required whether you are a first time driver or, like me, had been driving in another country for nearly twenty years. The reason is that you’ll need their car. Spanish authorities require that examinees take the behind-the-wheel portion of the driving exam in a car that has a second brake, accelerator and clutch on the passenger side. I don’t know about you, but there’s no vehicle fitting this description parked in my garage. Fortunately, for a fee of multiple hundreds of Euros, any driving school will be pleased to lend you its car…and will toss in a study guide and some lessons (both theoretical and practical) to boot.

THE MEDICAL EXAM:
Once you’ve enrolled in a driving school, you must then get a medical and eye exam. There’s a cottage industry in Spain for doctors – some of whom may have even received their medical degrees from non-Caribbean countries – who specialize in medical exams for prospective drivers. They advertise as much on their front doors. With regard to my own exam, the doctor certified me as fit because I was able to open the door to his office, and as having good eyesight because I was able to grasp the doorknob without first feeling around for it with my fingertips.

THE WRITTEN EXAM:
Now begins the really fun part. The written portion of the Spanish driving exam consists of forty multiple choice questions; at least thirty-six of which must be answered correctly in order to pass. The scope of its questions goes well beyond the standard rules of the road. Questions pertaining to automobile mechanics, first aid, and technical specifications for vehicles ranging from scooters to quads to automobiles to delivery trucks are not only fair game, but are fairly common. Little wonder that the study guide I received from the driving school was over two hundred pages long, and densely packed with facts, definitions, formulae and statistics; all of which had to be memorized…and memorized well!

And to make matters worse, each multiple choice question has at least two possible answers that you would swear – on your grandmother’s life – must be correct. Having taken both the State of Illinois Bar exam and the Spanish written driver’s exam, I can say with certainty that I walked out of the former feeling much more confident that I had passed. But don’t take my word for it. Here are some authentic exam questions taken from http://www.todotest.com/ and translated into English for your infotainment:

Do you see what I mean? The term “hair-splitting” comes immediately to mind, doesn’t it? Imagine answering forty questions like these while seated at an uncomfortable, government-issued desk.

With this background in mind, perhaps you won’t laugh quite so heartily when I tell you that I – after four months (FOUR MONTHS!) of diligent study and memorization – nonetheless failed the damn thing on my first try. I did, however, squeak by with a passing score on the second try. Countless others have not been so fortunate.

THE BEHIND-THE-WHEEL EXAM:
Once the written is exam is passed, a prospective driver’s period of relaxation and self-satisfaction is short-lived. That’s because the final hurdle to be cleared is arguably the most unnerving.

The behind-the-wheel exam is, quite frankly, terrifying to most examinees. The friendly, familiar figure of your driving school instructor is seated reassuringly in the passenger seat. But lurking in the bowels of the backseat, with jaundiced eyes and wolf-like fangs, is the brooding, seething specter of the government examiner; his venomous pen poised to record every tiny error on his evaluation form. He is an intimidating figure that utters no sounds, except to bark two- and three-word orders which must be followed with exacting precision.

The exam lasts for thirty minutes and takes place in live traffic. Drivers can expect to face such delights as city streets, winding alleys, roundabouts, construction zones, hills, and the universally-despised parallel parking maneuver. If you’re unlucky (and many are), the latter two will be co-mingled.

The expectations of all parties are clear. Passing the exam hinges on the driver’s ability to demonstrate – for the first, and most likely the last, time in his life – a half hour of flawless, law-abiding driving. Many drivers crack under the pressure and flee from the car in tears. I’ve seen it with my own eyes, and spoken with others who’ve seen it as well.

When the exam ends, the examiner will scribble something on his pad, hand the sheet to the driving instructor, and leave without a word. The instructor will hold the sheet tightly to his vest until the examiner is safely out of sight. Spanish rules mandate that drivers be informed whether they passed or failed only after the examiner has left the scene. Apparently, not all examinees have been gracious losers in the past.

With this background in mind, perhaps you won’t laugh quite so heartily when I tell you that I – after eighteen years (EIGHTEEN YEARS!) of driving experience – nonetheless failed the damn thing on my first try. It had something to do with me passing a bus, although to this day I contend that the bus was begging to be passed. I did, however, squeak by with a passing score on the second try. Countless others have not been so fortunate.

