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How I lament the disrespect with which the Spanish wineskin, or bota, is treated in 21st century America. The bota, an essential tool for thirsty Spanish shepherds throughout the centuries and lovingly memorialized in the writings of Hemingway and Cervantes, has been reduced in the US to a vessel used by frat boys to smuggle peppermint schnapps onto ski slopes. What a pity. If more people were to appreciate the history and craftsmanship surrounding the bota, as well as the simple rules for its use and maintenance, then perhaps it would be treated with the respect it deserves. On behalf of Hemingway, Cervantes and my adopted country of Spain, I resolve to defend the bota’s honor in the paragraphs below.

The bota is as old as Spain itself, existing before wooden casks and bottles came in to use. It is said to have evolved from the pellejo, which is the skin of a largely intact goat carcass sewn and sealed liquid tight, and was used by Spanish families to store several months’ supply of wine. It was a line of pellejos that succumbed to the mighty sword of Don Quixote in the upstairs loft of the inn. The bota evolved as a small pellejo, holding approximately 1.5 liters of wine for individual use. No Spanish shepherd would dare tend his flock, or farmer work his fields, unless armed with bulging bota. Botas are still used in rural Spain, and have three common characteristics: they are made from goatskin, have a curved shape and impart a slight pitch flavor to the wine.

Making a quality bota is not like mass-producing tennis shoes in a Far East sweatshop. Rather, bota construction is considered an art in Spain and the botero a respected artisan. Bota-making is a labor-intensive process requiring a period of apprenticeship and a heavily calloused set of hands.

First, the hair of the goatskin is trimmed to a length of one centimeter and the skin is salted in order to close the pores. A pattern is then laid upon the skin and cut. The pattern-shaped skin is folded together, hair side out, and lightly stitched. The botero then intertwines several hemp threads to make one strong thread and rubs it with pitch so that it will pass more easily through the skin. The pitch-rubbed hemp thread is strung through a needle tipped with a stiff wild boar hair, and the bota halves are tightly sewn together. The botero keeps constant pressure on the stitching in order to assure a wine-tight seam. When tightly sewn, the bota is turned inside-out (so that the hair side faces in), wetted and inflated. The botero then pours a brew of hot pitch and olive oil into the bota and swishes it around to distribute it evenly. When the pitch cools, it clings to the hairs and renders the interior impermeable. Finally, the botero attaches a plastic spout (which, in bygone days, was fashioned from bone or wood), wraps the spout with a collar and attaches a carrying cord. Like a high-quality corkscrew or well-stocked cellar, the handcrafted bota is now ready to serve its thirsty master.

But how does one use and care for a bota? For guidance on this crucial matter, there is only one place to turn…a Spanish grandfather. As such, I sought the counsel of 78 year old Julio Montealegre, a lifelong Madrid resident who claims to have taken mother’s milk from a bota when Calvin Coolidge was in the White House. He gave me his ten commandments for use and care of a bota.

I. THOU SHALT NOT INFLATE A COLD BOTA. Never! When deflated, the two-sides of the bota will touch and, being covered with pitch, stick together. If you forcibly inflate a cold bota, you will likely tear the pitch from one of its internal walls. The end-result…a bota that can’t hold its liquor. A bota should be heated with a dry heat source (e.g., the summer sun or a heater duct) in order to soften the pitch before inflating.

II. THOU SHALT “CURE” A BOTA BEFORE THE FIRST FILLING. When you first unscrew and sniff the inside of a new bota, it smells like a freshly paved parking lot. “Curing” removes (or, at least, drastically reduces) this unappetizing bouquet. To cure a bota, pour in a cup of wine and a cup of brandy or cognac. Let it sit for two to three days, flipping the bota every 12 hours or so, and discard.

III. THOU SHALT NOT STORE SOFTDRINKS IN A BOTA. This is both sacrilegious and bad for the health of your bota. Softdrinks will eat away the pitch. Botas should only hold wine or liquors with an alcohol content less than 25 degrees.

