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Those little yellow balls that are floating in jars of pickles. What the hell are they?

The first to answer correctly wins my eternal gratitude…and the contents of that Buster Brown shoebox in the back corner of my closet shelf.

[Note: This is an essay that was recently published in Expatica Spain.]

I 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 home-made wine in the basement of his New York home. According to family archives, it tasted better in a salad bowl than in a wine glass.

My maternal grandfather attributes his longevity (ninety years old and counting!) to a lifetime of jug-wine consumption. That, and managing not to get blown-up during World War II.

My parents inherited the old geezers’ passion for wine, and mercifully raised the bar on quality. They refuse to drink any wines poured from a bottle with a screw-off cap.

But I, alas, have outdone them all. That’s because I am living in Spain—a land of outrageously good wines at outrageously low prices.

According to several websites that I consulted, Spain is the world’s third largest wine producer—trailing only Italy and France, respectively. I feel somewhat responsible for this achievement. Supply is, after all, driven by demand—and I contribute a helluva lot of demand to our domestic wine industry. If I should move to another country, Spain might quickly drop to fifth place.

This wasn’t always the case with me. When I moved to Spain six years ago, I was a confirmed beer drinker. My greatest passion was Belgian ales…with the surprisingly excellent US microbrews coming in second, and British Real Ales (bless you, CAMRA!) a close third. I wore this as a badge of honor. I was proud to be a connoisseur of fine beers, and rejected the perceived pretentiousness of the world’s wine drinkers.

My first brush with Spanish wines after moving here did little to realign those passions. Where did that first brush occur? At Spain’s many “menus del dia” (i.e., those ultra-cheap, three-course lunches that nearly every Spanish bar and restaurant offers during the workweek).

I was delighted to find that a half-liter of wine—and in some cases, an *entire* bottle—is included within the price of each menu del día. And I was even more delighted to find that I could drink this wine during lunch without fear of being branded a degenerate—as would surely be the case in the US. My delight evaporated when I tasted those wines, however, because they generally came in one of two categories—vinegary and overpoweringly vinegary.

On the bright side, at least I learned that the vinegar flavor could be tempered by drinking the wine ice cold. If only Grandpa had known this little trick.

But my attitude toward Spanish wines quickly changed when I ventured out of the bargain lunch sphere into the retail one. There was a small wine shop in the neighborhood in which I lived in Barcelona. In a small room at the back of the shop, the proprietor—a man whom I credit for showing me “the light” about wine…and whom I discredit for revealing himself to be a pathetic, drunken ass shortly thereafter—operated a tiny, hidden bar for “select” customers. This bar featured a small, ever-changing list of wines by the glass—each of which was hand-selected for its excellent price/quality ratio. It was as brilliant a marketing gimmick as it was an educational experience.

In tasting glass after glass—many of which the proprietor was too drunk to remember when tallying my bill at night’s end—I was able to explore (and finally appreciate!) the depth and quality of Spain’s vast offering of wines and wine regions.

The exploration continues to this day—although I have, by this point, developed some strong preferences. My favorite wines at the moment are from the region known as D.O. (Denominación de Origen) Toro—which produces a growing selection of big, strong, deep purple wines at ridiculously low prices. I am also deeply in love with the wines from D.O. Somontano, D.O. Costers del Segre and of course…my local D.O. LaMancha.

[Note to all wineries in the aforementioned regions: Please send the complimentary bottles and/or cases directly to my home—rather than to those Fanta drinkers in Expatica office.]

Apparently, I’m not the only one who believes that Spain’s wines are world-class bargains. At least once per month, some friend or co-worker from the US forwards me an article from the New York Times, Washington Post, Chicago Tribune or other publication in which the food critic or wine editor gushes about his latest “find” from Spain. If only they knew that I’m buying the same wines locally for 25-50% less.

If there’s a downside to Spain’s outstanding-yet-cheap wines, it’s that they are so…so…outstanding-yet-cheap. When I lived in the US, at least I could rely on my own tendencies as a world-class cheapskate to keep my wine consumption under control. A reasonably good bottle from Napa or Sonoma costs at least $10 in the US…and that hurts! But here…I can—with a little bit of research—buy a fantastic bottle of Spanish wine (for example, Finca La Estacada joven) for under 4€.

4€!!! That’s less than a bottle of Night Train, for God’s sake!

So…what’s my incentive to moderate? Some people may say “health reasons”…but I’m not convinced. If you want to debate this point further, however, then go talk to my ninety year old grandfather.

