B.Y.O.S.

With everything from salt cod to patterned pantyhose on offer, El Palmar's outdoor market is set up and ready for business every Tuesday morning.  The nearby town of La Alberca hosts theirs on Mondays, but the locals don't have to wait all week for access to a wide range of vendors in one place.  Their indoor mercado, a single level brick building with a decidedly institutional appearance, is open almost every day.  Butchers, fishmongers and bakers, purveyors of produce, olives and tinned seafood each have their own established space and it isn't orderly lines but clusters of Murcianos who gather around the most popular stalls.

After realizing that the saffron in our cupboard had a "best by" date of 2004 I had plans to restock, and already in La Alberca for a weekend English class I headed to the mercado to visit one of the spice sellers.  The vendor inside shook out a tablespoon of red threads onto a heavy piece of paper and talked up her selection as she folded the edges neatly and secured each with a staple.  Although inviting, I declined a scoop from her big jar of powdered orange food coloring, an ingredient many folks here have told me is indispensable for cocido and paella.  Unlike saffron, Yolanda had an ample supply of colorante on hand to give those dishes the same golden shade she grew up with.

I tucked the paper packet into my bag and turned to head home, having shelled out a fair portion of my 5€ that day on the contents, but peering around the corner I saw a hoard of people gathered around the cantina in the mercado´s back corner.  Counting out my change it appeared that a little glass of beer and a marinera were still within my budget.  The opportunity to commemorate my first saffron purchase on the peninsula and rationalize spending at the same time was too tempting to pass up.

I nudged my way into a small space next to the register and reached into my bag for a Murcian cookbook now overdue from the library.  People snacking on potato chips and bowls of Spanish-style nut mix (which here, incidentally, is the only style available) were grouped all throughout the hall. There was lots of laughter, kissing of cheeks, slapping of backs and a general sense of merriment.  The scene had all the convivial trappings of a block party with none of the annual blowout feel.  This wasn't a planned event.  This was just what happened on Saturdays.

I realized people weren't only sitting around bar tables.  Many had brought their own.  They had also brought lawn chairs, bags filled with fresh fava beans, plastic containers loaded with sweets and an impressive quantity of Fanta.  My hands were still flipping through the cookbook but I hadn't read a thing since sitting down.  Instead, I realized I was staring, and that I had stained the first few pages with anchovy oil thumbprints.  I turned back to the section on the region´s famous agriculture but my attention quickly turned to the patrons and staff reaching across the counter to my right, to my left and over my head.

Seeing empty ice buckets being turned in, replenished with typical Spanish half-sized beers and doled out was expected, but then I noticed customers were also handing over bags of just-purchased seafood to the woman behind the bar.  After scrawling on a name in thick black marker she would set them down next to the grill cook before picking up another set of dishes to distribute. As I finished off my beer I saw a man and woman leaving one of the fishmonger stalls and walking my way with a bag of their own.

With a longing for fruits of the sea I resolved to recruit a friend to come back the following week and started packing up my things. I was backing out of my choice spot at the bar when the woman, who had squeezed in beside me, asked what I was reading. When she realized there was an English speaker in her midst, and one interested in her native Murcian cuisine, she broke into a wide, nose-crinkling smile and introduced me to her companion who was a good foot taller than her and at least three shades more pale.   He was from the Basque Country and both were eager to practice their foreign language conversational skills.  In a mixture of Spanish and English they asked how an American girl had found herself in such a little-known region of the country and slid their plate of freshly griddled shrimp towards me as I explained.

Conditioned to politely decline generous offers of food on the first pass my refraining reflex kicked in, but they waved it off with hardly an acknowledgement.  This wouldn't be the like the cordial date night dance that takes place against the backdrop of stereotypical gender roles: girl makes token reach for purse, boy insists on paying, brief back and forth ensues, boy foots the bill as both knew he would from the start. It wasn´t that they were offering to share.  The sharing was a given, no gracious tug-of-war needed.

Soon there was a pile of prawn heads on the floor, a half empty napkin container on the counter and another round of beers on their way.  Plus a dish of clams.  And then a bowl of mussels.  Over the pile of shells the Basque man recounted his journey to Murcia, when he ventured South in pursuit of a girl.  They broke things off soon after his arrival but he decided he had left his region for good.  Whereas the North is known for its rainy weather, here schoolchildren routinely forget storm-related English vocab because they're so conditioned to seeing the sun.  And while Pais Vasco certainly has access to fantastic fish, their cantinas don't typically let their customers do the picking.  Between Murcia's favorable temperatures and bring your own seafood norms, he had all the compelling reasons he needed to stay.