IV. THOU SHALT NOT LEAVE AIR INSIDE A WINE-FILLED BOTA. Ignore this commandment if your goal is to dress a salad. There are two ways to avoid this problem. The most effective is to drink your bota dry during the same day that you fill it. Practical as this option may be, traffic police frown upon it. The next best solution is, after a good long drink, to hold the bota vertically with the spout pointed upward and gently yet steadily squeeze the bottom so as to force the wine upward. When you see the first drop of wine rising from the spout, screw on the cap.

V. THOU SHALT NOT HANG A BOTA. If you hang a bota, the pitch will drip down to, and accumulate in, the bottom. The result will be a bota that seems to have swallowed a tennis ball. A bota should be stored flat and horizontal. If the bota is empty, then it is a good idea to cover the spout with a small piece of plastic wrap before screwing on the cap. If the bota should accidentally slope downward and a drop of pitch migrates down and out of the spout, the plastic wrap will prevent the pitch from welding the cap shut.

VI. THOU SHALT NOT WASH AN EMPTIED BOTA. Soapy water will taint the pitch and, obviously, your next gulp of wine.

VII. THOU SHALT NOT PUT WHITE WINE IN A RED WINE BOTA. And vice versa. This is one of the few instances where the practice of segregation is encouraged.

VIII. THOU SHALT NOT BLOW CIGARETTE SMOKE ONTO A BOTA. Most Spaniards break this commandment, but it is still good advice. The bota’s leather absorbs cigarette smoke like a sponge. I once bought a bota from a smoky Barcelona bar. After several weeks of airing out, it still smelled like the Marlboro man’s finger. That smelly bota, for which a Spanish goat bravely gave its hide, ended up in the garbage…unused.

IX. THOU SHALT NOT PUT GOOD WINE IN A BOTA. The bota will impart a slight pitch flavor to any wine that it is filled with, so save your gran reserva for a crystal decanter. Nonetheless, pitch flavor or no pitch flavor, a less-than-stellar wine always seems to taste better when fired into the mouth from a bota held at arm’s length.

X. THOU SHALT NOT RUB A BOTA WITH SUNTAN LOTION. Mr. Montealegre concedes that few people would do such a preposterous thing, but his son-in-law once broke this commandment and ruined his bota. He therefore felt compelled to warn others.

Show a little respect! Slung over the shoulder during a sunny day’s hike (rather then stuffed under a ski parka during Spring Break), a handcrafted and well-maintained bota will provide its owner with years of bacchanalian pleasure.

Listed below is a survey of the business establishments in our beloved town of Cabanillas del Campo, Spain:

– Six (6) bars.

– Four (4) banks.

– Four (4) anything-for-a-Euro shops.

– Three (3) beauty salons.

– Two (2) grocery stores.

– Two (2) video rental stores.

– One (1) Spanish restaurant.

– One (1) Argentine restaurant.

– One (1) Italian restaurant.

– One (1) male clothing store.

– One (1) female clothing store.

– One (1) baby clothing store.

– One (1) bread shop.

– One (1) driving school.

– One (1) English language institute.

– One (1) pharmacy.

– One (1) hardware store (whose stock of useful items is limited, to say the least).

From this list, we can make the following generalizations about the needs, wants and priorities of our town’s inhabitants (affectionately known as, “los Campesinos de Cabanillas”):

– Buying booze is three times more important than buying food, and six times more important than buying medicine.

– Licenses are only granted to restaurants representing countries with good soccer teams.

– Personal bank accounts are either very large (because most things in town cost only one Euro), or very small (because townsfolk can only afford things that cost one Euro).

– Enrollment in driving classes and English classes are roughly equal. Presumably, this is because Spanish student drivers are confused about the four-letter English word printed on those red octagonal signs.

– Men, women and babies are generally well-dressed, whereas children and teenagers roam the streets nude.

The Spanish “menú del día” would be a miserable failure in the United States. After all, you can’t eat it while driving a car or typing on a computer. In Spain, however, the menu del dia is the centerpiece of each workday – and depending on one’s job satisfaction index, it may be the highlight.

