Month: August 2004

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hey…man does not live on blogs alone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Puerta del Sol Blog

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

My Life as a Walt

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

Living in Egypt

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I just pray to God that nobody opens another bar.

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

I can see his point.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.