Paying the premium

When I went to the hole in the wall to get some cash there was a turrón stall in my way. Turrón is a sweet confectionery, associated with the Spanish Christmas, made with almonds, oil, and sugar. In the average supermarket a 250g bar of turrón will cost about 2.50€, most supermarkets carry something slightly better at, maybe 10€ a bar, but most steer away from the handcrafted product because it is breathtakingly expensive. There are all sorts of varieties of turrón, but the traditional ones are the hard and brittle Alicante variety and the soft, oozing oil Jijona style. The varieties of turrón, with chocolate or fruit are really for people who don't like turrón; they aren't much to do with turrón and are trading on the name.

The chances are that if you have some turrón this Christmas, it will be ordinary production line stuff. You might like it; you might not; but it's unlikely to send you into paroxysms of delight. The same is probably true of the majority of foodstuffs that Spaniards tend to rave about and which they buy in truckloads at this time of year. 

For instance angulas, or baby eels, are another Christmas delicacy. I had a quick Google and you can get fresh ones at 118€ per 100g. If that's a little steep the alternative is something called gulas which are made from ground fish reconstituted to look like elvers. A packet of gulas costs a bit less than 3€. This is lumpfish roe as against caviar territory. 

Miguel Angel Revilla, four times president of Cantabria, and well known character, used to always present quality, expensive, anchovies from Cantabria on his official visits. The anchovies I buy for my sandwiches come in triple packs for less than 3€.

It's similar with prawns—what we Britons call prawns. I don't think I'll ever understand the differences in quality when buying the right and wrong type of prawns. Whether gambas blancas, gambas rojas, gambones, carabineros or langostinos are the best and whether the ones from Denia are better than those from Huelva or Garrucha. Not knowing can cost you dear. Six of the better variety in an ordinary restaurant cost me 48€. It still smarts and that was six or seven years ago now.

Faced with such price variations the majority of us tend to plump for something with an everyday cost or, maybe, we push out the boat and buy the next step up. Then, when we taste it, we wonder what all the fuss was about. The problem is that we've bought run-of-the-mill. Spaniards wax lyrical about their air-cured ham. It can be spectacular but you have to be willing to pay for the quality, acorn fed, variety and eat it sliced wafer thin. The ham that most of us get most of the time—in a ham sandwich or as a slice of ham on our breakfast toast—can be anything between average and chewing bacon.

The point I'm trying, so long windedly, to make is that Spaniards often enthuse about certain food products that you may find uninspirational. There are lots of classic dishes, firm Spanish favourites, that often seem very commonplace. Croquetas are a good example; lots have the consistency of wallpaper paste, are served semi heated and taste of nothing much but, if you strike lucky or know where to go they are exceedingly good. Paella is another dish where the difference between a made to order paella cooked with care and the proper ingredients has nothing in common with the bright yellow rice served as part of a set meal in a tourist restaurant. 

Lots of these foods are rolled out at Christmas - mantecados and polvorones, peladillas, roscones, turrón, angulas, gooseneck barnacles (percebes) while other, all-year-round favourites, get a special outing at Christmas—prawns, croquetas, ham, roast lamb, and around here even broth with meatballs (variously named pelotas, relleno or even faseguras). If you get the opportunity go for the quality stuff - it's usually worth the stretch.

Decline and Fall

Besides perfume and cars there are multiple adverts on Spanish telly for food. Particularly for fast food or franchised food chains - Foster's Hollywood, KFC, Domino's - or for quick to eat food - Casa Tarradellas pizzas, Yatekomo noodles. Now I'm not a discerning diner. I was a big fan of Spam, I like crabsticks and I still buy el Pozo meat products despite seeing the stomach turning documentary on TV. But I have to say that the adverts are putting me off a bit. The food is all so shiny and bathed in red or yellow sauce of dubious parentage. Eating with hands squidged over with sauce appears to be a positive thing.

I have a Spanish pal who is very set in his ways. From what I can tell he eats a lot of very traditional Pinoso food. If it's not local then, whether it's at home in a restaurant, he sticks to the tried and tested - grilled meat, stews, rice dishes and the like. I usually meet this friend around 12.30 so, a long hour later, I'm saying goodbye because I have to get home to finish preparing lunch. He occasionally asks what I'm cooking, Chicken and coconut curry I say, or cassoulet or even turkey fajitas and he looks at me as though I'm talking gobbledygook not just remembering what a cook book tells me.

I was telling this friend that we'd had a bit of a disappointment with a restaurant we'd gone to. We'd had some friends visiting who have a house on the coast. We'd planned to go to a local restaurant that does very traditional Pinoso food. Escalivada, pipirrana, fried cheese with tomato jam, bread with ali-oli and grated tomato, local cold sausages and the like to start. The main dish would usually be rice with rabbit and snails (the local paella), a rabbit stew or the big meatballs in broth. As the meal grinds to its inevitable conclusion, after the pudding, they give you mistela, the sweet wine, and perusas, the air filled cakes. Unfortunately the restaurant had a wedding reception that day, no room for us. We chose another restaurant, one we'd meant to try for ages. It was fine. It did lots of straightforward things like Russian salad, broken eggs, croquettes, prawns in garlic, patatas bravas blah, blah as starters. Mains were lots of varieties of fish, pork and beef served grilled or fried and there were also various rice/paella dishes. Nothing wrong with it. Absolutely fine. Eaten and forgotten.

So, back to my friend. I'm telling him about this. He says but surely the traditional food would be nothing new to your visiting friends if they have a house here in the province. I tell him that, on the coast there is plenty of food but that it's, generally, international. In fact I tell him here in Pinoso most of the restaurants serve food that would be equally at home in Brussels, Milwaukee or Nuneaton. He doesn't agree. He says it's easy to get paella on the coast. I know, from past conversations, that he goes to the same handful of restaurants time after time because that's where he can get what he's looking for. A self fulfilling prophecy. I try to explain what I mean. He's thinking of paella made individually, to order. He's not thinking about the stuff that served up in individual portions, microwaved hot as necessary, sold to tourists as the dish before the pork chop and chips.

Not that long ago the set meals, the menús, started with a choice of something like soup (fish, garlic, onion and seafood were favourites), possibly some pasta, maybe a stew like lentejas or cocido, maybe some boiled or grilled veg. The second dish, main course if you prefer, would be meat or fish, a pork chop, a chicken fillet, sardines, a piece of hake, maybe kidneys. The pudding would be ice cream, flan or fruit of the day. The food was hardly haut cuisine but it was something with identifiable ingredients. You could have coffee instead of pudding of course. The red wine was so rough it came with gaseosa (sugary, fizzy water) to make it palatable. White wine was a rarity and beer was beer - that's fizzy lager. The quality wasn't good but it was honest sort of stuff using cheap but straightforward ingredients cooked by someone who was a cook - it often involved using up yesterday's leftovers.

Nowadays the roots of the set meals are still the same but the choice is different. It's difficult to explain in a way but the style has changed, it's less honest. In the past the menú came with cheap ingredients - the cheap cuts of meat, only veg in season or something produced or hunted locally. Nowadays the ingredients are cheap because they are cheapened versions of what would once have been decent quality food - farmed, steroid fed, fish, chicken bred with oversize breasts and veg grown under artificial lighting in huge plastic greenhouses. The food is still rooted in Spain but it's not really Spanish. It's a bit like getting bangers and mash at the local pub in the UK with the sausages made with mechanically separated meat and potato out of a packet. Here it might be rice served with bits of pepper, chorizo and chicken.

It might be the puddings, the afters, the sweets that most highlight this change. The list of puddings after a Spanish menú del día is, no longer, three or four items. You will be offered any number of possibilities and every single one comes out of a packet that has been in the refrigerated display. More choice, less quality.

It's a real shame that those people chose that day to be married but I'd still like to wish them the happiest of lives together!

Inconsequential

Spain is, in essence, like the rest of Western Europe. Lots of freedoms, well organised and safe. That doesn't mean it's hard to find things to complain about. People complain in France, in Norway and in the UK. It's dead easy to moan about Spain. On the macro scale watching the continual bickering and backbiting of national level politicians or the point scoring over laws that only paid up members of the KKK could be against in essence (anti rape or protecting animals) is so wearing. On the micro level small, everyday, things like the outrageous banking charges or the scandalous unreliability of official websites seems depressingly inevitable.