A menu del día (or “Menú” – with a capital M, to show my deepest respect) is a fixed-price, three-course lunch that nearly every bar and restaurant in Spain offers Monday through Friday from 1:30 to 4:00pm. Each course provides two to five choices, from which you select one. First course typically consists of soup, salad or a vegetable. Second course is meat or fish, usually cooked a la plancha (i.e., fried on a skillet with a little olive oil) and accompanied by French fries or other vegetables. Dessert offerings might be fruit, flan, rice pudding, yoghurt or ice cream. And the charge for such an extravagant feast? A paltry 7-12 Euros, depending on the establishment’s location and level of snootiness. I should further mention that this price includes a basket of bread and a drink. We’ll talk more about the drink later.

Price is a big factor in the popularity of Menús, but it’s not the only one. We must attribute some credit to the food. I can assure you from four gluttonous years of experience that the food quality at Menús can be impressive, although I would caution against harbouring any delusions of Dover sole or Piedmontese white truffles. Menús also reflect regional culinary specialties. You are likely to find cocido Madrileño at a Menú in Madrid; or lamb chops with garlic mayonaisse at a Menú in Barcelona; or hake with green sauce at a Menú in the Basque Country.

Another reason for the popularity of Menús is cultural. The bars and restaurants offering Menús have stepped into a role that was previously filled by the home. In past years, when Spaniards were less mobile and agriculture was Spain’s main industry, most workers ate lunch at home. Many still do; especially when compared to the US. But Spain is now a modern, industrialized country in which accountants and management consultants are far more common than shepherds. These 21st century workers simply don’t have the time or desire to trek to and from home for lunch. But this is where the lunchtime similarities between Spain and the US end. Spain – mercifully – has not embraced the US-style practice of inhaling a Frito-Lay product from its plastic packaging or worse yet, skipping lunch altogether in the interest of increasing shareholder value or picking up the dry-cleaning. Spaniards are, like the French and Italians, a Mediterranean people who take eating seriously. Even the busiest, most nerve-frazzled Madrid executive will accept nothing less than a full, sit-down lunch when the clock strikes 2pm. Of course, it also doesn’t hurt that most companies here allow their workers a generous 1 ½ to two hours for lunch, and many provide lunch vouchers as a perq.

Or maybe it’s that Spaniards just love being in bars.

Speaking of bars, let’s return to the topic of the drink that’s included in the Menú price. This is one aspect of a Menú (or indeed, any lunch in Spain) that may shock the puritanical conscience of the average US observer: Namely, the presence of alcohol. Most Menús include a small (approx. 7oz.) glass of beer or a ½ liter of wine. A half-liter of wine! The wine tends to be well-chilled (to take the edge off) and comes in two categories: Vinegary and not vinegary; the latter of which is highly prized. And with the exception of pregnant women, odd is the partron who does not have at least one glass of something alcoholic with lunch. This would be unthinkable in the US. The returning worker would likely, upon the first sniff by Human Resources, get reprimanded (at least) or fired (at most). He would also be branded an “alcoholic” by colleagues and encouraged to follow whichever twelve-step counselling program is currently in vogue. Suffice it to say, the attitude in Spain toward the responsible consumption of alcohol during midday meals is more relaxed.

Of course, Menú diners who are not in the mood for a midday snort may instead choose a bottle of water. All Menús offer this option. Curiously, few offer soda. I think this is a good thing.

Lunch is typically followed with a cup of coffee. This is a wise move, considering the lethargy that’s likely to result after downing a half-liter of wine. Some Menús include coffee within the price, but most don’t. It is the coffee course that amuses me most. Why? Because it is common for Spanish lunch diners to either infuse or follow-up their coffee with…MORE alcohol. After all, what’s a meal without a digestif? Typical candidates are anis, orujo or brandy; each tipping the scales at 80 proof. These may be added directly to the coffee to create a carajillo, or drank straight from a snifter with or without ice.

If this doesn’t explain the continued popularity of post-lunch siestas, then I don’t know what does.

