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Most sangría is not meant for human consumption. Rather, it is intended as a means to punish British tourists for their nation’s occupation of Gibraltar. The Mexicans have Montezuma’s Revenge; the Spanish have sangría.

To understand sangría, we must look at it from two different angles: the theory, and the reality.

In theory, sangría is a fruity, moderately sweet, pleasingly alcoholic warm-weather drink. Red wine, citrus, sugar, spice and an extra boost of alcohol are artfully combined, chilled until ice-cold, and served in a goblet. A good sangría should be everything that US-style “wine coolers” promised, but never delivered: a well-balanced drink that is not too sweet, not too spicy, and certainly not watery or fizzy. When made correctly, it’s a tasty foil to Spain’s furnace-like summertime heat.

But alas, theory and reality diverge quite radically. The sangría served at many bars and restaurants in Spain and abroad is downright blasphemous. There are countless ways to ruin sangria, but some are more common than others.

For starters, many bars and restaurants use – as the base for their sangría – the cheapest wine in their inventory…and thus, the most vile. This is significant, since wine comprises at least 95% of sangría’s content. Some places go a step further, by using the remains of unfinished wine bottles retrieved from tables after the patrons have left. I’m not joking. I’ve witnessed it first-hand.

Then comes the fruit element. Often, the sangría served in bars and restaurants resembles a well-moistened fruit salad. At any given moment, I envision a bartender opening a can of DelMonte® Fruit Cocktail and simply dumping its contents into a pitcher of wine. Restraint, gentlemen! Let’s use restraint! If you need to chew it, it’s not a good sangría. If you find yourself reaching for a fork, then trust me…it’s not a good sangría.

Then comes the liquid embellishments (not that sangría needs any). I’ve seen bartenders pour champagne, sparkling water, and – most shocking of all – 7-Up® (FOR GOD’S SAKE!) into their alleged sangrías. Can you imagine?! Aside from watering it down, these additions make the sangría fizzy. Gin and tonics should be fizzy; sangría should NOT!

Finally, comes the booze-booster. Bars and restaurants may add brandy, cognac, vodka, rum or schnappes to kick-up the alcohol-content of their sangría. It’s not the use of these liquors that I’m opposed to, but rather the quality. A bartender will rarely reach for a top-shelf liquor when perking up his sangría. Instead, he’s more likely to grab a bottle with no label or – worse yet – one with a label bearing the name of his liquor distributor’s daughter. He’ll then attempt to smooth over any harshness by dumping a heaping scoop of sugar into the mix.

And that, my friends, is the reality: cheap wine, too much fruit, cheap liquor, and lots of sugar. Is it therefore surprising that typical bar/restaurant sangría is so bloody awful? Methinks not.

But here’s the irony: Tourists LOVE the stuff!

I see them sitting at outdoor tables – their sun-blistered noses peeling like iguanas beneath corporate-logo’d baseball caps – downing pitcher after pitcher of sangría as if there were no tomorrow. And they would indeed be lucky if there were no tomorrow, because the tomorrow that awaits a sangría binge-drinker usually includes a Defcon-4 hangover.

Yet despite my sarcasm, I should make one point clear: I do like sangría. Very much so, in fact. But I like it on my own terms. And “my own terms” means that I make it myself. And so should you; so let me tell you how.

The sangría recipe listed below is the one that I use at home. I don’t guarantee that you’ll be hangover-free if you abuse it, but I do promise that the hangover will be well worth it.

Dear Sirs:

I’m sure that I speak for all aluminum garden shed consumers when I request that future shed models should require somewhat less than 497 bolts and screws in the assembly process.

I assume that the barrier to a more user-friendly garden shed is not technological. The technology needed to produce pre-fab houses and pre-assembled automobile components has existed for decades. Surely then, you should be able to develop and market an aluminum garden shed that homeowners can assemble in less than 15 hours.

I estimate that my current garden shed – which, by the way, required this entire weekend to assemble – will need to be replaced in the year 2010. If by such time your product line does not reflect the improvements detailed above, then I shall be forced to make my displeasure known by going out and buying a much larger house.

Sincerely,
Fat Sal

[Dictated, due to severe forearm cramps.]

You think I’m kidding? See for yourself. Our neighborhood grocery store is selling 68 cent bottles of wine. That’s less than one-third the price of Two Buck Chuck. Even a bottle of Night Train seems a luxury item in comparison.

I haven’t tried this stuff – nor do I intend to – but it makes you wonder: What does one do with a 68 cent bottle of wine? You can’t serve it to guests. I wouldn’t fill a bota with it. And its probably not even fit for cooking.

Aha! I’ve got it! The perfect use for such a wine: TOURIST SANGRIA!

Are you in Spain? Is a 1 Euro coin burning a hole in your pocket? Does your pulse quicken at the thought of owning a wicker napkin holder? Or a nylon, mini-backpack embossed with a Japanese cartoon character whose sex or species you can’t quite decipher? If so, then I have just the place for you: a 100 Peseta Store!

100 Peseta Stores are Spain’s equivalent of the US’s anything-for-a-buck shops. They are little mom and pop establishments that stock a wide assortment of items, the majority of which cost – not surprizingly – 100 pesetas; or 60 cents when converted to Euros. Merchandise ranges from essentials like mop heads and batteries, to “luxury” goods like wine glasses and decorative candle holders, to kitschy delights like incense burners and penis-shaped plastic key chains.

I’m not joking about the latter item. The 100 Peseta Store here in Cabanillas del Campo has two such key chains dangling proudly next to its cash register. They’ve been dangling there for months. I don’t know the reason for their low turnover. It could be that there’s no demand for key chains of this sort; at least, not for those that don’t vibrate. Or it could be that the woman behind the register simply refuses to part with them. Retail can, after all, be a lonely business. But let’s get back to the point.

I’m a big fan of 100 Peseta Stores. I can’t pass one without popping in for a gander. And apparently I’m not alone, because you’ll find one in nearly every town in Spain that has a population greater than 7, and in nearly every neighborhood in larger cities. Sure, much of what they sell are low-quality, off-brand, knick-knacks, but let’s not be snobbish. Browsing through a 100 Peseta Store is a great way to kill fifteen minutes; and a liver-friendly one at that. At the same time, it’s a painless way to scratch that compulsive buying itch that so frequently strikes.

Think of it this way. If you are hungry, you can satisfy the need just as effectively by spending 1€ at McDonald’s as you would by dropping 100€ at Arzak . Admittedly, your choice in this regard says a lot about whether you’re likely to ever see the inside of Buckingham Palace, but that’s beside the point.

The same logic applies to 100 Peseta Stores. If you are suddenly stricken with a compulsion to buy something – anything! – while walking down the street one afternoon, then wouldn’t it be better to blow 1€ on a smiling Buddha paper weight than 100€ on a pair of red, spaghetti-string sandals? My wife doesn’t think so, but I do.

If any of this sounds appealing, then start probing between the couch cushions for loose change because I’m going to tell you where to find the Holy Grail of 100 Peseta Stores. Ready? It is called “HIPERQIU” and is located at calle Fernán González, 31 in Madrid. This store is run by a Chinese family, and is densely packed with just about every item produced since the start of the Industrial Revolution.

Every item, that is, except red, spaghetti-string sandals.

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.