On a day to day level though I keep running into tiny things that make me grin from ear to ear. So, this week a bit of positivity and, with a bit of luck, a bit shorter too.

A Sunday morning, nothing planned, my partner busy with something in the house, too busy to come out to play. I popped over to have a look at the cypress tree maze at Onil. It was a nice enough as mazes go. I liked it. The maze was beside one of those places where there are picnic tables, merenderos. It was approaching lunch time so the public barbecues were in full swing. Kids ran around, playing, while their families unpacked food from cold boxes, unwrapped offerings in silver paper. The sun shone. I thought it was sweet.

I asked Google maps to take me home from Onil. It did that stupid thing that it does when it tells you to go South West, and, having no idea which direction is which you go North East. Instead of turning you around Google finds a route. I was taken on an 8 kilometre detour to end up about 200 metres from where I'd started. But the scenery was absolutely brilliant. Hills and pines and mountain passes and cyclists and walkers kitted out in full Decathlon even though they were treading tarmac. More grinning.

We ate with Spanish friends in Elche this last weekend. It's become my habit to take local products from Pinoso - sausage (think salami rather than Wall's bangers), olive oil, cheese, wine, cakes and pastries. This time it was a selection of the sliced sausages, some perusas (the melt in the mouth cakes often served with the sweet mistela wine) and a toña (a sort of sweet bread in a loaf sized loaf) and only one bottle of wine. We talked about the cakes and the sausage for at least 10 minutes before we drifted to the inevitable discussion about paella. What it should and shouldn't contain, which is the most authentic sort of paella and when does paella become rice and things? Jamie Oliver's crime of adding chorizo to something he dared to call paella was still fresh in the Spaniards minds even though it happened in 2016! It is simply outstanding how easy it is to have a conversation with Spaniards about food. Amusing too. 

We went to see a "pop group" called Pinpilinpussies at L'Escorxador. The band is two women; angry young women in the John Osborne sense. Angry about how women are treated and angry about the dominance of Madrid in Spanish life. They were very loud and the sound balance was completely off. I couldn't work out most of their English language lyrics nor their between song patter in Spanish. My partner didn't like the concert at all but I sort of did. I thought it was full of life, it reminded me of my outings to see punk bands in the mid seventies. I like the Escorxador as a venue. I thought seeing a band, who have a certain following, for 3€ per seat was incredible. I just love the easy and cheap access there is to culture in Spain.

For some reason there's some sort of thing about the month of Thursdays before Lent in Alicante. In Monóvar there are walks to celebrate the time honoured tradition of trudging into the countryside for a bit of an afternoon snack. In Aspe they too go out picnicking on the last Thursday before Lent and that has turned into a sort of community based musical review show - las Jiras. The Monóvar picnic was nothing special but I was glad I did it. The Jiras I enjoyed because it was full of that community continuity feeling that pervades so many Spanish events. I suspect that people I know would describe Las Jiras as a bunch of people singing badly in stupid fancy dress. I found it life affirming.

I have more, all from this year. Moors and Christians in Bocairent, Carnaval, the book club, talks by famous writers, the Med sparkling and free art galleries but I promised brevity.

Food festival in Pinoso

We had a couple of pals who moved from Pinoso to the coast. One of the reasons they gave for their move was that the food in Pinoso was a bit boring. Its true that if you're after Mexican or Thai or French cuisine then Pinoso isn't the perfect spot. I suppose it's a matter of taste (sic) but I definitely like the local offer. And you'll know, if you've ever got past the most basic conversation with a local, that food is a safe, and always interesting, conversation in Spain. If Brits talk about weather then the Spanish talk about food.

Every area of Spain has its specialities and every region is quite sure that they have the best food. The one thing that all Spaniards agree on is that Spain has the best food in the world. 

There is something very purist about Spanish food. If you're British, and you eat meat, then your Shepherd's Pie is not quite the same as your mum's or your brother's. You add garlic or tomato or mushrooms and they don't. This doesn't seem to be the same with the Spanish. If the recipe for tortilla de patatas says eggs, potatoes, salt and oil then that's what people think should be in it (there's a debate about whether tortilla de patatas should, or should not, have onion). That's why Jamie Oliver was pilloried for adding chorizo to paella. If he'd avoided the name and said I'm going to make rice and things (arroz con cosas) nobody would have batted an eyelid.

Pinoso is proud of its food. As well as things like the rabbit and snail rice, the rabbit stew, the meatballs in broth, the garlic pancakes and the sausages there is a pride too in some of the local biscuits (the rollitos), cakes and pastries (like perusas, toñas and coca). One of the things that often tickles me is that I'll say to some local that I had a particularly good rice, a paella, in this or that restaurant (in the company of lots of Spaniards) and they say they really should invite me around to try the paella made by their gran/mum/aunt because it's better than anything on offer in the overpriced restaurants.

Anyway, each year Pinoso runs something called the Mostra de la Cuina de Pinos. Well it does when some inconvenient virus doesn't make everything very difficult. It's a showcase for the local food. The idea is clever and simple. A certain number of the local restaurants participate. On the same date the main dishes, and a couple of the starters, are the same in all the restaurants but all mark the difference by adding in extra starters. Each restaurant also gets let off the leash a couple of times during the festival when they offer a tasting menu. The more "popular" dishes, the rabbit stew and the rice with rabbit and snails, get a reprise with two outings each.

The participating restaurants this year are Alfonso, el Timón, la Torre, la Vid and el Poli. There is a bit of a variation in price. Alfonso is charging 40€, la Torre 35€ and the rest 30€. The difference in price may be a reflection of the policy of each of the restaurants but it may also be reflected in the style and number of the "extra" starters. 

The main course on 15th February is gachamiga (the garlic and flour pancake), on the 16th it's fasegures or pelotas (the meatballs) on the 17th it's ajos pinoseros con conejo "picat" which is a rabbit and garlic shoots dish. The gazpacho (the rabbit stew with the "pancake") is on the menu for the 18th and 25th and the rabbit and snail paella on the 19th and 26th. All of the restaurants do their tasting menus on the 20th and 27th.

All of the information is on this link. Be careful if you just Google the event as Pinoso Town Hall hasn't updated its website (how unusual) and they are showing the 2019 menus and prices! If you've not done it before, and the prices don't make you blanch, it's well worth the experience but you'll probably need to book up early as it tends to be pretty popular.

Keep it simple, stupid

I bought some porridge oats the other day. The supermarket ones were missing from the shelf so I shelled out double the price for some branded ones, Oatabix. There was a label on the side of the packet. It was a bit like the label you get on electrical goods to show how energy efficient they are. The one on food is called Nutri-Score. I'd never seen it before but it's simple enough. Green is good, orangey yellows are okey dokey and red is a certain ticket to purgatory.

Apparently the French invented the label using some UK Food Standards Agency scoring system. It uses seven indicators: energy (lots of calories) -bad, sugar -bad, saturated fats -bad, sodium -bad, fibre - good, protein - good. So far, so good. It's not that hard to see the sense. Obviously it's an oversimplification but that's the idea; to make it simple and fast. I think it's a good idea.

Now, imagine you're Spanish and you think that the Mediterranean diet is the bee's knees even though you actually eat McDonald's and Domino's pizza when the opportunity arises. The shorthand idea of the Mediterranean Diet is about lots of salads and fruit, a good deal of wine, some nuts, plenty of fish and litres and litres of olive oil. In fact, apparently it's much more complicated, it's a whole lifestyle. I wrote a blog about it a while ago should you care to look.

So the Spanish Government has recommended the NutriScore labelling system (EU laws don't allow countries to unilaterally impose their own food labelling system so it can only be a recommendation). The trouble is that it gives extra virgin olive oil a sort of midway label and that other star of Spanish cuisine, jamón ibérico (a cured ham), a similarly coloured label. Yesterday on the TV news journalists were out in the street with a can of diet Coke in one hand and a plate of 5Js Iberico ham in the other asking people which they thought was healthier. They did the same with tomato ketchup and olive oil. You can imagine the indignation.