We finished up the last of our bivalves and the pair herded me directly to the other mercado bar, owned by a friend of theirs. There was no griddle, less commotion and a huge silver basin filled with ice and bottles of red wine.  Along with the Jumilla came pieces of bread layered with a sort of spicy, spreadable chorizo and topped with fried quail eggs.  When our empty plate was quickly exchanged for one of non-specific, somewhat cured sheep's milk cheese, the Basque man asked if I knew how the tradition of bodegas serving queso with their drinks evolved.  Cheese makes bad wine taste better, so I should be wary of anyone who dishes it out too eagerly he told me, being sure to raise his voice enough to catch the bartender's attention and get in a good-natured heckle for the day. Once we finished off the bottle the Murciana reapplied her lipstick and slipped on her coat in what I thought was a signal we were about to part ways. But of course not.  It was time for coffee.

Murcianos love their cafe con leche just like other Spaniards, but they're particularly fond of a drink called the Asiatico which was created in the nearby city of Cartagena about 65 years ago.  Made with coffee, condensed milk, cognac and cinnamon (and sometimes embellished with Licor 43 and lemon zest), legend has it that the drink has its origins with local fisherman who stretched poor quality coffee with sugar, fat, alcohol and spice to keep them warm out at sea.  Others say the proprietor of a popular local bar just wanted to come up with something new and exciting for his clientele.  Either way it's a staple in Murcian cafeterías, and the one near the mercado is known for proudly using what some might call an inordinate amount of time to prepare each one.  Our barista was a little rough around the edges and her conspicuously revealing top was a touch jarring in the fluorescent lights. But even with one hand on her hip she maintained a look of complete concentration as she carefully flamed the cognac and wielded the squeeze bottle of leche condensada like a natural extension of her arm.

In Sicily, espresso marks the end of a meal, but in Spain coffee is often the prelude to another round. After our Asiaticos the Murciana led us to her favorite confitería, lined with cases displaying all the good that can come from separating eggs, adding sugar and introducing a whisk.  My eyes zeroed in on the rows of miniature flan and billowy meringues but I handed the selection over to the native.  She picked out chocolate bon bons and small squares of Spanish cheesecake and the woman behind the counter lined them up neatly on a glossy gold paper tray.  We reduced the lot to a scattering of foil wrappers and concluded our lunch, well past sunset.

"Well, American girl," The Basque said, "now it's time to leave, but we can always meet in La Alberca's mercado.  You should know, it is my debility."  Reclining in an oversized sofa feeling full, tired and happy I clearly had a new weakness too.

You know you're in Spain when...

Chestnuts aren't the only thing roasting on an open fire

You know you're in Spain when...

After wrapping up an English class your student gives you a pop quiz in Spanish confections,
and when you fail he insists you learn your lesson with these

You know you're in Murcia when...

You set off on a walk, get 2 minutes from home
and stumble upon a flock of these

You know you're in Andalucía when...

The seder meal kicks off with Sephardi-style matzo ball soup
and the four symbolic cups of wine are poured into Moroccan tea glasses

Cocido con Pelotas, or when the whole is less than the sum of its parts

Two months after my initial attempt at a Spanish stew called cocido the right conditions lined up and I was ready to try again.  Cocido has variations all over the peninsula and the classic version here in Murcia is made with oversized meatballs, especially around Christmas time.  We were well past the holidays but Yolanda had family coming into town from Castilla-La Mancha and surely that was cause enough for celebration.  After hours on the road they showed up bearing their region's famous Manchego and bags full of typical olive oil cookies from Ciudad Real.  I decided the only way to reciprocate was through proudly presenting them with a local specialty of our own, pelotas and all.

The building blocks of cocido

Back in December I had accidentally boiled off all the broth from my first batch of cocido.  Never having tasted the dish before I wasn't exactly sure what I was going for, but I knew that wasn´t it.  Several weeks later I was introduced to a proper rendition at my friend Marina´s house and effectively dropped out of lunchtime conversation in order to concentrate on a second helping.  The recipe she talked me through challenged everything I'd ever learned about building flavor.  No onions, no garlic, no development of nicely browned bits at the bottom of the pot.  And certainly no deglazing.  When she showed me the stew was made with a ham bone and a solid block of serrano the size of a playing card and the height of two full decks, I understood why.

Marina´s dish gave me a reference point but it was a quick pressure cooker cocido she learned from her mother in Sevilla, sans meatballs.  A perfect dish for Yolanda and I on a cold weekday afternoon.  But with guests to feed I had the chance to bring the full-blown version into my repertoire and for that I turned to the definitive Murcian cookbook-La Cocina Murciana.  I picked it up from the library soon after arriving in town and had heard it referenced by Murciano men and women across three different generations.  If I was searching for a guide to all the authentic bells and whistles, this had to be it.