In commenting on my previous post about Absinthe, our friend The Big Finn noted with some alarm that I appeared to be growing a moustache.

I wasn’t, of course. It was just a combination of bad lighting and a five o’clock shadow. In fact, I haven’t worn a ‘stache since I posed for Brawny paper towels back in 1972.

But I had a bit of freedom this week, and figured…”what the hell!” I might as well grow a quick one. So here is the result after four days. I opted for a Frank Zappa meets Pancho Villa look…and threw in a Roberto Duran-type glare for good measure.

I don’t know if I should shave it off…or buy a Harley-Davidson.

My scholarly dissertation on Absinthe is now published in The Spirit World.

Check it out by clicking here.

Oh, and Mr. Big Finn… please take special note of the recipe at the end of the article.

I was in my backyard this afternoon doing the annual Spring-time edging, when the shadow of my neighbor Jesús appeared from behind the brezo.

“Sal…¡ven! ¡Ven aquí!”

I dropped my shovel and walked over to his house. Jesús whipped-out a cylindrical, foil-covered package and handed it to me.

“Wild boar sausage. I killed it myself. Very good with a glass of wine.”

I don’t know how many Hashers suffered bullet wounds so that I could be eating wild boar sausage (and drinking a glass of wine) while typing this post…but it was indeed a worthy sacrifice.

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again…Jesús is just alright with me.

[Note: Here is yet another essay that I’ve recently had published in Expatica Spain.]

Someone once said that, “A little knowledge is a dangerous thing.” That’s especially true when “little knowledge” pertains to a foreign language.

For those of us who were not born with the linguistic gifts of the average Belgian, navigating the peaks and valleys of daily life in Spain—in Spanish—can be fraught with peril. Peril, that is, not to the body—but rather, to the ego. Why? Because in the hands of the lazy or ill-prepared, a little knowledge of Spanish can lead to, at best, a good laugh—and at worst, an acute case of foot-in-mouth disease.

Here are some examples of what I’m talking about. Many of these were taken from my own checkered history of bilingual ineptitude. Others (particularly the less naughty ones) were the products of a brainstorming session with my good friend, fellow US expat and Vaughan Radio on-air personality, Drew Crosby.

EXAMPLE 1: “DYC.”

Based on a poorly-controlled, roundly unscientific study I’ve conducted over the past six years, the most popular liquor in Spain is Dyc. Dyc is a Scotch-style whiskey. It is typically mixed with Coca-cola and guzzled in disturbing quantities by twenty-something Spanish men. It’s also my first (and perhaps favorite) example of a false cognate. Why? Because this product’s name is pronounced “deek.”

That’s right…“deek!”

Why-oh-why some misguided marketing executive decided to name a brand of whiskey after the English slang word for male genitalia is beyond me. Perhaps he viewed globalization as passing fad.

But it gets worse. When Spaniards place their orders with a bartender, they don’t ask for “Dyc.” No…they ask for “Whiskey Dyc.”

Spelled differently but pronounced the same, the term “whiskey Dyc” in English slang means—are you ready for this?—alcohol-induced impotence.

Ironic, isn’t it? That which Spanish men routinely request, their English-speaking counterparts routinely deny.

EXAMPLE 2: “ESTAR CONSTIPADO/A.”

The Spanish phrase “Estoy constipado/a” means that the speaker’s head and chest are congested—usually due to a cold or allergy. But its English cognate (i.e., “I am constipated”) means congestion of quite another sort. Of course, none of my Spanish professors bothered to explain this subtle yet important distinction…and the results were predictable.

I was working in a large law firm in Barcelona, and sharing an office with another lawyer. My office-mate was a woman of immense beauty, elegance and professionalism. One morning during the month of March, she entered the office and slouched in her chair.

“Good morning,” I said. “How are you today?”

“Not very well,” she answered.

“Why? What’s wrong?”

“Estoy constipada.”

I sat there for several seconds, frozen in shock. And then, sensing an awkward silence, I uttered the first response that popped into my head.

“Well…what have you been eating for breakfast?”

EXAMPLE 3: “ESTAR EMBARAZADA.”

Pregnancy is a time of great joy. It’s certainly *not* a time of embarrassment—unless the father happens to be one of those idiots from Gran Hermano.

Unfortunately, the Spanish phrase “Estoy embarazada” implies otherwise to the English-speaking ear. It sounds remarkably close to “I am embarrassed.” But in fact, it means, “I am pregnant.”