Bacon butties

I have a friend who's been vegetarian for as long as I've known her and that's nearly 50 years. Back in the 1970s she said that the one thing that had made her waiver, when she first stopped eating meat, was the smell of cooking bacon. 

Bacon sandwiches are a bit of a Thompson family tradition at Christmas time. I like them best with white, flat bread, with butter and with the bacon tending towards crispy. Bacon sandwiches are easy enough to buy in bars in Spain though they're not entirely to specification. They usually come in baguette type bread and, when I order one, I'm usually asked if I want "just" bacon which Spaniards find a little odd; the usual suggestion from the server is to add a little fried cheese or at least some mayo. There is only one remaining chain of fast food sandwich shops in the shopping centres of Spain and they sell lots of bacon rolls from basic ones with just cheese added through to ones that are full of crispy chicken, lettuce, tomato, BBQ and tomato sauce. 

When we lived in Ciudad Rodrigo we used the, now sadly closed, Jamonería cafetería Castilla. The first time we went in there we were met by the unmistakable smell of frying bacon. They were serving the bacon on toast. I asked for a bacon toast. "It's not bacon," said the waiter, "it's papada." I didn't know the word papada so he mimed; it translates as double chin or jowl. It still tasted good.

Anyway, New Year's Day today so bacon sandwiches were the order of the day. I'd bought lots of bacon before the holiday including some from our local supermarket branded with the Union Flag and promising prime British back bacon. It wasn't cheap. When I fried it up on Christmas Day lots of white liquid formed a scum on the bacon. Obviously it was bacon injected with water to make it look juicier. I drained off the water added a drop of oil and fried it up again. It tasted fine but the experience was a bit disappointing. The packet I opened this morning was the more usual Spanish style smoked streaky bacon. This stuff is cheap. It looks cheap. It's produced by huge food conglomerates like Oscar Mayer (Kraft Heinz I think) and by big local companies like el Pozo or Selva. It does not inspire confidence. As I fried it up fat in the bacon melted and the bacon fried "naturally" without extra oil or fat. It tasted better than the British bacon. It reminded me of those packets and packets of ready prepared stuff we'd seen at the British supermarket the other day. A sad reflection on modern food I thought. 

Horlicks and a Wagon Wheel, please.

One of my early blog entries was about Spam. I was probably suffering withdrawal symptoms and I'd just discovered the delights of mortadella. I must like fatty meat products of doubtful provenance because the other day I was attracted to the design on a tin which showed some sort of processed meat. It was called magro and I don't remember having tried it before. Magro is unmistakably similar to Plumrose plopped ham with chalk - if you're old enough you'll remember the TV advert and if you're not your mind will still be nimble enough to work it out. As I sampled the magro I wondered if there was a blog to be written about the Spanish things that had replaced what had been UK staples. Cola-Cao for Cadbury's Drinking Chocolate, Hero bitter orange jam for Robertson's or Frank Cooper's marmalade and so on.

No, that wasn't blog material. Far too mundane. Most of it would simply be about trade names. There are some things, the sort of things we occasionally get a hankering for, from Quality Street and Ovaltine to Piccalilli and English mustard, which can be tricky to get hold of but capitalism is a wonderful thing and, if there's a demand, there'll be a supplier. Where we Britons gather together, on the coast for instance, there is usually someone ready to scratch that itch be that Walker's crisps or Bovril. To some extent it happens in Pinoso where HP Sauce and Heinz Sandwich Spread rub shoulders with the Ybarra mayonnaise on the supermarket shelves. The only indispensable item, British style tea, is fortunately available from Mercadona supermarkets which are everywhere even in the places where Brits only pass through on their way to somewhere else. Anyway nowadays there's always an online supplier. 

I wondered if I could focus the blog on the things we'd had to forego. The staple things. The only thing that came to mind was milk. When we first got here fresh milk was hardly available and we had no option but to make do with UHT milk in cartons. If I ever could taste the difference I can't any more. When I occasionally do get to the UK I fondly expect the tea to taste better for fresh milk but it doesn't. In fact fresh milk is readily available here nowadays but we don't ever buy it. That aside I couldn't think of a single thing. I asked Maggie and she told me that there were far fewer varieties of sugar - no Spanish caster sugar and no soft brown sugar for instance. Then she remembered that, in the past, there were no chillies to be had either. That's no longer a problem for us. One of the local supermarkets carries them probably just for we islanders. Spaniards don't, generally, care for spicy food so chillies are a bit unusual. My guess would be that it works the other way around too. Rabbit is a very common meat here, available in the smallest supermarkets, and I'm sure that it's available in the UK from specialist butchers and probably from M&S or Waitrose but it's hardly a staple in most households.

The only time that the food supply here is at all problematic is when you decide to try something that is a bit different. The sort of meal you build from a recipe which calls for the sort of ingredients that are not kitchen cupboard staples. So, whilst quails eggs and panceta might be a bit exotic in the UK they aren't in Spain. On the other hand sesame oil, tahini or garam masala would be tricky ingredients to find in Spain.

This means that some commonplace British food is difficult to prepare. Thai curry would be an example. My guess is that nowadays it's probably student food in the UK but I'd be surprised if anything but a small percentage of culinary adventurous Spaniards have ever tasted one. In that case you're going to need the Internet or maybe a touch of space in the suitcase of those visiting UK friends to supply that fish sauce, shrimp paste, the makrut lime leaves or even the thai curry powder.

So no. Apparently there's no blog there.

Food heresy

People, in general, seem to be very interested in food. Spaniards certainly are. I think I've said before that the first time I ever managed to catch the drift of a conversation in Spanish, when I presumed that the discussion would centre on Wittgenstein or Nietzsche or, perhaps, the novels of Kafka it turned out to be an impassioned debate about the pros and cons of adding peas, or not, to some sort of stew.

Spanish food tends to plainness. Spicy is, generally, not seen as good. Recipes are often traditional and made from the ingredients to hand. It's permissible to argue about whether tortilla de patatas should have onion or not but basically the recipe is eggs, potatoes, oil, salt and nothing else. Woe betide the TV chef who thinks a clove of garlic or a couple capers might spice it up a bit. That's why Jamie Oliver got so much stick about chorizo in paella. Paella and arroz (rice) are interchangeable words in some situations but paella has fixed versions. If you want to cook rice with things in it that's fine - to each their own - but if you want to call it a paella the ingredients are limited and unalterable. The Spanish thinking is that you should not tamper with perfection. That perfection may be in anything; there are strong opinions about everything from black pudding, ham, cheese, cherries and oil through to how to serve suckling pig or what the perfect squid sandwich looks like.

Given this interest and passion for food the quality of the fare in run of the mill restaurants is really surprising. The menú del día, the daily menú, the set meal, is a Spanish institution. It's becoming less fashionable in big cities but it's still available all over the place. They're cheap enough and they're usually fine. There are (routinely) three courses and the price varies but let's say that they're about 10 or 11€. I can't remember though the last time that I ate a menú that really impressed me. Let me say again that they're fine. Perfectly edible, occasionally imaginative, extremely good value and plentiful. For me a bloke in a restaurant in a restaurant in Elda summed up the usual situation. To the habitual question, from the server, asking if the food had been good the chap avoided the equally inevitable reply and said "normal" which translates as fine, fine in that not wishing to get involved way, fine with the provisos of mass catering, fine in the way that someone with persistent arthritic pain answers the question as to how they are.

The prompt for this post came because we had our first menú for over three months this Sunday, in Santa Pola. The 12€ included a salad which was fine, a bit overcold and lacking in the usual spoonful of tuna top centre. The mushrooms in a such and such sauce sounded great but turned out to be deep fried McCain type jobs. Blindfolded I wouldn't have known what I was eating but they were fine. I had the cachopo as a main which is a dangerous choice - it's basically a battered steak, cheese and ham fritter - they can be quality food and yet so many times they taste like something out of a freezer at Iceland. The watermelon was nearly frozen but fine and the coffee was okey dokey too. Uninspiring, forgettable and perfectly acceptable. I wouldn't ever go back to the eatery out of choice but if that were all there were then, well, fine.