I strode purposefully to the weekly market and the first stop furthered my conviction that I was on the right track.  The recipe called for thistle as an optional add-in to enrich the cocido and I asked my go-to onion and garlic vendor for the biggest one she had.  The woman next to me must have seen I was examining the leaves because she leaned over to explain they weren´t actually what I was after.  Once I had trimmed them all away I was to slough off the stalk´s green outer layer with a handful of sea salt, chop up the tender white interior and add it to my stew along with the green beans but, of course, before the potatoes.  If I followed those steps, she told me, I´d have a fine cocido without a doubt.

Made this..

Feeling I was well on my way I walked to Isidro´s charcutería stand for what would be the most crucial component of all.  But as I stood in line and scanned the ingredient list once more I noticed there wasn´t actually a single reference to hueso de jamón.  The realization left me at a loss but in the midst of the busy market I don't think anyone noticed the American girl bearing the blank expression of a codfish in mid-breath. With the image of the ham hunks in Marina´s stew so central in my mind, I had overlooked the recipe´s call for a veal knuckle instead.  In addition to coming from two very different animals these bones are separated by an even more fundamental divide.  Huesos from legs of jamón are ringed with cured meat while those from veal are fresh.  Up against such a seasoned heavyweight, young cattle bones seemed like a weak act from amateur hour.  The cocido´s flavor, or lack thereof, rested squarely on which one I chose.

When I first got to the booth I had pulled a number in the 40´s and customers with pink paper tabs in the   30´s were currently being served.  Generally being close to the front of the line is considered a positive but I was trying to reconcile the advice of real live Sevillana with instructions from a book that had remained the authority on Murcian cooking for decades.  Marina was at work and I didn't think my bone query could be deemed a legitimate emergency, although looking down I realized I had almost crumpled my "#46" to pieces.  So, I did the next best thing-I asked the woman next to me.  With a comforting pat on my arm she said I'd have to head to the carnicería for the veal knuckle, which was fine if I didn't mind another stop.  If not, I could use a ham bone and be alright too.  I thanked her profusely, just glad to have some additional counsel, but as she walked away with her bag of boquerones and dried sausage I realized she hadn't actually told me anything I didn't already know.

And with that, Isidro was ready to take my order.  He asked if I wanted my usual, but I told him today was no ordinary day.  I was making cocido, with pelotas, for six!  He smiled big and chuckled, calling out a few of my favorite Spanish exclamations melding surprise and encouragement.  I suppose it would be like a Murcian girl showing up to her favorite boardwalk vendor on Mackinac Island and proclaiming she was about to try her hand at a big batch of homemade fudge.  Spurred on by the approving nods of fellow shoppers who had overheard me, I decided there was no contest.  My cookbook might have recommended a veal bone but a fine hueso de jamón spoke for itself.  Beyond that I needed almost half a dozen other cured meats and as Isidro packed things up he assured me my cocido was destined for success.  Playing to the huddle of customers nearby he gestured grandly to the selection in his booth and said that as long as I started with the highest quality ingredients I couldn´t go wrong.  The peanut gallery chimed in with "si, si, claro, claro!" and I headed off feeling that crisis had been averted.

With that

Surely I had made the right decision. From a firm €5 a day perspective buying the veal bone was now simply out of the question but while waiting my turn in the butcher shop my momentary resolve disintegrated.  Along with the various encased meats from Isidro there was indeed jamón in my bag.  There was just no bone.  Instead I had a nice package full of hand-cut ham cubes the shape of oversized croutons.  Perfect for coliflor al horno.  Not cocido.  Dumbfounded, I figured I must have misspoken at the counter-if anyone knew his pig parts it was Isidro.  I took it as a sign, handed the recipe over to the butcher and with an air of defeat asked him to make sure not to forget the veal knuckle.

With a wink he went to work chopping up chicken pieces (and removing a few remaining feathers), cutting off a thick slice of pig fat from the foot-long piece on the counter and grinding up everything from turkey liver to cured pork loin sausage for the pelotas.  When it came to the all important hueso he picked up the entire piece of veal from the case with two hands and hoisted it on to his sturdy butcher block.  After a few steady whacks he came back with a well ringed bone in one hand and a thick slab of meat in the other.  This was no petite filet.  Instead it looked just like the hefty red steaks cartoon robbers always have on hand to distract growling cartoon guard dogs.

Twice I tried to explain that I had no need for the additional veal but the butcher kept plugging away, saying "no, no, for cocido you need to put all this in along with the bone.  You have to use the best to get the best result."  I knew the extra ingredient would be an expensive departure from the recipe, but between the baffling haul from Isidro and the butcher´s admonitions I was so confused I just asked for the bill.  Upon seeing the total, my heart rate rose significantly.  At €21.17, the purchase totaled more than four days worth of my normal budget.  I seriously considered trying to return the veal.