EPILOGUE:
Having jumped through these expensive and time-consuming hoops, I am now the proud owner of a 23 centimeter long piece of tri-folded, non-laminated, pink cardboard with my photo stapled onto it. I am expected to carry this in my pocket at all times.

You would think that Spain, having implemented a screening process as arduous as the one described above, would be rewarded with a peerless population of safe, competent drivers. Not so. I’ve seen drivers here park their cars in intersections, pass three cars in a row in no passing zones, and – most unbelievable of all – drive in reverse around a roundabout.

Just think about that last example for a minute. Why on earth would someone drive in reverse around a roundabout? If he missed his turn-off, all he’d need to do is make another lap. That’s why they are called ROUNDabouts.

I don’t recall these kinds of things happening in Pennsylvania. Then again, Pennsylvania doesn’t have roundabouts.

Jesús is my next door neighbour. No, not THAT Jesús; although I would suspect that many people in Tennessee have made such a claim. The Jesús I’m talking about really does live in the house next to mine, and he doesn’t have a beard.

Jesús is fifty, a mechanic and lives with his wife and two college-age children. He single-handedly built his house, including all of the plumbing and electrical work. He did a good job, too. Jesús hunts, drinks, barbeques, rides motorcycles, watches every Formula 1 race and entertains frequently. He built a special room in his basement for entertaining during the cold-weather months. It has a brick bar, bar stools, fireplace, medieval-style iron light fixtures – all of which he made himself – and a boar skin hanging on one of the walls. It’s a room that makes you want to don a fur cape, gulp down a flagon of ale, and then chop off Anne Boleyn’s head.

Jesús is the type of friendly, mild-tempered neighbour that everyone would have if neighbours were ordered from a catalog, and such catalog did not offer an “Underwear Model on a Trampoline” option. And he is valuable to me in many ways.

For one, he (mercifully) doesn’t speak English. This is important. Part of the reason my Spanish is so bad after living here for five years is that I converse with María and my co-workers purely in English. The last thing I needed, therefore, was a next door neighbour who wants to practice his English. No such problems with Jesús. We chat nearly every day, and he is remarkably patient with my “introverted second grader” level of Spanish. Oddly, however, our conversations rarely take place face-to-face or at eye level. Rather, they typically adhere to one of two formats: the “confession box,” or the “Romeo & Juliet.”

Our “confession box” conversations usually occur during early evenings while we are watering our respective lawns (and believe me, lawns in Castilla-LaMancha require a lot of watering). Our yards are separated by a chain-link fence that we’ve covered with “brezo.” Brezo is an ecologically-friendly curtain made of sticks and brush bound with wire. They are very popular in Spain for covering ugly things (like chain-link fences) or gaining additional privacy from neighbours and nosy pedestrians. Our watering-hour conversations take place through the brezo-covered fence. We can’t actually see other; only our silhouettes. In this regard, it’s a bit like being in a confession box; albeit without the associated guilt or the necessity of divulging my most impure thoughts to a man who pretends to have never had any himself.

Our “Romeo & Juliet” conversations occur during non-watering hours. Jesús’s house has a second floor terrace where he often sits and ponders life’s mysteries over a bottle of beer. My house has a ground floor terrace where I do the same, except with a glass of wine. Given that his terrace overlooks mine, it’s inevitable that we should ponder life’s mysteries together. In retrospect, I suppose this isn’t so unusual. After all, don’t most people look skyward when speaking to Jesús? Sorry…couldn’t resist that one.

In addition to the linguistic advantages of having Jesús as a neighbour, he is also a valuable source of technical advice. For example, I recently asked him for guidance on installing a particularly complex electrical component in my home. Jesús expertly suggested that if I twist the bulb in a clockwise direction until the point of tension, it would not only remain locked in its receptacle but would also emit light. Then he offered to do it for me if I should continue having problems.

In light of the neighbours we’ve had in the past – such as the fat guy in Oak Park who walked his puppy at 4am…or the Czech woman in Barcelona who was shocked that we didn’t hear the burglar robbing a Walkman from her condo TWO floors above us…or the stubborn Catalan who insisted on drying his underwear on the rooftop terrace where the building’s tenants sunbathed – we indeed consider ourselves lucky.

A different, more famous Jesús once said, “Love thy neighbour.” Our Jesús is a neighbour who’s easy to love.

When is the best time to visit Spain?

Any time except August.

