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.