I've heard that when foreign curse words come to mind more readily than English ones its a sign of solid language learning, but that did not nothing to improve my mood.  Walking away stunned I set a limit of exactly two blocks to feel sorry for myself but continuing to mutter under my breath I stomped right through into block three. If there was any time to pull it together and overcome a problem so utterly first-world, it was now.

Pelota batch #1

Back in the kitchen I had to confront a whole other set of contradictions.  Upon hearing my plans for lunch, Yolanda´s cousins had told me to be sure and chip the potatoes in uneven wedges rather than slicing them for increased flavor absorption (a technique corroborated by excellent cocineras in León and Granada).  But Marina had just peeled hers and dropped them in the pressure cooker whole, using kitchen shears to break them into rough quarters when the timer went off.  Along with the potatoes, she put everything in the pot at the same time, but according to my cookbook, order matters.  The garbanzos, chicken, veal bone, and pig fat were to cook for an hour before adding the green vegetables, followed 30 minutes later by the potatoes, chorizo and saffron and 10 minutes before serving, the meatballs.  I had already schlepped around town with an unwieldy bag full of thistle and kilos of meat, dished out more during one stop to the butcher than I had in half a week and there were residents from the birthplace of Don Quixote expecting quite a lunch. I might as well to do this the hard way.

What happened next is still a blur, but it ended with the kitchen in bits and my flamenco dress-style apron in need of a thorough washing.  I asked Yolanda to put out the silverware and her cousins pulled chairs to the table.  Dazed, I felt like a stage manager calling for places when well aware the sets were still covered in wet paint. Then the meatballs started cooking through and as they bobbed to the surface I decided everything was going to be just fine.  I had followed the recipe exactly, dividing everything between two big pots to accommodate the several hearty servings.  The caldo hadn´t evaporated and the chickpeas were no longer crunchy.  I had used 25 ingredients, half of which were mixed together for the pelotas alone.

But after all that, a final taste revealed that despite everything that had gone into the dish the broth was sorely lacking and the wiffle ball sized pelotas were coarse and grainy.  Oblivious to the shortcomings of the dish that awaited them Yolanda´s cousins came in to dote on the simmering cocido.  I ladled it out reluctantly while doing my best to manage their expectations.

Half way through the meal I glanced over and saw Maria Carmen attempting to inconspicuously deliver the remains of a half eaten meatball into her boyfriend´s bowl.  Someone said something about being spoiled by their mother´s cocido, which incidentally had nothing to do with veal.  No one went back to the kitchen for more.

Daunting leftovers

Perked up at the prospect of clearing the table as quickly as possible, our guests brought a stack of bowls into the kitchen and I started transferring leftovers into Tupperware. As I topped off the third family size container it became clear that this cocido anti-climax was going to haunt us for days.

That weekend Yolanda went to Granada and I was headed to a nearby town called Águilas for Carnaval,  but despite repeated stew-centric meals we were still only a third of the way through the leftovers. I shredded all of the remaining meat for croquetas, set aside the chicken bones and figured I´d polish off one more serving for breakfast before leaving in the morning.  Unfortunately due to a turn of events involving an accelerated carpool schedule and a lengthy search for lost keys I had to rush out of the house before getting the chance to lodge everything in the freezer.

The hombres of Águilas

Worse than wondering if the lights were left on on or the iron plugged in, there was no doubt that the cocido was in a race against time.  The Carnaval parade of themed floats, feathers and shiny pantyhose (worn in large part by men) provided distraction, but after the festivities I found myself steering the conversation towards leftover longevity, stopping just short of pleading "say it ain´t so" en Español.  My hosts let me down easy but the pity in their eyes told me there was no hope.

Luckily I got dropped off at the end of the weekend before Yolanda could return home to a fridge full of spoiled stew, but it was hardly consolation.  There would be no croquetas, no stock pile of frozen meals to reconcile the cost of the original dish.  With my head hung low I disposed of it all, feeling another pang of regret with the dull thud of each meatball I pushed overboard into the trash.

With the weather turning warm and the unlikelihood of my roommate craving cocido again anytime soon, I resigned myself to the fact that I had missed my window.  Hopefully it would be much more difficult to go wrong with gazpacho.

When Yolanda walked in the door that night I couldn´t bring myself to tell her what had happened.  It would be better for everyone if we just moved on. Coming upstairs she said I´d never guess what her mom had packed up for us and I scurried over to look in the bag, thoughts of Andalucían specialties dancing across my mind.  But it wasn´t pipirrana or patatas a lo pobre.  It was a big container of cocido, filled to the brim.

You know you're in Spain when...

A holiday meal kicks off with salt-cured tuna and Marcona almonds