Now lots of people would disagree with me and I plead guilty to being old and grumpy. We have a local Indian restaurant. People keep reporting how good it is both face to face and in the social media. We thought it was average to poor when we first tried it within days of its opening. We listened to the rave reviews and we thought, maybe, they'd needed to get into their stride so we tried again. I thought it was poor. Covid 19 strikes and the restaurant is quick to take advantage of the rules and pushes its takeaway menu. The reviews from Brits are eulogistic. It must be me, I think, so we spend with them again. Terribly boring and rather unpleasant was my critique. Now maybe it's just me. Then again no, because, every now and again we bump into a restaurant, and it's never a menú place, where the nuances of the food are important, a place that reminds me of that conversation about the rightness, or not, of peas in a stew.

Down the bar

I was in a bar this morning. The bar is called Arturo but the boss isn't; his name is Salvador or Salva to his friends.

Arturo is a nice bar, an ordinary bar. Plenty of Britons use it but we tend to be mid or late morning users. Earlyish morning it's a pretty Spanish environment. Clientele wise it's for anybody and everybody from pensioners and office workers to parents on the school run and working class blokes.

From what I can gather lots of Spaniards seem to leave home without a decent breakfast. I get the idea that most shower the night before so they're ready to go in the morning. It seems to be up and out rather than dawdling over toast and cereals. But regular food stops, and a real interest in food, are very Spanish traits. Anytime between nine and eleven in the morning overall wearing blokes down tools and open up their lunch-boxes. In a similar time slot bars the length and breadth of Spain fill up with people getting something to eat as a sort of more substantial mid morning breakfast.

Back in Arturo's it's around ten-o-clock and I'm sitting at the bar waiting for someone who never turned up. The noise level is high, I mean high, really high. Spaniards are not particularly quiet people as a rule, especially where they feel comfortable. It's not class related. The after show hubbub in the theatre lobby and the noise level in a truck stop transport cafe are pretty much the same. In Arturo's, every now and then, laughter, raucous laughter, breaks through the general din. The young woman who's only been serving here for a couple of weeks looks a bit shell shocked. Salva is working like some sort of machine handing out bottles of wine, bottles of vermouth, cans of soft drink, finger spreads of wine glasses. Ice chinks, the coffee machine hisses, the door bangs. Salva can I have more bread?, What's that there Salva?, Salva give me some of those red chorizos, Gachasmigas Salva, Three with milk and one black when you can Salva, Toast with cheese and tomato today Salva, Salva, how much is that?, Go on then Salva I'll have a brandy too.

A group of four men hit the bar at the same time, two of them have their shoulders against mine, they all have that sort of workshop smell - oil and grease. They're talking to each other, they're asking for things. Salva is answering all four of them and talking to the cook in the kitchen at the same time. I marvel. It's not something new, it's not something unknown, it's not even surprising but I did notice it and it did make me chuckle.

Sorry about the snap. I didn't have any pictures of busy bars and none of the Google ones were any better.

Blood, fuet and tears

What goes into a paella is a bit of a moot point. Valencian paella usually contains white rice, meat (usually chicken or rabbit) garrofó (a sort of bean), saffron and rosemary and, of course, olive oil. There are plenty of variations but most of them replace or add to the meat with, say, snails, seafood or fish and the beans with maybe artichokes or cauliflower. You may remember that, a couple of years ago, Jamie Oliver the British chef, suggested a paella made with onions, carrots, parsley, red pepper, tomato puree, chicken stock, frozen peas chicken thighs and chorizo. He received death threats from enraged Spaniards. They were appalled by the recipe in general but especially about the inclusion of chorizo. I suppose it is a bit like calling something made from quorn and onions in a soy  sauce gravy topped off with mashed yams a Shepherd's Pie. I doubt though that the British newspapers would be able to mine the rich seam of national outrage in defence of the Shepherd's Pie.

Unless I'm very much mistaken chorizo is now commonplace in the UK. So popular, so common, that the pronunciation is no longer the chorritso of a few years ago to something much closer to the Spanish - Choreetho. Chorizo is made by coarsely mincing pork meat, adding seasoning and paprika before pushing the mix into sausage skins which are hung to cure in a nice dry place. Apparently this type of curing without smoke and without salt and where the meat sort of gently rots down is called fermentation curing. Anyway, however it's made chorizo is plentiful in Spain. Any supermarket will have it in a variety of shapes and forms. Some is cheap and some isn't, some is spicy and some isn't, some is obviously produced in huge factories and delivered in articulated lorries and some is made carefully by someone who would be happy to do a radio interview about it.

Stick with me whilst I drift.

In choosing a book I generally work from reviews and lists published somewhere - "Our top ten picks for the beach this summer", "Fifteen new Spanish writers you should get to know" and so on. It is remarkable how many of these books seem to be set in Catalonia or to include Catalan themes. I read the latest Isabel Allende the other day. Nowadays she's a US citizen but I still think of her as Chilean. Her story, about Spanish Civil War refugees taken in by Chile, was full of Catalan words and characters. The book I've just finished was going to be about Catalonia because it was originally published in Catalan. The story is set amongst country folk in the High Pyrenees. There was lots of description in the book and I noticed that in amongst the myriad food references several places smelled of cheese and fuet.

Fuet is a thin, dry cured, solid, pork meat sausage flavoured with black pepper, garlic and, sometimes, aniseed. It has a white appearance, as though it has been sprinkled with flower, though the white is actually a fungus. I'd never particularly associated fuet with Catalonia though, when I thought about it, the name is obviously Catalan. So chorizo is a sausage and fuet is a sausage.

Spain has lots and lots of sausages. If I were to buy chorizo I know there are choices to be made. Any old pig or the little Iberian black jobs? Fed on commercial feed or raised free range on acorns? Basically the cheap stuff or the quality product? On the other hand I just buy fuet. In the same way as I would never associate hot dog sausages, Wieners, with quality meat I've always presumed that fuet was in the same sort of class, made from the the scrag ends. If I were to think about, and I never had till I read Irene Solà Saez's book, I would imagine fuet being produced in an enormous factory stacked with giant killing machines where all the workers wear hairnets and white wellies and smoke a quick ciggy at break time. The sort of place that, every now and then, is infiltrated by undercover journalists who film heartless workers laughing as they do something disgustingly barbaric to terrified blood spattered pigs standing in their own excrement. But, maybe not. If the Pyrenean houses named Matavaques and Can Prim smell of fuet and cheese there must be quality stuff to be had.

Practical research is called for.

Food habits

Patricia and Jason have just opened a new Bed and Breakfast business here in Culebrón - the Sunny Vista Casa Rural. They've done a really nice job on it too. It looks great. As a double celebration, for both the opening and for Patricia's birthday, the owners hosted a party. Never ones to miss out on a knees up Maggie and I turned up at around 3.30 pm, in the middle of Spanish lunchtime, when most locals would be eating at home. Later I was both surprised, and pleased for the Batram's, that so many of the villagers put in an appearance.

Forty some years ago I had a Spanish couple stay with me in Peterborough. They flew into Heathrow so I took them for a pub lunch in Windsor. "You'll have to try British beer," I said, to Jaime. He literally spat it out. "It's hot," he said, "like broth." For the rest of the holiday he would only drink lager. He never complained about the taste of that terrible, 1980s, fizzy, British lager but he did complain about its temperature over and over. Oh, and he was nearly as peeved at all the spicy food we ate like English mustard, horseradish, chilli sauce, curry and brown sauce. More recently my pal Carlos took a holiday in the UK. He and his family enjoyed themselves. Carlos was really impressed with the concept of pies and he thought gravy was a splendid invention. They couldn't understand why there was no bread on the table though - there nearly always is in Spain. He said they had to ask over and over again. We all have our ways.

Back at Sunny Vista I was talking to someone alongside the table loaded with food: quiche, potato salad, coleslaw, ribs, cocktail sausages, crisps, nuts, salads, burgers, enormous prawns, chilli con carne and lots more. Several of the Spanish neighbours were there too, plate in hand, eyeing up the food. I explained a few things - sausage rolls for instance - but I thought most of it was obvious enough. I realised afterwards, when someone asked me if there was any ham (Spanish type ham), that they thought it was quite an exotic spread. They were as lost as I am when friends in the know order up lots of Indian side dishes and I have no idea what they are.

