Sal DeTraglia

The Big Finn’s write-up on last Saturday’s Madrid tapas crawl is now posted.

Click HERE.

Who says that the blogosphere is a vast wasteland of social misfits? A sorry substitute for real human interaction? Who said it? Bring him here, because I’m in possession of a roundhouse kick with his name on it.

Following on the heels of my excellent Madrid outing with Ang–Indiana’s most trusted journalist–and her boyfriend, “The Boyfriend,” I had the opportunity to meet another set of long-time blogger buddies.

That’s right! Yesterday, in Madrid, I met The Royal Family–Mr. and Mrs. The Big Finn.

We hadn’t previously met. Or spoken. To be honest, it’s not clear that either of us was truly convinced that the other existed. It was a bit like “Santa Claus meets the Easter Bunny.”

But at 2pm yesterday afternoon, I rounded the corner of the Melia Gran Fénix Hotel near Plaza Colon, and there they were! Live, in the flesh and just as cute and cuddly as they seem on the computer screen.

It hardly felt like a first meeting at all. It was more like getting together with old college roommates. They were friendly. They were interesting. They were funny. They were visibly very much in love with each other. And…most importantly…they brought gifts!

Yes, that’s a floating COCONUT candle. Just what every bathtub needs–or, at least, just what mine needs. How long must Basel Airport security have stared at this sphere-shaped object with attached wick before finally deciding to let it pass onto the airplane?

But–moving into the “I’m not worthy” category–there was another gift. You see it above, but you probably don’t believe it. Yep…I am now the proud owner of The Big Finn’s legendary–and much-coveted–Gorilla Tripod!

I sprout goosebumps just thinking about it.

This is the same Gorilla Tripod that nearly got TBF bounced from a cathedral in Italy. And now it’s mine! All mine! As if this VTB isn’t already clogged enough with self-photos of my crow’s feet and receding hairline.

BTW…TBF has a new, even more impressive tripod (see photo above). This one doubles as a back-scratcher.

Wiping the tears from my eyes and stiffening my spine, we commenced our tapas crawl. And in this respect, the Finns were good sports. Not only did they walk about a hundred kilometers (many of which were walked in circles, thanks to my hopeless navigational skills), but they ate anything and everything.

Snails, sweetbreads, cod, foie, pig ears (yes, pig ears!)–they tasted it all, and they did so without any peer pressure from me.

“TBF? Are you suuuuuure you want me to order the pig ears?”

“Yeah, Tragger! Bring it on!!!”

In case you’re wondering, we did not–repeat, NOT–drink any absinthe yesterday. Not because we were behaving; but rather, because none of the bars had any. Doh!!!

Even without an absinthe hangover, I expect that both Mr. and Mrs. TBF awoke this morning remembering only 20% of what they ate yesterday. So, as a humanitarian gesture, I list below in chronological order exactly what we ate and drank, and where we ate and drank ’em.

BAR TEMPRANILLO (Cava Baja, 38)
– Slice of chorizo sausage on a round of bread.
– Pincho (i.e., slice of bread topped with…) of duck jamon and eggplant.
– Pincho of tuna belly with “stirfried” vegetables.
– Pincho of smoked bacalao with…uhhhh, help, TBFs?!
– Pincho of duck sweetbreads and pate.
– Wine: Les Terrasses (Priorat)

BAR REVUELTA (Cava Baja, near the Plaza off of Calle Toledo)
– We walked in hoping to order deep-fried bacalao hunks, but they stopped serving. We immediately left.

MATRITUM (Cava Alta, 17)
– Tomato bread with slices of jamón iberico.
– Croquettes stuffed with jamón.
– Kind of a crunchy, shrimpy, creamy, toasty thingee.
– Wine: Viñas del Vero Syrah (Somontano).