My sister Nina is not an adventurous eater. Her philosophy toward food can be summarized in five words: “Chicken good; all else disgusting.” To be fair, she does enjoy prime rib, Italian sausage and the occasional crab leg. I suspect, however, that she views these foodstuffs not for what they are, but rather as a form of genetically modified chicken.

Nina and I have had penetrating telephone discussions about our positions at opposite ends of the eating spectrum. Such discussions tend toward the following:

“What are you doing?” she’d ask from her home in Illinois.

“Just finishing dinner,” I’d respond from my home in Spain.

“What was for dinner?”

“Rabbit.”

[Pause]

“You ate Thumper today?”

“No. We ate Thumper last week. Today we ate his cousin.”

“That’s disgusting.”

“It’s not disgusting. Rabbit tastes really good. You should try it.”

“Right. I’m sure you’ll say it tastes like chicken.”

“But it DOES taste like chicken.”

“You say that about all disgusting foods.”

“Fine. It doesn’t taste like chicken. It tastes like frog legs.”

I had long considered it my brotherly duty to open her eyes, mind and palate to the wide array of food experiences that await even the mildly adventurous. I’d neglected this duty for years, however, because she was a reluctant participant. Plus she had a tendency to yank the shorthairs on the back of my neck when annoyed, and I wished to avoid this fate. But alas, an opportunity arose through which we both could be redeemed. She and her husband came to Spain for a visit.

Now she was on my turf. And thanks to a recent haircut that rendered those tempting shorthairs un-yankable, I confidently launched into a well-crafted plan of action. It began with a tour of Barcelona’s largest and most famous fresh food market, La Boquería. Here she was bombarded with stall after stall of lustrous fruits and vegetables. Each morsel oozing with that magical perfume found only in produce that has been picked when perfectly ripe. She marveled at the fish stalls. Glistening whole fish in diverse shapes and colors, all clear-eyed and smelling of the sea, were neatly arranged on mountains of crushed ice. She stared transfixed at the shellfish stalls sporting heaps of succulent percebes (barnacles), cigalas (Dublin Bay prawns) and navajas (razor clams) recently plucked from the icy waters of Galicia; the likes of which have never graced the shelves of A&P, Price Chopper or Safeway. She stood nose to snout with cochinillo (suckling pig) from Segovia, cordero lechal (suckling lamb) from Aranda and cabrito (kid) from Alcarria. Fresh meat that had not been sandwiched between a Styrofoam tray and a sheet of bar-coded plastic wrap? What a concept! I sensed her growing enthusiasm toward the bounty that lay before her, and wisely decided to forego a visit to the offal stall. A morning’s worth of accumulated enthusiasm might evaporate at the first sight of lamb’s brain.

Having fed her eyes at La Boquería, it was time to feed her tummy. We thus embarked on a rolling feast through Barcelona’s smoky tapas bars. Nina’s world began to expand. She delved into espinacas a la catalana (spinach with pine nuts and raisons), a dish that epitomizes the mixture of sweet and savory that is a hallmark of Catalan cuisine. She expressed profound love for the grilled green onions known as calcots, whose tender hearts are pulled from the charred outer husks and dipped in a nut-based Romanesco sauce. She sampled mushrooms, fava beans, flans and the grappa-like digestive called orujo. But she refused to budge at jamon ibérico (Spain’s famous cured ham), salt cod or the aforementioned cochinillo. This was troubling. She was a good sport up to a point, but that point ended where the “critters” food group began.

To overcome this hurdle, I asked for and received her husband’s blessing to serve a special meal on the eve of their departure…rabbit stew. Rabbit is the perfect meat for an unadventurous eater. Its flesh is firm, white, mild and lean. And yes, Viridiana…rabbit DOES taste like chicken. It even looks like chicken when cut into pieces. As such, I stealthily prepared the stew, brought it to the table in a steaming earthenware pot, and heaped a generous ladle over a Nina’s bowl of Valencian rice.

“What is it?” she sniffed.

“Oh…chicken stew,” I non-chalantly answered while sipping a glass of Rioja.