Food is a common topic of conversation here. Spaniards like eating and generally have a poor opinion of British food. When I'm asked, by Spaniards, about food in the UK I used to rack my brains for the traditional foods, the sort of stuff that I ate when I was a lad, the sort of stuff that my dad liked. Shepherds pie, apple crumble, bangers and mash, steak and kidney pudding, trifle, cauliflower cheese, corned beef hash, Irish stew and the like. But that's not really what Britons eat nowadays is it?  We eat food from everywhere.

We Britons have been happy to plunder the world for food for ages. Chicken chasseur, Wiener schnitzel, sashimi, goulash, paella, souvlaki, chana dal and the rest are there on the supermarket shelves. Finding a Vietnamese, Lebanese, French, Greek, Mexican, West Indian or Italian restaurant is child's play in the UK. The student Spag Bol and the Thai green curry are just another recipe in the "Come around to dinner," cookbook.

Indian food, for instance, is hugely popular amongst Britons. My guess is that your average, middle class Indian, living in Mumbai, wouldn't recognise the food on offer in most UK High Street Indian restaurants. Indeed, whether it's a High street restaurant, a Waitrose ready meal or a Jamie Oliver recipe the food with an Indian name is really, very much, British food. It's the same with the rest. Even if chilli con carne were Mexican (it's from the USA isn't it?) then the British version would be British. That's probably why a full English is so disappointing in Torremolinos.

That's not true of Spanish food - Spanish food is till largely something that past generations would recognise. Not that I'm suggesting Spain is some isolated culinary backwater. Spain has lots and lots of Michelin stars and there are gastrobars in any town with any population. Domino's, McDonalds and KFC are everywhere. Most Spanish youngsters seem happy to eat pizza and pasta till the cows come home. Generally though, away from high class restaurants, the multinational fast food chains and cosmopolitan cities Spanish food has maintained its traditional flavour.

And that's why there was so much Spanish attention to the food on offer at Sunny Vista yesterday.

A little more sex please, we're Spanish.

This morning Spanish radio was quoting from an article in the Times. The original impetus for the Times story came from a scientific paper in the Lancet which predicted that Spaniards, by 2040, will be the longest lived nation in the World, overtaking the Japanese. It's not much of a predicted difference - 85.8 years for the Spanish and 85.7 for the Japanese. If RNE 1 can pinch an idea from the Times. which pinched it from the Lancet, I don't see why I shouldn't join in by appropriating information from the freebie newspaper 20 minutos. The prediction for the UK is 83.3 years by the way.

The 20 minutos title was "They drink, they smoke; why do Spaniards live so long?" In the piece it says that more Spaniards than Brits smoke, 23% versus 16%, the alcohol intake is more or less the same and both nations sleep, on average, the same number of hours.

The Times suggested a few key differences. Apparently Spaniards walk more, not in a strenuous way but in the idea of using their feet to get somewhere. To the shops, to school or just the leg stretching evening stroll to greet friends and make sure that nothing has happened to the neighbourhood without them being aware.

The journalist also noted that despite longer working hours in Spain the Spaniards still tend to get in a midday nap if they can. I've never found any working Spaniards who get the siesta, except maybe in the summer holidays, but if the Times says it's true maybe it is.

Then, of course, there's the famous Mediterranean diet with lots of fruit, veg, olive oil and red wine. Well, again, if that's what the journalists say I suppose it must be true but, to be honest, I don't see much of that diet in restaurants or in the answers I get from my language students. On the other hand the British newspaper reports that Spaniards don't eat the ultra-processed foods that we Britons do and that I go along with 100%. Anytime I go to an "English" supermarket here in Spain I'm overcome by the number of things you can buy in packets. Compare the goods at the checkout in any "normal" Spanish supermarket and you will see the raw materials of food making rather than the finished product.

The last of the lifestyle differences was that Spaniards have more sex than Britons - 2.1 times a week instead of 1.7 times.

And one last thing, not really a lifestyle difference but flagged as relevant. Some researchers in Vermont did a study of the ten most spoken languages in the world looking for lexical differences. Apparently it's Spanish that has the highest number of happy, positive words but, as the research was done in the USA, it's likely that their language sample was as Mexican, Guatemalan, Peruvian and so on rather than just Spaniards.

Our menu today

Egg and chips is a typical Spanish dish. Egg and chips is a typical English dish too. I wouldn't be surprised if half the world has a similar claim to egg and chips. Of course there can be lots of differences between one plateful of egg and chips and another dependant on the quality of the ingredients and the preparation. I like my bacon sandwiches in white bread with lots of butter and with crispy but cooled bacon. I know people who are appalled at the idea of butter and white bread and pour ketchup or brown sauce on theirs. So preparation, ingredients and personal taste all make a difference when we're talking food.

Sometimes Spanish people ask me if I eat British or Spanish food at home. I suppose the question is whether I eat paella or roast beef and Yorkshire pudding because, most of the time, the stuff I cook is probably stateless. I might think it's chilli con carne or biryani but a Mexican (or is that a Texan) and an Indian wouldn't recognise it as such. And who lays claim to chicken with garlic and lemon? Eating out of course it's possible to choose. Spanish pizzas, hamburgers and Spring rolls have numerous Spanish touches but the sign above the restaurant door still says American or Italian or Chinese. There are plenty of restaurants though that sell food that most would class as local, as traditional, as Spanish. Lots of it, like pork chop and chips or fried hake is as nationless as egg and chips. Hand over the steamed mussels and tell a Belgian that they are typically Spanish and I don't think they would agree however normal it is for Spaniards to eat mussels.

There is obviously lots of food that is Spanish through and through. Nobody would doubt the parentage of the myriad of rice dishes that we lump together as paella or the less internationalized classics such as fabada Asturiana, marmitako, cocido, michirones, calçots, patatas revolconas, flamenquines and hundreds more. I heard someone once say that lots of the best Spanish food depends on the shopping and I tend to agree. The cooking is often simple but the food is well conceived and tasty if the ingredients are good. Las papas arrugadas, something typical of the Canary Islands, are simply wrinkly boiled potatoes usually served with a sauce made with oil, vinegar and paprika pepper. This is hardly haute cuisine but they can be splendid. Or they can be very ordinary. It's the same with so many of the dishes. I had the local rice with rabbit and snail dish in a restaurant in Chinorlet when I was with my mum and the one word to describe it would be sublime. I could not believe that rice could be so good. I made a reservation to take Maggie to the same place. The rice was good but nothing special. It may have been a different cook, the wood may have burned at a different temperature, maybe it was a variation in the amount of salt, the rabbit may have been from a farm rather than caught on the mountains, maybe it was the wrong season for the snails - who knows, but it wasn't as good. And if you go into a restaurant where one of the starters on the fixed price 9€ lunch is labelled as paella, or if there's a photo of it, I can guarantee that the rice will not leave you impressed. It's only paella in name, not in spirit, not in ingredients, not in the care. I've had worse fabada in a restaurant than the stuff that comes out of the cans bought in the local supermarket and I've had fabada that made me understand why the dish is famous in Spain.

So the upmarket Spanish restaurants work in two modalities. The first is a restaurant that cooks the same food as your mum or your grandma (dad or grandfather if you prefer) but tries to do it better. My grandma never cooked gazpacho pinosero so I can't comment but I've enjoyed traditional food, of this type, in lots of those restaurants. The second style is food that may pay lip service to local cuisine but the interpretation is a very personal one, that of an auteur chef. As the waiter describes the dish they tell you that the small spot of reddish paste represents a traditional local food or that the tiny mound of mashed potato flavoured with almond represents the symbiosis present in the local agricultural economy. Well, if they say so.