It’s true. Each year when the clock strikes 2pm on the last Friday of July, Spain’s main cities transform from bustling urban bazaars to something resembling NASA footage of the lunar surface. Stores and restaurants are shuttered. Streets are devoid of traffic. Prime parking spaces abound. If Spain had tumbleweed, it would be tumbling.

August is the month that most Spaniards take vacation. This, in itself, is ironic. Spain is not exactly known for its orderliness. The Spanish perception of orderliness would strike most Anglos and Germanics as a half-step from anarchy. Queuing in the British sense – i.e., patiently waiting in a single file line…and actually enjoying it – does not exist here. Rather, Spanish queuing is more of a “gather `round and sniff your neighbour’s cologne” affair. Driving and parking are even worse, with most Spaniards viewing no parking zones as more of a suggestion than a mandate. So imagine the absurdity that a country living in controlled chaos for eleven-twelfths of the year will – on the same afternoon – uniformly pack up and leave.

But that’s what happens. And many Spaniards do, in fact, take off the entire month of August. This is shocking (at best) or heretical (at worst) to Americans; a work-loving people who may get only two weeks of vacation each year, yet are afraid to take it all at once. In Spain, however, nary an eyebrow is raised at the prospect of thirty-one uninterrupted days of lounging about.

So…where do these Spaniards go, and what do they do, for an entire month? Many, especially city dwellers, have a second home located near the sea, in the mountains or in a small village in the country’s interior. Often these homes have been in the family for generations, and are shared during vacation time by some portion of the extended family. The prospect of vacationing with extended family may seem undesirable at first, but think about it logically: What could be more relaxing for tired parents than to have grandparents on hand to baby-sit during a four week stretch? And they baby-sit for free.

This vacation model, however, is starting to change a bit. More young Spaniards – and in particular, those without children – now devote at least part of their vacation to travelling to other countries. And more are choosing to split-up their vacation weeks so that, for example, they can lounge on the beach for two weeks in August and then ski for two weeks in January. This may not yet be the norm, but the practice is growing.

We, by the way, never take vacation in August. Why should we? We’d miss all the peace and quiet. Our work phones are silent, email inboxes are empty, and there are no lines at the supermarket. It’s as if we’ve actually gained an extra month of vacation. Plus, there’s a certain perverse satisfaction in knowing that – at the end of August – we still have our full vacation to look forward to while most of our countrymen are returning to work in a fog of depression; albeit a well-rested depression.

But staying home and working through the month of August has a downside, as well. Just try to find a restaurant, bread store, tobacco store, or even a pharmacy that is open for business. Granted, the Spanish government mandates that at least one outlet for essential services – and yes, tobacco stores are deemed to provide an essential service – must remain open within a X kilometre radius during August, but having to drive 5 kilometres to buy a newspaper can be a bit bothersome. If I wanted to do that, I would have stayed in the US.

Some people – particularly Americans – might ultimately view the Spanish practice of taking a full August vacation as a quaint holdover from a simpler time, but one that has no place in modern society. I disagree. In fact, I can think of at least one high-ranking American executive who has not been afraid to spend the entire month of August on holiday: George W. Bush. He spent all of August 2001 vacationing at his ranch…remember? Then again, that was at a time when he liked Spain.

I detailed in my July 19, 2004 post that Cabanillas del Campo’s “People and Bulls Festival” was in full swing, and that its final four days would feature a running of the bulls each morning. I also promised that I would attend one of the runnings – strictly as a spectator, of course – and report my observations. Well…for better or for worse, I attended yesterday morning’s running of the bulls.

Two runnings of the bulls were scheduled to take place yesterday morning. The town of Cabanillas prepared a course that was approximately one kilometre long. It was located on the street running between our main soccer field and the town’s sports center. The street was lined on each side with a red, seven foot high, temporary iron fence. Each section of fence was comprised of two vertical and five horizontal iron bars. It was plenty sturdy, yet allowed for a nearly unobstructed view. At the end of the street, the course curved to the right and continued for another 100 meters; at which point it emptied into the bullring stadium.

María, Inés and I arrived at ten minutes before 11am, and took a spot behind the fence at the course’s midway point. María and Inés prudently retreated to a shady location farther back, whereas I climbed to the top wrung of the fence with digital camera in hand.

By 11am, approximately 100 runners congregated at various locations on the street. Most were men in their late teens to late 20’s. The ones waiting at the top of the course obviously intended to run with the bulls as much as much a possible, whereas others seemed content to sprint only the last 100 meters into the stadium.