She inspected the bowl with exacting precision. Hmmm…carrots, onions, mushrooms and chicken-esque chunks of white meat. All seemed in order. She slurped the tomato and white wine broth, nibbled on a small chunk of the meat and then, visibly relaxing her shoulders, emptied the bowl and requested a second. At meal’s end, she asked the unthinkable.

“Can I have the recipe?”

“Sure,” I said, and handed her the cookbook opened to page 130.

“Sautéed Rabbit with Herbs?!”

“Indeed.”

She looked at me with the eyes of a jackal. “That’s disgusting!”

“Come on! It wasn’t disgusting three minutes ago when you finished your second bowl.”

“I didn’t know it was rabbit three minutes ago. You are so mean.”

“No I’m not. I’m just trying to…”

“I’m going to be sick.”

The visit ended the next morning without hard feelings. I felt satisfied that Nina had finally pushed the gastronomic envelope, and Nina felt satisfied that she had an amusing story to share with the folk back home.

Nine months later, my wife and I made our bi-annual trip to Illinois to spend Christmas with my family. On Christmas morning, Nina and husband arrived at my parents’ house bearing gifts. She handed me a wrapped square gift box. This was exciting. Whereas a rectangular gift box usually means a shirt, sweater or other boring item, a square one offers the possibility of martini shakers or Monty Python DVDs. I tore into the wrapping paper, opened the flaps and parted the red tissue. The booty lay before my eyes: a bottle of Boone’s Farm wine, a box of Kraft Macaroni & Cheese and a package of Twinkies.

“Good God,” I barked. “Boone’s Farm? Twinkies? Kraft Mac & Cheese? What? Why? This stuff is disgusting.”

“You should try it,” my sister smirked. “It tastes like chicken.”

When people discover that I’m an American expat, they always ask the same darn question: “What do you miss about the US since you moved to Spain?”

My typical response is, “Besides my family, not too much.” After all, Spain isn’t exactly a third world country.

Not everybody is satisfied with this response. Some even mistake it for sarcasm. To the contrary, my response is one of optimism. I’m quite happy living in Spain, and shouldn’t be made to feel sorry for it.

But I am also a team player and as such, I’ve compiled the following shallow yet well-intentioned list for the benefit of those nosey folk who insist that there must be something…ANYTHING…that I miss about the US.

THINGS THAT I MISS ABOUT THE US (IN NO PARTICULAR ORDER):

– National Public Radio: Yeah, yeah…I know that I can hear a live stream through the Internet, but it isn’t the same. Morning Edition should be savoured in a moving automobile; not through the tinny speakers of a Dell laptop.

– Buying English-language books in a store: Most large bookstores in Madrid carry several shelves of English-language novels, but they tend to be works by Dickens, Austen, and that crusty bunch. I’m not saying that being forced to read the classics is a bad thing, but sometimes – after a draining day of work – I prefer to curl up with a tale of Calvin Trillin’s latest dining adventure, rather than one of starving orphans forced to pick a pocket or two in Victorian London. God bless Amazon.com – but damn its shipping fees!

– The Food Network: Spain has its own home-grown version, but it’s a pale imitation. A cooking channel without Iron Chef just isn’t a cooking channel in my book.

– Pepper shakers on restaurant tables: C’mon! The infrastructure is already in place! Every restaurant table in Spain has a caddy for oil, vinegar, salt and pepper. So why is the pepper spot always empty?!

– Traffic lights located on the **other** side of the intersection.

– Light switches located on the inside of the bathroom.

– Reasonably authentic Cajun food.

– Reasonably authentic Mexican food.

– Drinks with more than two ice cubes.

– Restaurants with more than one waiter.

– Shopping from 2pm to 5pm, after 8pm, and on Sundays.

– The Daily Show with Jon Stewart.

– JIF, Skippy and Peter Pan peanut butters.

– Bagels!

* * * * * * *

And in the interest of full disclosure…

THINGS THAT I DON’T MISS ABOUT THE US:

– Driving to buy a loaf of bread.

– Shrimp without heads.

– Advertisements containing the phrase “Low Carb.”