CASA DE AMADEO (Plaza Cascorro, 18)
– The bastard was closed. We felt dejected; deprived of our obligatory glasses of snail juice. But just when things seemed hopeless, Mr. TBF steered us into…

SOME RUSTIC, NEIGHBORHOOD BAR A FEW DOORS DOWN FROM AMADEO (see above photos)
– Pimientos de Padrón (little fried Galician green peppers with sea salt; some spicy, some not).
– Snails in a paprika broth.
– Calf sweetbreads sauted in olive oil and lots of garlic.
– Deep-fried cubes of pig ear (salty, crunchy and well-received by Mr. TBF).
– Navajas (i.e., razor clams).
– Cañas (i.e., little glasses) of Mahou beer.

TXACOLI (Cava Baja, 26)
– Wine: Glasses of Txacoli (a young, tart, white wine–similar to Portuguese Vinho Verde–from the Basque Country served in squat little Basque glasses).

LA CASTELA (Doctor Castela, 22–My favorite tapas bar in Madrid, BTW)
– Fried chistorra sausages with french fries.
– Chipirones Encebolladas (i.e., small calamari with sauted onions and drizzled with a nuclear green olive oil and squid ink). Personally, I think this was the best dish of the day.
– Pincho of apple puree, mushroom and foie.
– Pincho of bacalao with tomato “foam.”
– Wine: Albariño (a tart white from northwest Spain).
– Glasses of sweet, red vermouth for Mr. and Mrs. TBF.

LA MONTERÍA (Lope de Rueda, 35)
– At this point, none of us were hungry and all of us were tired. So, Mr. TBF had a final caña of Mahou, Mrs. TBF has a glass of manzanilla sherry, and I had a caña of Laiker non-alcoholic beer. We watched a bit of the Real Madrid vs. FC Barcelona game on TV.

It was a fantastic day (IMO). Hey TBF’s, let’s do another crawl soon. But let’s do it in Chicago, eh?

Kiitos for the visit. I had a blast.

I had a date with my long-time girlfriend, Jasemine, tonight.

It was as much a humanitarian visit as it was social. Jazzy got “fixed” yesterday, and I felt that she might appreciate my loving/healing touch on a lonely Friday night.

Indeed she did. And despite the presence of numerous stitches on her freshly-shaved belly, she and I still engaged in our traditional post-greeting bout of Greco-Roman wrestling (middleweight division)–an event for which I always wear a nylon jacket, as it resists the stench of doggie drool more effectively than does cotton or wool.

If you’re wondering why Jazz is wearing a Pittsburgh Steelers T-shirt, it was on the recommendation of her vet. It was intended to keep her from nibbling at her stitches. A fine idea in theory; although the reality is that Jazzy managed to disrobe no fewer than three times during the course of this photo shoot.

Jazzy! She’s big. She’s brassy. She’s beautiful. And she’s mine…all mine!

Me!!!

Yeah, yeah, yeah…I know! I’ve been catching hell from all of you in the VTB Chat Lounge lately for not writing much in 007. And I’ve been catching hell for the same from Big Mamma and Borat behind the scenes.

So…in an effort to publish a little sumthin’ and try preserve the few Blogger buddies that I have left at this late stage, I am pleased to provide the following, largely unedited, stream of consciousness-heavy post.

Take it away, Don Pardo…

1. IS IT WRITER’S BLOCK…OR FOOD POISONING?

Pu-leeze!!! I don’t do writer’s block. This writing thing is as easy as breathing–and certainly, a lot easier than talking. So we can’t blame my dearth of blogging on that.

Nor can we blame food poisoning. I wish that I could, but alas…there’s not an Indian restaurant within 30 miles of my house.

No…the reason is simply colossal weariness. After publishing 300+ posts on the VTB, 70+ posts on Expatica (from which I’ve recently retired) and more than a dozen on The Spirit World (from which I’ll retire after this month) over the past few years…I just kinda hit a wall of colossal weariness. “Lost the Eye of the Tiger,” to quote that old guy with odd-looking face.