Many of the runners dressed in white, which I thought was wise. If one of these runners were to be injured by a bull, the emergency personnel would spot them immediately. I was puzzled as to why several runners chose to wear brown pants, but after further thought I concluded that this was a wise decision also.

At approximately 11:15, a starter’s gun fired and the bulls were released. The sea of participants poised at the top of the course began to run; their heads bobbing up and down in unison. Have you ever compared and contrasted people running in a foot race versus people running for their lives? The former group is a classic display of head-down, straight-forward motion and single-minded concentration. The latter group, on the other hand, practically runs sideways…with heads frantically looking over shoulders at two-second intervals. Watching the runners approach, I kept thinking about that scene in every Godzilla movie in which hordes of citizens run terrified through the streets of downtown Tokyo. It really was like that.

I got my first glimpse of the bulls when the initial group of approaching runners was fifty meters away. As far as I could tell, people who run in these events will do one of two things when the bulls get uncomfortably close. Twenty percent will continue running and hope to be passed by without incident. The other eighty percent will leap to the side and cling to the iron fence like kittens in tree.

The event passed incredibly quickly. It was a bit like standing beside a highway and watching a trailer truck pass by. Here they come…ZOOM!!!…and then they’re gone. And that’s exactly how the first of yesterday’s runnings happened. It started…ZOOM!!!…and it was over without incident or injury. The second running, however, was another matter.

At the tail-end of the second running – where the road curved right and headed toward the bullring stadium – the last of the bulls drove its left horn into the left buttock of a runner, tossed him into the air, and sent him crashing to the pavement several feet over the bull’s left shoulder. This happened right before my eyes. To watch a man be gored by a bull on television is one thing. To see happen live is quite another.

The runner was wearing white pants and even from my vantage point fifty feet away, a large red stain was apparent as soon as the bull withdrew and departed. A crowd immediately swarmed on the runner and carried him to a nearby ambulance without moment’s hesitation.

Most spectators were visibly shocked. I can only imagine the expression on my own face when it happened. This type of incident is to be expected in Pamplona. But I hadn’t mentally prepared myself for such a possibility in Cabanillas del Campo. Obviously, I was not alone in this regard.

María, Inés and I passed the location of the goring as we exited a few minutes later. The amount of purplish blood that had pooled on the pavement where the man was gored was staggering. More shocking still was the inches-wide trail of blood that marked the route by which he was carried to the ambulance. It was a very severe goring.

We decided to skip this morning’s running.

The two of you who regularly read this blog are well familiar with Bar Alcázar. It is our favourite spot in Cabanillas for morning coffee breaks, local gossip and, in general, cultural and philosophical enlightenment.

Now – thanks to some new software that I spent the better part of a morning trying to learn – I can finally SHOW (rather than tell) you what it looks like. Pictured are views of the façade (above) and interior (below). The little girl with the water bottle is my daughter Inés, who holds court there every Saturday and Sunday morning.

I hope you appreciate the magnitude of this event. These two pictures of Bar Alcázar are the only ones to be found on the world wide web. Do you feel like Indiana Jones when he found the Ark of the Covenant? If you do, then you really should be spending more time with your spouse and children.

María and I celebrated our seventh wedding anniversary last weekend by leaving Inés with the grandparents and travelling to San Sebastián in the Basque Country. Since we had visited San Sebastián in 2000, we felt free to skip the typical tourist sites and concentrate on more important cultural matters: namely, pintxos.

Broadly speaking, “pintxo” is the Basque term for “tapas” – a small snack that is eaten with your drink at a bar. In practice, however, the terms differ. A tapa can be anything from a fried sausage to a slice of potato omelette to a dish of peanuts or olives. The bartender will hand you a tapa free of charge each time you order a drink; except in miserly Cataluña, where nothing is provided for free except Catalan language courses.

A pintxo, on the other hand, is usually a small slice of baguette bread, toast or croissant topped with another item. Toppings can be as simple as a slice of smoked salmon, or as elaborate as crabmeat salad capped with a dollop of caviar. Pintxo bars are typical of the Basque Country, and in particular San Sebastián; a city with a world-class reputation for good eatin’.