For the past two years, on Maggie's birthday, we have gone to a restaurant with a couple of Michelin stars. Last year I had to try hard not to laugh out loud when the waitress was telling us about using the mould that grows on corn as one of the ingredients. If I'd been in argumentative mood I may have asked why that corn fungus had never caught on in the majority of the bars, cafes and restaurants of the world. Last night we went to a place in Almansa. No names no pack drill. The room was pleasant, the servers were very personable and efficient. The problem was that the set menu, which included  a very creditable 12 or 13 courses for a reasonable 69€, was quite unpleasant. I can't say that I enjoyed a single dish. Most were OK, edible enough, the sort of thing you eat as a houseguest so as not to upset your host. Not something you would choose to eat but something you force down behind a pantomime smile for someone else's benefit. A couple of the courses were, literally, hard to swallow, the sort of food that was close to making me gag. Tuna hearts stuffed with something that I missed in the description, but which looked like snot, resembled nothing more than a couple of glassy fish eyeballs. By the end of the meal I was really hoping that they did ordinary coffee; surely good coffee would overpower the variety of tastes lingering in my mouth?

But I suppose we'll be back to another one next year. Hope springs ever eternal as they say even if kangaroos just hop.

Chilling

There are fifty provinces in Spain and two autonomous cities on the North African coast. Then there are the islands. Each province and all of the islands have a capital and Ceuta and Melilla have a similar sort of "capital" status. Over the years we've bagged most of those towns so that it's just Palencia and Melilla to go. Until last week we were also missing Ibiza and Formentera. But not now.

It takes only 35 minutes in the air, more or less, from Alicante to Ibiza. Nonetheless, it took us something like six or seven hours to get there. The plane being four hours late didn't help. Then there was a slight hiccough with the pickup minibus to take us to the hire car. Actually the car was quite odd. I'd taken out insurance to cover the 1200€ insurance excess, which cost about 50€, but the car hire itself was flagged as being something less than a euro a day and that proved to be true. There was a bit of a trick though, I'd been expecting something because 87 cents per day is just too good to be true, but it was such a small trick that I happily paid. They charged me for the three quarters full tank of fuel and that was it. Even better they gave me a biggish Nissan Qashqai when I'd only paid for a little Fiat 500.

Maggie doesn't particularly care for my idea of a holiday - go somewhere, look around, move on. She likes to stay still from time to time. In Ibiza we travelled around but in the whole week we only clocked up 500kms which is next to nothing. Driving around wasn't that much fun though. I'm used to long, empty roads. In Ibiza the roads are often narrow, pretty short - the island is just 50kms from end to end - and full of cars. On road parking spaces could be tricky to find, though nearly all the villages had big car parks. We were never away from other traffic. The narrow roads provided for some amusement. Obviously people need to send messages on their phone as they drive - being out of contact for more than a few minutes might have dire consequences. Normally people try to text when they are stopped by lights, in traffic queues etc. In Ibiza the text as you drive drivers were very noticeable because their lack of concentration made them very slow and their sideways drifting made for amusing swerves as they avoided a head on collision or the very hefty looking roadside banks.

I realised when we were unpacking in our hotel that it had never crossed my mind to take anything in case it rained. I had a pullover and a jacket "por si acaso", just in case and I used them but not a thought for a pac-a-mac. I didn't need one of course. Generally the sun shone and it was only chilly in the evening. The season hasn't started yet. In fact the whole island was being painted, scrubbed and generally refitted ready for May when things swing back into gear. It was good for us. There was nobody having multi-partner sex on any of the beaches we visited, no pumping music in the air and still space in those car parks.

The island was lovely. Very green with some beautiful spring flowers. The sea was sparkly and blue or green and, although I know the Med is a cess pit, it looked clear and clean. Beaches varied from sandy to pebbly but lots of the little coves were splendid. The island's not very hilly going up to something under 500 metres which is lower than the contour line that runs past our house. It seemed quite modern too, lots of ecological this and organic that. There were places to charge electric cars all over the place. Towns and villages basically came in two varieties. In one the white church and main square were surrounded by shops selling hand made jewellery and straw hats whilst in others there were rows and rows of souvenir shops, tattoo parlours and cafes selling full English. Not even the tatty places were cheap.

One of the things that I missed, and something that I'm sure exists, was the island identity. The local version of Catalan, Ibicenco, was everywhere but we'll gently sidestep that as a mark of identity. Spanish regions usually have some regional food. We ate out stacks of times but we were very seldom offered anything that wasn't "international" or a sort of generic Spanish. When we were flying home the airport had local beer, local cheese, a local version on the ensaimada pastries, local sausages etc. Actually there was a food thing that may be quite Ibizan; I got cup after cup of terrible coffee. I may be wrong but I think they use the torrefacto coffee where the beans are roasted with sugar. Spain is good for coffee so it was a bit of a shock.

Identity wise it was the same with the architecture. In Valencia the tent like barracas, in Castilla la Mancha the blue and white paintwork and the houses on stilts in Galicia are noticeable. In Ibiza it's true that white paint was predominant, there was a common green or light blue colour and the churches were all low and squat but I would be pushed to say I noticed an architectural style.

There wasn't any pushing of "folk" traditions either - here in Pinoso you can see "traditional" dress several times a year. In Murcia the white shorts for men, zaragüelles, and the rope soled sandals get lots of outings whilst people playing regional musical instruments are on every street corner in every town of Alicante. I'm exaggerating, of course, but tradition is often on show in Spain and it wasn't in Ibiza.

There was one thing that was ever present though and that was music - the sort of chilled Ibiza, dance cum shopping music that works, with slight variations, as the soundtrack for contemplating a sunset, as background music in the hotels or bars and on the local radio stations.

Lots more to say but I've already used too many words so I'll leave it there. Good week though.

Who ate all the pies?

It's been a funny old day. I was expecting music in the streets and a bit of exploration near Caravaca de la Cruz in Murcia but the weather has been terrible and I've hardly strayed from the kitchen and living room.

My food intake has been a bit odd too. Maggie made an apple pie which I was very happy to help her eat but that was a while ago. I just decided to have a packet of Knorr soup - Thai soup. Whilst I was waiting for it to thicken up I had some peanut butter on bread. My total committent to a healthy, fat and sugar free, diet is almost complete.

Spanish people occasionally ask me whether I eat British or Spanish. I suppose I tend to eat British unless I go out but, then again, most of the stuff I eat is probably without nationality. I don't do a lot of rice with rabbit and snails or faseguras but neither do I do a lot of roast beef with Yorkshires or steak and kidney pie. Spaghetti with mushrooms, bacon and onions in a yoghurt and balsamic vinegar sauce is Italian, British, Spanish or just a quick and tasty lunch?

I made, and burned, lentejas on Friday. Lentejas, lentils, is pretty damned Spanish but I think I used an Oxo cube in the broth which I presume was from a British source. Actually it's quite hard to give a specific passport to lots of food. I just looked at the Tomato Ketchup and the Lea and Perrins to see if the labels were in Spanish or English. They are in English but both are dead common and I'm sure I've seen them both with Spanish labels. I've even seen Worcestershire sauce labelled as Salsa Inglesa. The Lucky Jim peanut butter says it is American Quality but it was made in Germany and the label is in Spanish. The peanut butter we have on hand is called Lucky Nuts and is Spanish made with a bilingual Spanish/English label. We have lots of things, in the cupboard, that came from a very ordinary Spanish source but are obviously aimed at we Brits or, maybe not. I mean, after all, Mercadona sells Tetley tea in all of their supermarkets whether there are Britons nearby or not. We have marmalade in the fridge - the Mercadona own brand named in Spanish is in front of the Baxter's one named in Scottish. Other stuff is as Spanish as something very Spanish but it works for us - until very recently Fontaneda Digestive biscuits had the word McVitie's baked into them - same biscuit, different name on the box. And, of course, there is the Spanish stuff that most of us never even think of buying like sobrasada (raw, cured, spicy sausage) or membrillo (quince jelly).

At Christmas, for the language exchange party, my "bring British" contribution was Branston, Walker's cheese and onion, pork pies and brown sauce. The crisps and Branston were bought from the food store in the British bar Refugio but the brown sauce and pork pies came from a local Spanish chain supermarket. The majority Spanish opinion was that Branston tasted of vinegar and sugar, brown sauce was too spicy, pork pies were fatty and tasteless. All in all not a big hit. The Spaniards generally thought the crisps were a bit chemically too but that didn't stop them polishing the lot off. Most of the stuff, crisps aside, came home with me.