I therefore decided to take an unannounced blogging vacation. Not permanently, of course! That would be silly. I’d then have to do more talking permanently…which is twice as exhausting as writing.

And, ya know what? The nasty thing about relaxation is that it rarely achieves the intended goal of re-charging one’s batteries. To the contrary, it causes lethargy and makes you crave more relaxation. It’s a slow death by rusting. So…methinks [that was for you, Trac!] that I’d better take my hands off my belly and put them back on the keyboard.

Mystery solved! Is it writer’s block or food poisoning? No and no.

“…or food poisoning?”

“…food poisoning?” Hey! How about a song?

Just can’t resist those accordian players. Anyway..believe it or not, I saw this same guy play the same song live at a blues bar called The Station Tavern several times when I was studying in London in 1988.

2. HEY! TODAY’S VALENTINE’S DAY, ISN’T IT?

Well waddya know?! It *is* Valentine’s Day!

Call me a hopeless romantic, but I really feel infected with VD today.

Hey! How about a song? Here’s a Valentine’s Day wish…from Felix, George and me…to all of you.

3. NEXT TOPIC…TAPAS TOUR 007.

For reasons that I doubt even they understand, Mr. and Mrs. The Big Finn are flying to Madrid next month solely (purportedly) for the purpose of visiting me.

When I asked TBF what he wanted to do when he arrives, he responded as follows: “We’ve already seen Madrid a few times, so let’s spend the day eating tapas.”

Clearly, he and I will be friends.

But still, a visit from a pair of VIPs like TBFs requires prep work. So I recruited my long-time friend and Madrid-area radio personality, Drew, to assist me with planning/executing a tapas tour dry-run last month. Well…it was a dry-run, but I can’t honestly say that it was dry.

Please pardon my hair in the picture above and those that follow. It was very cold in Madrid, I was suffering some serious hathead, and–further aggravating matters–recently got a haircut that was far too closely-cropped for my liking.

Anyway…we started with coffee and croissants at Cafe Oriente, near the Opera House. Then had raisiny sweet wine and cookies at an old bar called “El Anciano Rey el los Vinos” (Calle Bailen, 19). Legend has it that the king’s grandfather boozed there. Above we see a pale, yucky-haired me, Drew and his son Oliver. We are holding glasses of that “sweet wine.”

We then wandered into the Calle Cava Baja neighborhood for a series of quickies.

We had tajadas de bacalao (battered and fried hunks of salt cod) accompanied by a hideous house wine at a bar called “Revuelta.”

Then to an Andaluz-style bar called “Sanlúcar” (Calle San Isidro Labrador) for a glass–Ok, two glasses–of Manzanilla Sherry, a bowl of salmorejo (a very thick gazpacho topped with diced cured ham and hard-boiled egg) and chopitos (strips of deep-fried calamari).

Then to the highlight of our tour—Casa de Amadeo (Plaza de Cazcorro, 18).

Meet Amadeo! Cute as a button, isn’t he?

Of all the tapas bars we visited that day, his was the most interesting–not just because of the food, but also (especially) because of his gregarious personality. Amadeo is like the mad great-uncle at Thanksgiving dinner who insists that you join him in eating the giblets–and then launches into a manically-animated 20 minute rant about how turkey livers are good for both longevity and virility.

Looking at the picture above, you can see the various plates and bowls of Amadeo’s other tapas on display. Upon receiving your order, Amadeo will grab a handful (no spoon, no glove) of whatever, slap it onto a dish and hand it to you. Bacteria be damned! Starting from the left hand side of the bar, we see (or perhaps we don’t see, but you’ll need to trust me) the following: blood sausage with rice; snails (i.e., that earthenware bowl with the shiny red liquid); a large, white, oval plate of deep-fried bacon cubes (!!!); crawfish in the Amadeo’s standard oily/paprika-heavy broth; and battered and fried hunks of bacalao (i.e., salt cod).