– News sound-bites containing the phrase “the American people.”

– Jerry Springer, Geraldo Rivera and Ben Affleck.

– Country music.

– Exposed breast-o-phobia.

– Shag carpeting.

[Note: I would like to have added Fox News and JLo to this latter list, but it would be misleading. The truth is that I haven’t been able to escape these two irritants…even by moving to Spain.]

We were at Bar Alcázar this morning for our sacred Sunday morning coffees and muffins. It was 11:00am. Skeletor walked in and ordered an alcohol-free beer.

We pulled bartender José aside and asked, “What gives?”

“Doctor’s orders,” José informed. “He’s been forbidden to drink any more alcohol. Haven’t you noticed how badly he’s looked lately?”

Actually, no. To us, Skeletor has looked this badly since the day we moved here. But I suppose this is the type of thing that only bartenders notice.

Twice a day, an event takes place in our little town that brings traffic to a halt. Women and children freeze in their tracks. Homeowners peer tensely through their kitchen windows with a feeling of helplessness. You see…every day at 10:30am and 5:30pm, the Milk Dud Revolutionary Brigade rides roughshod through the sleepy town of Cabanillas del Campo, Spain.

OK, OK…so maybe I’m being overly dramatic. The Milk Dud Revolutionary Brigade is really just a placid flock of three hundred sheep and goats that are herded through town twice a day to graze. To be honest, there is nothing revolutionary about them. I just thought that this adjective would spice up the story a bit. The reference to Milk Duds, however, is appropriate. These critters leave a wide, speckled trail of them all about the streets and sidewalks through which they’ve passed. Once you’ve connected the dots through the streets of Cabanillas del Campo, following the Yellow Brick Road doesn’t seem quite so impressive.

The MDRB is based at ranch located a half mile from our house, and they graze at a different field each day. I suspect, however, that such grazing is of secondary importance since most of the flock dines quite heartily on flowers, trees and shrubbery planted by homeowners foolish enough to have built a house on or near the flock’s daily route.

The flock is led by two shepherds, four well-trained (albeit unkempt) sheep dogs and a donkey. One shepherd and the donkey take the lead, the four dogs flank the flock in staggered formation, and the second shepherd wipes up the rear – figuratively speaking, of course. This second shepherd is an interesting character. He is a balding man in his sixties who is partial to wearing straw hats. He carries a cane, but doesn’t use it as a walking aid. Rather, he wields it like a Viking battle-axe, which he gleefully whacks across the rump of any sheep or goat that has wandered more than four millimetres out of formation. What initially drew my attention to him, however, was his left ear. He doesn’t have one.

How the hell did he lose his left ear? After all, sheep herding isn’t an especially dangerous profession. The usual suspects of rural limb loss – i.e., combines and other mechanized farm implements – are more or less lacking from the daily life of a shepherd. I first speculated that the ear was gnawed-off by a goat enraged by one too many raps on the fanny by that cane? I quickly discarded this theory, however. Goats are herbivores and tend not to crave human flesh. My second theory took a more psychological angle. Perhaps this shepherd had an unhealthy fascination with the works of Vincent Van Gogh and Quentin Tarantino. Unlikely! He didn’t strike me as a man of the arts. In the end, I concluded that the answer to this (like so many of life’s other mysteries) could be found at Bar Alcázar, and resolved to tactfully broach the subject to José during a future coffee break.

I suppose this isn’t the stuff of a James Cameron movie. Neither Arnold nor Leo are likely view the role of a one-eared shepherd as being a prudent career move. Still, I find the MDRB’s daily sojourn to be an exciting event – and certainly not the type thing that I experienced with any regularity while growing up in Suburbia, USA. And there is a spicy side to living in the presence of the MDRB. Think I’m kidding? How does possible deportation from the United States register on your Spice-O-Meter?

