the catalan snack that changed my life

Check out this raw tomato, just chillin' on my plate like it ain't no thang.


It's finally happened, folks. I think I've found my gateway drug to raw tomato enjoyment.

Regular readers will recall my long-standing distaste for raw tomatoes. I had almost resigned myself to a life of missing out on that sharp, acid bite of a raw tomato that people with more fortunate tastebuds are always raving about.

Then, last saturday, came pa amb tomàquet. That's right, you clever linguists: bread and tomato. It's crazy simple: toasted bread, rubbed with garlic, smeared with a raw tomato cut in half, and drizzled with olive oil. Oh no, you don't get to cook it once the tomato's on there: you just rub that tomato snot all over the place, then go to town.

I tried it; I liked it.

Then I had it again on Sunday; I loved it.

Then, curious to see if perhaps it was just something in that magical Catalan air, the same something that had possibly influenced the fantastical thought lives of Salvador Dali and Antoni Gaudi, I bought my own crusty bread and a tomato back in Bilbao.

I made it myself; I liked that, too (though not as much as the Sunday one; see picture. Seriously, that stuff was killer).


Sunday's p amb t


I'm still not up to full tomatoes yet, but that distinctive flavor and tomato snot are right there, on the bread, and I'm pretty into it.

There's hope for me yet.

the size of my smile is directly correlated to my love for the moto.

caution parents: I may be getting one someday


I'd only been on a moto* once before, so possibly I should have been a bit more cautious. I remembered, as soon as I got on, that girls are supposed to put our arms around the guy driving the bike because 1) it's more secure and 2) we don't have any macho street cred to lose. Then I remembered how, back last time I rode on a moto (the same one, in fact), Ramón, the other dude in our pack of three, had made a big deal about NOT putting his arms around the driver. It was less secure, but he was a police sergeant and a dude. He had his macho street cred to think of.

And so there I was, four years later, on that same bike, flashing back to the "how girls vs. guys ride a moto" discussion, when I got a wild hair. I wasn't going to do this the girly way this time. I must seize this moment to be a badass, at least as badass as a Catalan police sergeant. I waited until we reached a stoplight, then I let go of my friend driving. I grasped the handles next to my seat, and we were off again.

It was less secure. It was also more exciting - the sense that I, holding on, was the only thing keeping myself from flying off the back of the machine into oncoming Barcelona traffic. The responsibility added a level of thrill to the ride.

Of course, this was my responsible friend driving. We went fast around exactly zero curves, and I doubt we ever exceeded more than about 30 miles an hour. But no matter: I may be incapable of consuming more than one alcoholic beverage in a sitting or facing down baddies in the streets or even living alone in a foreign country without calling my parents on a weekly basis, but when it comes to being a moto passenger, I know the truth. I am a certified badass.


*read: more scooter than motorcycle, designed and used especially for zipping around European cities.

so worth the pickpocket risk factor

It's routine for every visitor to Barcelona, really: take bus to Parc Güell; dismount bus; wander around; be amazed; take photo with the lizard-dragon thing. Also, possibly have pockets picked in the crowds. Petty theft is big in Barcelona.

So yes, basically, it's a tourist trap. But here's the thing: sometimes tourist traps are for a reason. The reasons here:

Columns of rocks rising up to create half-formed caves.



A wildly elaborate tile bench, winding its way across the top of the park.



A covered palace of white columns where you look up and are greeted by fantastical starfish in a sea of white tile.



And that lizard. He's beautiful, really.

la boquería market, barcelona

My loot from the market: raspberries, strawberries and lychees. none of these were grown in Catalunya.


So about Food People: there are certain "buzz words" that have a tendency to make us go weak in the knees. "Playfully combined texture/flavor" is one; another is "fresh local produce." By golly, do Food People love Fresh Local Produce. That sounded ironic, but it wasn't. I truly do love me some FLP.

La Boquería, Barcelona's famous indoor food market, is not primarily about Fresh Local Produce. La Boqueria is about So Much Variety It Makes Your Head Spin.

Did you want some cherries? Got those from Chile. Mexican Habañero peppers? Got 'em. Strawberries come from Huelva, lychees from Madagascar, durian fruit from Thailand. Dragon fruit, papaya, kiwi, coconut, sweet potatoes, every dried chili you could want.

My Iberian friends and I have had this discussion a few times - which is better, the "Spanish" way (cheap and good quality, but mostly only what's good locally at the time) or the "American" way (the more variety the better, cost and quality - to a certain extent - be darned). After last night in La Boquería, my senses entirely flooded with so many colors, smells and flavors from so many places, I'm not sure I can bring myself to decide which I prefer. Maybe I won't choose at all. Maybe I'll enjoy my FLP here in Bilbao but revel in the memories of the dizziness-inducing multitudes of treats on display this past weekend.

love is in the air. so is onion breath.

Ever noticed something adorable about the souvenir shops in Barcelona, Bilbao or San Sebastian? All those T-shirts and keychains featuring a Basque flag and a Catalan flag squeezed in next to each other, as if to say, "hey, baby, mind if I move in closer?"

This is because Euskal Herria and Catalunya have big regional crushes on each other. Both have languages distinct from Spanish, after all, and both have sizable independence movements. And both have a seriously righteous - sometimes downright intimidatingly so - food tradition. Today being both Valentine's Day and the day I got back from a mini-vacation to Catalunya, I've decided to indulge the puppy love for a few extra days with Catalan Week on Life in la Capital del Mundo.

First up: calçots.

All you really need to know to be successful at the event known as a calçotada is this: get ready to get messy, and you pronounce the "ç" like an "s."



These poor little guys have no idea what's coming...

Phase one: calçot growing. Sometime in the late summer or early fall, plant some nice white onions. Spend the next several months gently packing dirt up around them so they grow long and green, like leeks. These guys have some great instructions if you care to create your own little slice of Catalunya somewhere. Then, in late winter, pull them up! On to phase two: calçot cooking.


To cook calçots: grill to the point of charring. Remove from grill/fire pit, then roll them up into bunches and let them steam in their own goodness until they're a little squishy. You may do this part yourself, or you may, as we did, go to a restaurant where everything up until here is handled for you. Don't worry, I have big plans to grow my own calçots next year.



Phase three: calçot eating. First, put on a bib. This is key if you don't want to wind up with romesco sauce all down your front.



Next, holding calçot by the green part in one hand, strip off the charred outer layer. Allow Anselmo to demonstrate:



Finally, dip calçot in romesco sauce, then, in the immortal words of Tony Bourdain, "coil gracefully into your grateful, gaping maw."






The only appropriate response to a calçotada invitation.