The procedure for ordering pintxos is simple. The bar will be lined with plate after plate of them. When you order your beer, wine or hard cider, the bartender will (upon request) hand you a plate. Simply graze along the bar and select the pintxos that look most appealing. All pintxos are the same price. When you are ready to pay, tell the bartender what you drank and how many pintxos you ate. This works strictly on the honor system. And it does work. Spaniards, who tend to be weasel-like when dealing with salesmen or tax authorities, are scrupulously honest when telling a bartender how many pintxos they’ve had.

Pintxo dining is not a sit down affair. Rather, it is a rolling feast from bar to bar. Stop at a bar, order a drink, eat the pintxos that look good, then move on to the next bar. This was exactly how María and I spent our Saturday in San Sebastián. We researched San Sebastián’s best pintxo bars beforehand, and then pounced on them like army of invading barbarians.

Listed below – in order of preference – are the pintxo bars that we visited during our trip to San Sebastián.

OH, AND BY THE WAY…
The pintxo jag described above wasn’t the reason we went to San Sebastián. The point of the trip was to have dinner at Arzak later that night.

This leaves me with a small dilemma. So much has been written about Arzak by others, that it seems pointless for me repeat the task here. It is world-famous, and deservedly so.

It would be more pointless still for me to attempt a “review/critique” of the food and service. The joint has three Michelin stars, which means it is the embodiment of perfection. And it is. So there…that’s my restaurant review.

I will, however, tell you what we ate. We both chose the multi-course degustación (tasting) menu. So many elaborate food items crossed our table that it is difficult to remember what we had. Sorry, but I was there to eat…not to take notes. So with that disclaimer in hand, here goes…

Dinner at Arzak was great fun, but the most entertaining part was watching the tables full of kids around us. Kids at a Michelin three star restaurant? This was a bit of a shock, although not enough to make us doubt the logic of leaving Inés with her grandparents.

Whether these were highly enlightened kids or parents with too much disposable income was irrelevant. María and I were amused. At the table to our left, a seven year old boy slurped his fettuccine and tomato sauce while his parents enjoyed the same tasting menu that we chose. The table to our right had three pre-teens. There was much debate amongst this family about what the kids should order. The debate stopped when the big man himself, Juan Mari Arzak, waddled up the stairs and ordered for them. Whether they liked it or not, these three kids were served steak, French fries and croquettes.

And yes…they DID like it.

The annual “Fiestas Populares y Taurinos” (i.e., the “People and Bulls Festival”) began last night here in Cabanillas del Campo. For the next eight days, my fellow townsfolk and I will enjoy such diverse events as fireworks displays, Bielarussian dancers, potato omelette cook-offs, concerts by big haired pop bands, and a giant paella.

But the highlight of the Festival is the bulls. Beginning on Thursday, we will be treated to four consecutive days of bull-antagonizing events to take place in or near the temporary bullring that was erected last month. And during the morning of each day, there will be a running of the bulls through the streets of Cabanillas; although thankfully, not on our street.

The running of the bulls in Cabanillas will be much as I described in my earlier Pamplona posting, except on a much smaller scale in terms of participation and blood-letting. There is logic behind this madness. The bulls that run each morning are those that are destined for the bullfight later that day. By running the bulls in the morning, bullfight officials are able to assess whether the bulls are healthy, coherent and have acceptable eye/hoof/horn coordination. A defective or erratically behaving bull will be a disappointment to the paying bullfight audience and a danger to the matador. Ironically, such concern for human welfare is not extended to the runners that bullfight officials use as guinea pigs each morning.

The Cabanillas del Campo city hall takes its civic responsibilities as seriously as it does its coffee breaks, and has published eight important nuggets of advice for any citizen planning to run with the bulls this week. Listed below is an English translation of these nuggets, as pulled from my mailbox yesterday afternoon.

This list is brimming with prudent advice, although I fear that strict adherence to point 5 will seriously decrease participation in this year’s event. I would further like to highlight point 6, as evidence to all high school students that geometry does have practical applications in the real world.

I will not be running in this or any year’s event, but I will attend as a spectator and report my findings in a later posting. I am sympathetic with those who may feel that such Festival activities are cruel, but please remember that bull-related events are embedded in Spain’s culture and have been practiced for hundreds of years. That which seems bizarre or inhumane to non-Spaniard eyes is largely considered normal here. Besides, these bull-related events serve the important function of occupying Festival time slots that might otherwise be filled by Marie Osmond or Gerry and the Pacemakers. Even PETA would agree that such alternative is repugnant beyond words.