Last December, we flew to Chicago to spend Christmas with my family. As we waited in the baggage claim area of O’Hare International Airport, I noticed a sign warning that incoming travellers who had recently visited a farm abroad must report themselves to the airport’s US Department of Agriculture officer. Foot and mouth disease had recently devastated Great Britain, and the US cattleman’s lobby was eager to avoid such unpleasantness on their side of the Atlantic. I thought nothing of this at first, but then…as the realization dawned on me…I lifted my foot to examine the sole of my shoe. There, clinging to the gap between two cleats, were the remnants of a flattened, hay-flecked Manchego Milk Dud.

This may someday cost me political office, but I must admit that I was unwilling to risk a vacation-spoiling deportation for the better good of a group of wealthy cattle ranchers. I therefore unlodged that sinister Milk Dud by clicking my heels twice and muttering “There’s no place like home…There’s no place like home.” An hour later, I was raiding my parents’ refrigerator with clean shoes and a clear conscience. Neither parent has since reported any adverse effects to their feet or mouths.

People often ask me, “Do you REALLY like working from home?”

To which I respond, “Love it!”

“What do you love about it?”

“Coffee breaks at Bar Alcázar!” is my standard response.

And I mean it. Bar Alcázar is easy to love. It is everything that Starbucks is not, and does not want to be. I make the five-minute pilgrimage to Bar Alcázar nearly every morning at 10:15. Without it, I feel incomplete, unfulfilled and, as María will attest, downright cranky. There are many reasons to love Bar Alcázar, but the main ones are listed below.

Reason #1: The décor.

When I named this web-log “Sal’s Virtual Tapas Bar,” Bar Alcázar was the image that I had in my head. You enter Bar Alcázar through a curtain of plastic beads, and then through a second curtain of cigarette smoke. Inside, the main bar area is done in colors reminiscent of Darren and Samantha’s living room on Bewitched. The lower half of the walls are covered with flat-tone beige tiles, and the upper half with dark green fabric wallpaper. Green fabric wallpaper! Doesn’t that make you want to fire up a Leo Sayer CD?

The ceiling is covered with textured, tan-colored ceramic tiles. I’m not sure if the tiles came in this color, or simply evolved to it after exposure to decades of cigarette smoke. Someday I will smuggle-in a squirt gun loaded with Mr. Clean and find out for myself.

The floor is difficult to discern, because it is usually covered with an ankle-deep blanket of litter. I have been told by a Spanish Civil War veteran that the floor is tastefully done in beige ceramic tiles, but I have no independent confirmation of this.

Reason #2: The clientele.

Bar Alcázar patrons come in three flavors: (a) shepherds and construction workers; (b) politicians and priests; and (c) drunks without borders.

Group (a) floods the bar each morning before 7:30 and again from 10:00 to 10:30. They are an impressive bunch that would cause a scandal in the US; not because of their behavior (which is always polite and orderly), but because of their diet. Without fail, each member of this group follows-up (or substitutes) his coffee with a glass of anis, orujo or brandy on the rocks. At 10:00am! I won’t bore you with an elaborate description of what these drinks are. It’s enough to simply state that each is 80 proof, and poured with a heavy hand by bar owners Antonio and José.

Group (b) appears at 11:00am. Bar Alcázar is across the street from the City Hall, and around the corner from the Catholic church. Much like at the White House, there is no separation of church and state at Bar Alcázar. Most members of this group drink only coffee, but then light up a cheap cigar to reward themselves for having the discipline to forego alcohol at such a tender hour.

Group (c) can hardly be called a group, because it is comprised of only one man. I shall refer to him as “Skeletor.” Skeletor is in his late 60’s/early 70’s, has reddish hair, pasty skin, poor posture and tips the scales at a whopping 110 lbs. He drinks a brand of red wine with which I am not familiar. I suspect that Robert Parker would be equally unfamiliar, as this wine comes in a clear glass bottle with a metal, pop-off cap. Skeletor talks a lot, although not necessarily to anyone within hearing distance. For the last two days, he has been drinking alcohol-free beer. I don’t know if I should be impressed or concerned about this.

Reason #3: The coffee.