Confusing, isn’t it? I suspect that I’m not the only man in Spain who has announced his pregnancy at a crowded dinner party.

EXAMPLE 4: “CUCURUCHO.” ALWAYS REMEMBER “CUCURUCHO.”

Even the wholesome world of ice cream can be a minefield. Take the Spanish word “cucurucho.” It sounds like the name of that wiry guy who delivered pizzas when you were a grad student in New Haven, Connecticut. But in fact, cucurucho means a cone for ice cream.

Please, please, please…remember the word “cucurucho,” because there exists a false cognate just waiting to humiliate you. That cognate is “coño.”

Let me be clear about one thing. This word does NOT mean cone. In Spanish, coño is [ahem] a gynecological term—but one so vulgar that no respectable gynecologist would dare utter it outside the confines of a bowling alley. And it’s a word that I misused once, and only once.

I was in the seaside town of Javea; between Valencia and Alicante. It was a hot summer day, and I spotted a cafeteria with an ice cream bar. I flagged-down a waitress.

“Hello. I’d like two scoops of coconut ice cream, please.”

“Would you like it in a bowl?” she asked.

“No,” I answered. “I’d like it in a coño.”

Bless the professionalism of that presumably underpaid waitress. Looking down at her shoes, she briskly plopped two scoops onto a sugar cone. Only her furled brow and quivering lower lip hinted at the tsunami of repressed laughter that struggled to unleash itself from the confines of her convulsing throat. When I was told of my error later that day, I had only one thought. Thank God that I opted for coconut ice cream, rather wild cherry.

On a separate but equally-important note, take care to use the correct gender when ordering chicken in Spanish.

OTHER MISCELLANEOUS EXAMPLES:

A “ganga” is not something to run from. It’s something to run toward.

An “éxito” is not a way out. It’s a way up.

A “carpeta” isn’t something that’s thrown onto the floor. It is thrown into a drawer.
 
If you have high blood pressure, then it’s not sensible to be too “sensible.”

The phrase “en absoluto” does not mean “absolutely.” To the contrary, it means “to the contrary.”  

And always remember…“cucurucho” means cone.

I suppose it’s strange that a thirty-eight year old man and his three year old daughter have the same favorite TV show. But that’s the case in my house. And the TV show is…LazyTown!

Spain’s Playhouse Disney channel started broadcasting LazyTown last year, and Inés and I were immediately hooked.

LazyTown’s central premise is encouraging kids to lead healthy lifestyles—with particular emphasis on exercise, eating fruits and vegetables, tooth brushing (“Twenty times up; twenty times down…”) and getting lots of sleep (“8:08…time for bed”). This may not seem revolutionary on its face, but the first time you watch LazyTown…you’ll immediately notice that it’s no ordinary kiddie show.

No other show looks like LazyTown. It uses a seamless mixture of live actors, puppets and computer generated images (CGI). The set design is funkalicious. None of the props have straight lines or right-angles—so things like buildings, furniture and picture frames look like they’re being slowly sucked into a black hole. The color scheme is big, bold and primary. The show has that distinct Yellow Submarine feel to it. Yellow Submarine, that is, with an extra hit of brown acid.

No other show sounds like LazyTown. Some of the actors have odd accents and, at times, use odd sentence structures. This drove me nuts during the first episode. I just couldn’t place the accent. So I carefully read the closing credits, and got my answer—LazyTown is filmed in…are you ready for this?…Iceland (for God’s sake!)!

LazyTown also has amazing song and dance numbers—full of tight choreography and funky, complex camera angles. And the songs are very, very sticky on the brain. The song “You are a Pirate” has been playing in my head for the past six hours. I’m sure that I’ll be labelled a dork for admitting this, but…I actually have several LazyTown songs downloaded into my iPod. Why do you think I run so much?

I don’t know how much it costs to produce an episode of LazyTown, but it must be a fortune. And since you’ll all be programming TiVo to record all LazyTown episodes from this day forward (screw the The Sopranos!), let me give you a quick rundown on the cast of characters:

Anyway…each episode usually involves Robby Rotten undertaking some crafty plot to make LazyTown lazy again and banish Sportacus forever. His plans are usually incredibly elaborate and involve his wearing disguises. Robby inevitably makes some headway (often by tricking one of the kids into doing something naughty or unhealthy), but then Sportacus saves the day, the kids learn an important lesson, and then everyone sings and dances a number.

I never thought I’d say this, but…I like LazyTown even more than Teletubbies. And I loooove Teletubbies. But that’s a post for another day.