And I ate all the pies.

Roast saddle of venison, tortilla and beans

I'm not much of a cook though I can usually produce something that is, at least, edible. That's not always the case; new recipes tend to turn out badly and, recently, I have had a series of culinary disasters. I did some beef, tomato and olive thing that tasted of salt and nothing else. There was another concoction that I ended up tipping directly into the bin, something with lots of cream and garlic. I'm safer when I cook up the lentils or one of the student favourites (well favourite with the one time students who are now beginning to draw their pensions or die) like spag bol and chilli con carne. Nonetheless my version of kebabs with chorizo is OK and that spaghetti with yoghurt and mushrooms and bacon isn't bad either. My shepherd's pie's perfectly tasty and there are plenty more in my repertoire that, whilst they may not exactly thrill the palette, do, at least, maintain the calorie input without hardship.

The stuff that goes into my meals comes from the shops in the form of veg and pulses and meat and cheese and eggs and stuff like that. The food may come in packets and boxes. It may have been grown under hectares of plastic, sprayed with hideous chemicals, never have felt the soil on its roots or the sun on its seed-pod but it still looks like a carrot, a lettuce or a chickpea. If it's an animal product then I wouldn't like to speculate as to whether the beast spent it's life confined in a tiny feeding station eating high protein feed made from fracked oil or recycled fish. Nonetheless, basically, whatever the food and however it got produced, it would still be recognisable as food to my forebears. The raw material of a meal rather than the finished product.

There have been prepared foods in Spanish supermarket freezers as long as I have lived here and somebody must buy them because they are still on sale. In fact I've noticed that much of the extra space in the newer larger store of a local supermarket has been taken up by new lines of pre-prepared stuff. I still don't see a lot of people buying it though. Usually the stuff on the supermarket belt in front of mine looks much like my stuff except that they have always remembered something that I've forgotten. I think it would be fair to say that most of the Spaniards around here do not buy things that come ready prepared. It's a sweeping generalisation and there are plenty of exceptions from pizzas to ready shaped meatballs. It may well be different in the bigger cities too but I think that most people in most homes still cook their food from scratch rather than heat up something they have bought.

Now I saw an advert on Spanish TV today for C&A. It's the first ad that I've noticed with a Christmas theme. This reminded me that we'll be due our annual trip to the coast to the Overseas Supermarket/Iceland store. It's not that I often wake up thinking of Piccalilli and Bombay mix or Melton Mowbray pies and Quality Street but, confronted with shelves full of products that were staples with me for forty years, there is always lot of gratuitous overspending. We usually go to buy something specific that's either expensive or unavailable locally - gammon, pork and mustard sausages, twiglets - but we nearly always end up buying lots of things that sound great but turn out to be soggy, tasteless or otherwise disappointing. This year I really must remember to say no to the pre-prepared stuff however good the photo on the box looks.

By the way I apologise if I've done this blog before. Checking the blog is a bit like watching the photos, my own photos, that pop up randomly on my laptop as a screen saver. I sometimes find myself watching the slide-show of half remembered photos and thinking that some of them aren't so bad. Then one of the many blurred pictures pops up and my hubris evaporates. When I thought of blogging on pre-prepared versus fresh food I popped some search clues into the blog and I found myself re-reading long forgotten blog posts, sometimes from years ago. I thought they were OK until I bumped into two in a row which were the literary equivalent of those blurred snaps. I gave up, ashamed of my prose and the out of date information. Mind you if I've forgotten the chances are that you have too.

Wispy light and more

The first time I ever caught the sense of a conversation going on around me in Spanish was on a bus in Granada. I'd always thought that Spanish conversations were probably about Goethe or something equally profound but that one was, in fact, about whether peas should or should not be an ingredient of some stew. Food is a topic of conversation close to the hearts of many Spaniards.

One of the things that crops up in those food conversations is the Mediterranean diet. If you were to ask me what the Mediterranean diet I'd have to say that I'm not quite sure. I know that it includes more fish than meat, cereals, pulses, nuts, vegetables, fruit, wine and lots of olive oil but I'm a bit hazy on the details. We live pretty close to the Mediterranean. In fact yesterday we were in Santa Pola and if we'd chosen to we could have gone for a paddle, so I should know what the diet is but I don't. One of the confusing things about it is that lots of what seem to be traditional Spanish foods look remarkably unhealthy. Surely things like chorizo, the white bread sticks, the deep fried pescaitos, the peanuts dripping in oil, the cheese, the croquetas and all the rest can't really be part of a healthy diet?

Back in Santa Pola I asked if they had any sangre, blood, to go along with the beer. I'm not sure what sangre contains exactly apart from blood and onions but it looks like liver and it tastes yummy (though Maggie disagrees). It's not so available away from the coast which is why I was taking my opportunity. There wasn't any so I asked for Russian salad instead. Ensaladilla rusa is a staple in lots of Alicante and beyond - a sort of potato, egg, tuna, carrot and pea salad held together with mayonnaise. Tasty certainly but healthy?

Actually, I know exactly what I think of when the Mediterranean diet is mentioned and it has nothing to do with the food. The Mediterranean diet is a bronzed Anthony Quinn peeling and eating fruit directly from his pocket knife, it's him eating, and laughing with his friends as he drinks copious quantities of wine around a sun dappled outdoor table against the azure blue background of the sparkling sea.

I read an article in el País yesterday which seemed to reach a similar conclusion only they made no mention of Quinn nor Jean Reno in the Big Blue who would be my other point of reference.

El País told me that back in 1953 an epidemiologist called Leland G. Allbaugh published a paper about the, then, normal diet on Crete. Cretans ate a very basic diet yet they were healthier than Americans. A medical doctor, Dr. Ancel Keys, saw the research and spent years trying to work out why. He did research in seven countries and, to oversimplify, came up with the  conclusion that saturated fat in diets was a major conditioner of heart disease along with cholesterol and high blood pressure. Whilst he was involved in the early years of the survey Keys and his wife published a book called Eat Well and Stay Well. Later, in 1975, they published a second book called How to Eat Well and Stay Well: The Mediterranean Way. It was, apparently, that book which led to the term Mediterranean diet coming into everyday use. But the “Mediterranean Way” was more than particular foods and cuisines or eating patterns. It involved aspects of lifestyle and the economy, such as walking to and from work in physically active occupations like farming, crafts, fishing and herding, taking the major meal at midday, having an afternoon break from work. In short the food was only a part of the traditional Mediterranean  lifestyle.

In 2011, the European Food Safety Authority published a position document arguing that it could not establish whether the Mediterranean diet was healthy or not because it was unable to find a clear definition of what the diet was. The Authority also noted that the inclusion of quite a lot of wine in all of the versions made it technically unhealthy. The Mediterranean diet though does feature as an intangible cultural heritage on UNESCO's list - just like Flamenco or the Fallas celebrations. The definition is not about the food it's about agriculture and tradition, about sharing food and about cultural identity. The full definition is at the bottom of the page

The newspaper article writer argued that the Mediterranean diet was actually more of a process of four decades of hype than an actual dietary regime. Like I said, Anthony Quinn, the suntan, the cicadas singing, the shared bottle of wine. The laughter. Now that was all around us as we ate the ensaladilla rusa in Santa Pola yesterday.

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UNESCO definition: The Mediterranean diet involves a set of skills, knowledge, rituals, symbols and traditions concerning crops, harvesting, fishing, animal husbandry, conservation, processing, cooking, and particularly the sharing and consumption of food. Eating together is the foundation of the cultural identity and continuity of communities throughout the Mediterranean basin. It is a moment of social exchange and communication, an affirmation and renewal of family, group or community identity. The Mediterranean diet emphasizes values of hospitality, neighbourliness, intercultural dialogue and creativity, and a way of life guided by respect for diversity. It plays a vital role in cultural spaces, festivals and celebrations, bringing together people of all ages, conditions and social classes. It includes the craftsmanship and production of traditional receptacles for the transport, preservation and consumption of food, including ceramic plates and glasses. Women play an important role in transmitting knowledge of the Mediterranean diet: they safeguard its techniques, respect seasonal rhythms and festive events, and transmit the values of the element to new generations. Markets also play a key role as spaces for cultivating and transmitting the Mediterranean diet during the daily practice of exchange, agreement and mutual respect.