Drew is a frequent patron of his bar. So…the moment that we walked in the door, Amadeo seized Drew’s hand, vigorously shook mine, and immediately poured us each a glass of “jugo de caracoles” (i.e., “snail juice”).

Yes, I said “snail juice.”

And here are those glasses of snail juice! The name is deceiving, however. It’s not really the end product of a snail pushed through a RonCo juicer; but rather, it’s the oily, paprika-heavy broth in which the snails were stewed.

Briny, spicy, earthy…probably a great tonic for someone suffering from a cold. Not bad in small quantities, although I wouldn’t want to down a tumbler of it.

Aside from the snail juice and two rounds of beer (one of which was on the house…thanks, Amadeo!), we had a huge dish of stewed snails. And man-oh-man…those snails were good. Spicy, even…which is always a shock where Spanish cuisine is involved.

Those were the tapas bars that we hit (TBF…take note!). Here are some others that we wanted to hit, be didn’t/couldn’t:

Methinks The Big Finn will leave Madrid bigger.

4. LOOKING FOR A REALLY SAVAGE, FUNNY NEW BLOG?

Well…remember Tiinakala? You know, our lurking friend from snowy Estonia. She has been quietly chugging away on her own blog, which I stumbled upon with no thanks to her.

And let me tell you…she is hilarious!

It’s not for the faint-hearted. But if you like your humor wrapped in barbed-wire and marinaded in undiluted vinegar…then click HERE!

5. WHEN THE PARTY’S OVER.

That’s enough. I think I’ve more or less fulfilled my blogging obligation for this week. Or, at least, for tonight.

Are you in the mood for one last tune? If so, then here’s my favorite version of one of my favorite George songs (Billy Preston on vocals).

Forgive my flagrant abuse of YouTube in this post, but it’s easier than writing. And it’s definitely easier than talking.

Catchyawl soon.

I was watching The Beatles Anthology DVD box set a few years ago. Paul was presumably saying something profound to the interviewer.

But then…George, my favorite Beatle, suddenly whipped out a ukulele and proceeded to drown-out Paul with a tune that sounded like the fruit of a coital relationship between Don Ho and Muddy Waters.

I was excited! George seemed to be having such fun with his uke, that I felt a great urge to waste $50 on one for myself.

So, I did a bit a research–which unearthed both good news and bad.

The good news was that I found nearly universal agreement that the uke is the world’s easiest instrument to play. Or, if it’s not quite the easiest, then it’s at least easy to the point of absurdity.

The bad news, however, was that the uke not only looks like a guitar…but is played like one. It requires memorization of chord patterns; which, presumably, involves the “P-word.”

Practice!

This was disheartening. I played the cello between the ages 10-14, and played it badly. I also played guitar for two years in the 1990’s, and played it badly.

Of course…if you were to combine the total hours of practice that I dedicated to those two instruments over that six year span, the sum total of those hours would be somewhere in the low two-digits. In fact, I believe that each of those digits would be the number “1.”

And so–acknowledging the reality that if I were to buy a new ukulele, it would quickly join my dust-laden, Spanish-made, Aria concert guitar in “The Closet of Ever More”–I purged the idea from my mind and turned my attention to the equally preposterous topic of BBQ smokers.

Purged, that is, until I met “Pam the Nerdy.”

Pam’s “Nerd’s Eye View” blog featured a number of posts detailing her passion for playing her uke. Correction: Her *five* ukes.

So, I shot Pam an email explaining that I, too, would like to start down the path to uke-phoria…but believed in my heart of hearts that the path would surely lead me over the edge of a cliff before my credit card billed had even arrived.

Then, my worst nightmare then came true. Pam responded.

Worse yet, she responded with a lengthy, comprehensive and [OH NOOOO!!!] *supportive* response.