Man, their coffee is good! It’s a creamy, almost chocolately concoction with no trace of the “essence of ashtray-water” that typifies Starbucks’s product line. I’ve often wondered why the café con leche at Bar Alcázar is so much better than everyone else’s. At first, I thought it was the machine. Bar Alcázar uses an Italian-made La Cimbali machine that looks old enough to be powered by vacuum tubes. I later concluded, however, that it is neither the machine nor the coffee nor the water that makes it so darn good. It’s the milk. Bar Alcázar’s café con leche is 25% coffee, and 75% steamed whole milk. I haven’t consulted the Spanish Food and Drug Administration’s manual, but I suspect that this drink would be classified as a “Milk Shake” for regulatory purposes.

* * * * *

Now, I know what you are thinking: “A dirty, smoky, poorly-decorated bar that serves good coffee to strange people who aren’t interested in coffee? You must be mad!”

But I’m not mad. And I am not the only one who has fallen under Bar Alcázar’s mystical spell. My prim and proper in-laws would not dream of visiting our town without a pit stop at Bar Alcázar. My own mother – a woman who normally unsheathes a samauri sword if a smoker comes within 50 feet – makes a bee-line for Bar Alcázar before her toothbrush is dry each morning when visiting from Chicago. And then there is the story of my friend Scott the Texan. Within one week after first crossing Bar Alcázar’s threshold, he marched into his boss’s office in Houston and demanded (and received) a transfer to Europe.

Bar Alcázar would indeed be embodiment of perfection, were it not for two shortcomings. First, I wouldn’t recommend eating anything that has not been sealed in plastic and opened before your eyes. Second, Antonio and José are relieved at 5:00pm by a bartender whom I shall refer to as “The Grimace.” Why do I call him The Grimace? Because he looks like McDonald’s Grimace, except that he is neither purple nor jolly. Not that I am especially bothered by The Grimace, or that I go out of my way to avoid him. It’s just that Bar Alcázar loses a bit of its charm when drinks are being served to you with a scowl.

I’ve not lost all hope for The Grimace, however. In fact, I think that he is finally warming up to us. Just last week, he barked “Gracias” as we paid our tab and left. At least, I think he said “Gracias.” Maybe it was just, “Grrrrr.”

People are quick to mock the Spaniards’ lisp. And rightly so. It does sound a bit odd. If a Madrileño were to enter a Tijuana bar and request “thinco thervethas,” he should not be surprised to exit with the band of his underpants wrapped around his forehead.

But what about the Irish? They have a linguistic quirk that is much more prominent than a mere lisp. You see, the Irish BURP.

By BURP, I don’t mean the audible expulsion of excess gas via the esophagus. I mean BURP as the acronym for Bad Use of Reflexive Pronouns.

For those of you who studied engineering, a reflexive pronoun (e.g., myself, yourself, himself, herself, ourselves) is used to reflect the action of a verb back to the performer. For example:

Seems straight-forward enough. And if everyone followed these simple rules, I might now be writing about that tasty chorizo sausage that I ate in Madrid last weekend. But the Irish have ruined the sausage-fest by taking artistic license with the humble reflexive pronoun. Here is a shocking example taken from an email that I received from an Irish colleague earlier this year. Only the names have been changed to protect my ass.

Let’s ignore, for a moment, the shockingly omitted comma after the word “below” and focus our energies on the two (TWO!) BURPs in this twenty-word sentence. I think we can all agree on the seriousness of this matter.

So what are we to do? How can we help the Irish help themselves out of this linguistic dungeon? Simple. We must, without exception, be diligent in showing the Irish the error of their ways. And responsibility for such diligence starts at the top. From the UN to the White House to Buckingham Palace, we need to start engaging the Irish in conversations like the following:

Do you catch my drift? All it takes is a little love, patience and guidance. And then, perhaps someday, the Irish will be speaking English even better the Texans.

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[Note from Sal: Obviously, this post is intended to be tongue in cheek. Just poking a little fun at my Irish friends and colleagues. There’s nothing in this post that I haven’t told them face-to-face. In fact, I think the Irish are great. Really! Without them, we wouldn’t have Irish Spring soap. So please…no hate mail or Italian jokes!]