And something else...

For years I didn't own a power drill. I made do with a little hand held job, in fact I often said that I preferred the manual ones.

I forget now how it started but, for years, I have been doing online surveys. Sometimes they ask me reasonably sensible things like who I might vote for or how I keep up with news and current affairs. Usually though they ask me annoyingly written and stupid questions about whether I agree more with the statement that a) my bank is friendly, honest and innovative or b) that my bank is chummy, trustworthy and forward thinking. There's no space to say that all banks are equally soulless. money grabbing and intrinsically corrupt. The survey people give me points for doing each survey and I can change the points for things in an online catalogue. The first time I used the points to send pigs to Nicaragua but somewhere along the way I used others to get a power drill. I now know that power drills are better than hand drills.

The other day I was asked to do a survey about sobrasada. I eat sobrasada from time to time. I usually eat it spread on bread or maybe as the spread in a sandwich. I've always presumed that sobrasada was the dripping that comes from making chorizo, the rough cut pork sausage flavoured with paprika type pepper. I thought of it as being a Spanish version of the bread and drip that I used to eat as a lad. I assumed the Spanish stuff was the reddy brown colour because the dripping came from the paprika coloured meat and that the thicker consistency was because it contained strands of cooked pork flesh.

Anyway this survey asked me tens and tens of questions about sobrasada. They asked me whether I preferred the stuff that comes in tubs or the variety that came in a skin. They asked whether the keeping qualities of it were important and whether I preferred the cheaper stuff or the stuff that is denominación de origen; D.O. is used a lot in Spain to mark out more traditional products prepared in specific ways. D.O. ham for instance generally means that the ham comes from a certain breed of free range pig that feeds on acorns. D.O. wines contain particular grape varieties which are grown, harvested and matured in specific ways. Suddenly, I realised there was a whole back story to sobrasada.

It turns out that the pukka stuff comes from Mallorca and Ibiza in the Balearic Islands though Cataluña and Valencia have their own versions. Sobrasada is a sausage made from pork loin and bacon meat minced and mixed with paprika, salt and black pepper. There are versions with and without cayenne pepper which are labelled as either sweet or spicy. The mixture is not cooked, it is stuffed into a pork intestine and hung from a pole for several weeks until it is cured. For the spicier version the ends of the sausage are tied off with either red or red and white string to differentiate it from the milder version.

Apparently the chemistry that dehydrates the meat is favoured by the weather typical of the late Balearic island autumn, the time when pigs are traditionally sacrificed, with high humidity and mild temperatures. I'm sure that in the factories where they churn out tons of cheap non traditional sobrasada from old scrag ends - the stuff I usually eat – those conditions can be easily recreated.

There are lots of variations in the way that the real McCoy sobrasada is finally presented to the consumer. Sometimes it is removed from the skins and put into tubs (which stack nicely on supermarket shelves) at other times it is presented in thin sausages which are apparently called longaniza (the longanizas we have in Pinoso are a very different type of sausage). The stuff that I thought of as being traditional sobrasada is called semirrizada and that is presented as a sort of haggis shaped and sized sausage from which you scoop the fatty spread.

I'm sure you're not too interested in sobrasada. I'm not. In fact I'm slightly less interested since I learned that it's basically rotted meat. What did interest me though was that it was just yet another little thing that I didn't know about Spain. About something that is so commonplace that a supermarket chain wanted to know my opinions on it.

And the other six dwarves

Thirty one years ago, in the Bar Lennon in Valencia, the barman turned out to be the chatty type. Having to talk in a mixture of mime, tortured Spanish and broken English was no obstacle to his chattiness. He sang the European anthem. He invited us to the beach and, amazingly, we and he turned up the following morning at the appointed time. He and his pals frolicked, stark naked, in the sea whilst we two Brits toasted ourselves to the colour of boiled crabs and ate all the food.

Jaime has been an occasional friend ever since. Time passes. He turned 60 on Thursday. I would be even less impressed to see him in his birthday suit nowadays. Pepa, his long time minder arranged a surprise party in Fuentes de Rubielos​ in Teruel where the two of them have a business renting out a country cottage.

It's 300 kilometres from Culebrón to Fuentes so we had to get up earlier than we would have liked on Saturday morning. We made good time though and we were only 10 minutes late for the agreed 12.30 congregation. The birthday boy wasn't due till around 1.00. When he arrived he looked suitably surprised, he grinned, he pumped hands and he hugged people effusively in appropriate measure.

The venue was a concrete floored, chilly, ill lit storage space underneath the municipal swimming pool. It looked like the sort of place where the tractors and the ride on lawnmowers are parked for the winter. A big square table had been set up in the corner to take advantage of the natural light from the frosted glass windows. There were about 15 or so party goers. We had plastic chairs, a paper table cloth and plastic cutlery.

The guests, included a man we met for the first time probably at Jaime's 50th and who never took off his mountaineering style anorak. The tall German woman I met on that beach at el Saler did a lot of the cooking, Jaime's 86 year old aunt seemed to take a shine to Maggie. A man, who we think deals in frozen seafood, had a great line in card and other magic tricks. Presumably he's available for bhamitzvas and weddings too.

I must say that I felt we were playing at being very Spanish as we sat on plastic chairs in the middle of the sunny street chatting and nibbling on crisps and olives whilst the mountain of meat and various styles of sausages were cooked on the municipal street barbecue.

We ate the meaty feast in the garage. We drank beer and wine and sparkling wine with Happy Birthday sung in three languages and gifts handed over to a suitably appreciative Jaime.

And when the eating was done the crowd started to drift away. A few of us went on to the village bar for a coffee​, maybe with a splash of something. By late evening we were the only guests left.

Mossets it is

Mossets is, apparently, the Valencian language equivalent of tapa, or, in the plural, tapas. I presume that you know about tapas, it's one of those words that is now as English as coup or zeigeist. Tapas are little snacks.

Normally, around these parts we're not big on free tapas. You often get a handful of crisps, a few olives, or some nuts with your beer but it's an optional extra. It's not the same in Andalucia. The last time I was in Guadix I forgot that we had crossed a frontier and I made the typical foreigner abroad mistake of telling the waiter that I hadn't ordered the mini hamburger that he had just put down in front of me. In Andalucia substantial tapas alongside your drink are still dead common.

I think of the town I pay my rates to as being called Pinoso but, just to continue the Valenciano lesson, lots of people refer to it by its Valencian name of el Pinós. And the publicity says El Pinós a Mossets or something like Pinoso out for a bite to eat.

Tapas trails are a bit old hat nowadays. They've been around for ages. A bunch of bars and restaurants sign up to produce a tapa or two for the trail during a set period. Some organisation, like the local town hall or the chamber of trade, puts together a little leaflet or booklet which lists the participating establishments and what they have on offer. Usually it's a set price offer for a drink and a tapa. People do some or all of the route and usually vote for their favourite tapa with a prize draw included.

In my opinion Pinoso has never quite got this right. The first year of the route participants had to go to every bar if they wanted to vote and enter the prize draw. Not only did this make full participation relatively expensive and time consuming but it also meant that there was no real incentive for a bar to be innovative. Good for you if, as a bar, you mixed tastes and traditions in your tapa but punters still had to go to the bar offering a bit of ham on bread if they wanted to vote. It also took no account of personal likes and dislikes - you don't eat fish - tough luck, you're a vegetarian - forget it. A couple of the participating eateries were also out of town which was a bit of a snag if you didn't have transport. Actually living away from town is a disadvantage too. The set price is 2€ and includes a beer or a wine. If you want a soft drink it costs more. I'm sure though that the town hall has no interest in incentivizing drinking  and driving.

Despite my moaning we've been out of course. We've been to half a dozen places so far and one of the major improvements this time is that you "only" need to go to a dozen of the seventeen places participating. It's still too many but it is a step in the right direction.