In essence (and I’m paraphrasing here), Pam said the following: “Don’t be such a sniveling, spineless, pessimistic wimp! Ukes are cheap, fun, and even a lobster can play one. You have nothing to lose. And besides, I’ll help you.”

Oh, damn! Thirty seconds later, I logged onto Amazon.com and bought an Oscar Schmidt OU2 Concert Uke. I also bought a copy of Jumpin’ Jim’s Ukulele Tips n’ Tunes. You know…just in case I should someday have an insatiable urge to play “She’ll be Coming ‘Round the Mountain.”

I named my new uke “Felix”–which seemed appropriate, given that it was manufactured by someone named “Oscar.” I took it to a music shop and had the factory-issued strings removed and replaced with better ones.

Then–unable to think of any further stalling tactics–I sat down with a sigh and succumbed to the inevitable. I would have to play Felix.

And, so–in honor of George–I downloaded the chord transcription for “My Sweet Lord,” made sure that nobody was around to hear me, took a deep breath…and just let it fly.

What happened next shocked me to the core. My attempt to play “My Sweet Lord” sounded like…like…like…”My Sweet Lord!!!” In fact, it sounded great! Felix and I were kickin’ ass!

What a revelation! The uke *is* ridiculously easy to play. It may look like a guitar, but it doesn’t frustrate like one. Granted, it’s not nearly as cool as the accordion, but it is the perfect instrument for music lovers with no musical talent.

I am therefore throwing down the gauntlet. I must humbly demand that everyone reading this VTB go out and buy a uke. Christina already has, and now you must, too.

Why? Because we are going to start a new New Year’s tradition just eleven short months from now. On December 31, 2007, all 61,465 VTB readers are going to record and post a uke-o-fied version of The Beatles’ “In My Life“ on their respective blogs.

Now, won’t that be cool?

It’s January, and that means one thing: Acme Low Carb Tongue Depressors, Inc.’s annual EMEA Sales Conference.

This year’s edition wasn’t in Scotland. It was in London; from where I’ve just returned.

Pictured above is your Virtual Tapas Bartender and his [strictly platonic] friend, Lisa Marie, taking part in the Conference’s most important session–a game of cricket at the historic Lord’s Cricket Ground.

Unfortunately, our game of cricket–and please, don’t ask me to explain the rules…because they remain incomprehensible even after the Lord’s staff’s patient explanation–and planned post-game guided tour were interrupted when that well-publicized wind storm swept in and literally blew the roof off of much of the facility.

Pity, indeed. But at least I walked away with a sporty, new sweater.

Next stop was a round-trip journey–complete with Champagne and…well, more Champagne!–on the absurdly enormous London Eye ferris wheel.

Although the damn thing is 443 feet high, I felt surprisingly calm throughout much of the journey.

Unfortunately…around the time when our glass-encased cabin had reached an altitude of 441 feet, it suddenly occurred to me that London (i.e., *this* London…not London, Ontario) has been on the receiving end of an uncomfortably ambitious streak of hardcore terrorism lately.

A realization that, perhaps, goes a long way toward explaining why the photos below seem a wee bit unsteady.

But the boondoggle wasn’t all fun and games. We focused–and focused intently–on a number of presentations discussing the present state of the low carb tongue depressor market and its projected trends.

At least, some of “we” focused intently on the market information. Others of “we” were more on the lookout for new and amusing corporate buzzwords. And, I’m pleased to announce, my favorite of the bunch was the following:

“BUDGET FLUSH!!!”

Noun or verb? I vote for verb…which would indeed describe, with frightening accuracy, how many Finance Departments throughout the world manage their companies’ coffers. [But certainly not Acme’s.]

And so, with yet another EMEA Sales Conference under my belt, I’ve returned to my home office for eleven more months of dotting “i’s”…crossing “t’s”…and lovingly running my fingertips over Felix’s G-string.

Who or what is “Felix?”

My next post will tell all. 😉