QuinnRoads

THE SHOW BETWEEN THE SHOWS

Saturday Night, Front Row Seats


It was a cool Saturday evening, perfect for the 25-minute walk down hill to attend the last night of the Granada Jazz Festival. Although there had been jazz events all over town, the headliners had appeared at Theatro Isabel Católica, a lovely little theatre very much like The Herbst in San Francisco and about half the size. We were going to hear the Granada Big Band with guest soloist and leader Benny Golson, the legendary American sax player and composer. We were excited.
Earlier that week we’d seen a poster advertising an art exhibit, New York New York, at the Centro Cultural Puerta Real. The gallery, operated by the city, is located in the same building as the theater but has a different entrance. Evening hours are from 6-9 p.m., and the jazz concert began at nine. It was the perfect time to see the show.
The free exhibit was small, three rooms of New York street scenes, so it didn’t take much time to see the 25 or so pieces. We were back outside a little after eight, far too early to enter the overheated theater.
Along with two adjoining, smaller plazas, the Puerta Real is the largest open space in Granada. It is dominated by a large fountain in the center, and there are, of course, cafes, several news kiosks and a two dozen or more newly installed benches scattered about. There was a bench right outside, about equidistant from the entrances to the gallery and the theater, and we decided to sit and enjoy being out on the town.
Unless it’s raining, most of Granada is on parade between eight and ten each evening, and the Puerta Real was packed with pedestrians.
By the wall between the two entrances, a trio — saxophone, accordion and drummer, who stood while playing two chest-high, small drums with brushes — played what seemed an endless version of Brazil. After 15 minutes of playing chorus after identical chorus, Brazil suddenly became xxx. The trio hadn’t missed a beat. In fact, neither the beat nor the tempo changed at all. The drummer had a wide, happy smile and did a little bow as he said gracious to passers-by who tossed in a few coins. They were actually pretty good, and played their limited repertoire with skill and great enthusiasm.
Throughout the plaza sidewalk merchants, primarily African and Chinese, sold their merchandise — black market CDs and DVDs (including just-released movies) shawls, scarves, watches, jewelry, etc.— from large blankets and tarps. The flow of foot traffic, which included a number of baby strollers, was forced to pick its way through the tarps and musicians and clumps of people who had stopped to greet each other. This never seems to bother anyone.
Right by our bench a group of people began gathering, thirty-somethings, both couples and individuals. Each arrival necessitated a new round of kisses. (In Spain, all greetings and departures are marked by kisses, one on each cheek. Usually they’re air kisses, often real kisses. People greeting in the street will stop, blocking traffic, as each cheek is kissed by everyone present. Fathers kiss sons, adult sons kiss elderly fathers. We’ve seen young people, probably in a hurry, forget to give a good-bye kiss to an older person they’ve encountered on the street; the older person will call them back, demanding and getting that farewell kiss.) As the group grew, the chain of kissing became more complicated; a couple joining a group of eight required a round of sixteen kisses. Moments later a woman joined the group, then a man. There was so much confusion about who had kissed who, that people began kissing everyone again, accompanied by lots of laughter.
As we watched the kiss-fest, we became aware that the street merchants were breaking shop. They did this by simply pulling the corners of their tarps together, throwing the bundle over their shoulder, and hurrying off. This meant the police were coming. We’d seen this before. The police don’t seem to make an actual attempt to catch and arrest them; they just move them along. It took less than a minute for the merchants to disappear. Then a sole policeman casually strolled through the plaza, arms crossed behind his back.
We made our way through the crowd and entered the theater at 8:45, which was still a bit early. The Spanish wait until the last minute to come in. At five till nine, the theater was less than half full. At five past, it was almost full.
The concert was fabulous. In fact, all three shows were terrific. Just another Saturday night in Granada.

SOMETHING FROM THE INSIDE OF SOMETHING

To Eat or Not To Eat: Dining On Unidentified Frying Objects

Among the adventures, or challenges if you will, of living in a foreign culture is the one presented by experiencing an unfamiliar cuisine. Or, to be more specific, putting things into your mouth that you’ve never tried before, or seen before, or heard of before, things that have never even invaded your nightmares before.
This is not a significant problem if you maintain control over what goes on your plate. You can exert this control by eating at fast food joints (alas, Granada has two McDonalds and two Burger Kings, we’ve seen them with our own eyes) or at a tourist-friendly hotel whose restaurant specializes in hamburgers and grilled cheese sandwiches.
Some situations make the challenge particularly daunting. Say you’re a dinner guest in a private home. They’ve put on the dog (figuratively speaking, you hope), and there, crouched on your plate, is something beyond your imagination’s ability to identify. You try to remember what you’ve read about the local cuisine, but nothing resembling the quivering substance occupying a third of your plate comes to mind. You watch from the corner of your eye as your hosts devour the still unidentified object with obvious relish. They look at you and smile. You cut off one tiny, lima-bean size piece and put it in your mouth. It is leathery on the outside, squishy on the inside – what you would image an eyeball to feel like – and tastes like a Brussels sprout simmered in lint seed oil. You smile gamely, chew once and swallow, realizing as you do that the eyeball-sprout was seasoned with habanero pepper. Mouth aflame, you drink deeply, only to discover that what you thought was a glass of water is actually grappa. This, my friends, is a culinary challenge.
You consider your options. Plunge a knife into your heart. Pretend to faint. Or cautiously continue eating, all the while carefully rearranging the inhabitants of your plate so that “the thing” is hidden under what you assume are cabbage leaves.
Granada presents its own unique, culinary challenge. In the rest of Spain, you order and pay for tapas, or small snacks. In Granada, the tapas are free, you get one with every drink. The challenge is that you get is what they bring you.
The good thing about this custom is that you are exposed to foods that you would never have otherwise tried. The down side is that you are exposed to foods that you would never have otherwise tried. It all depends on you. It can be a smorgasbord or a minefield.
Our first such experience was a tapa consisting of sausages, chorizo, something like salami, and morcilla. The tapa came on one plate, and there were three small pieces for each of us.
What’s that, Kay asked suspiciously.
I’m pretty sure it’s morcilla, I said.
Which is? she asked, poking it as if to see if it were still alive.
Blood sausage. Also called black pudding.
Kay pushed both pieces from her side of the plate to mine, then wiped the tines of her fork on her napkin.
I tried it. Morcilla is black, very black, and has a tough, almost unchewable skin. It tasted pretty much like you might expect blood sausage to taste, rich, strong, with an almost grainy texture. It was okay. Not my favorite, but enjoyable, though a little bit went a long way. I’ve been served, and eaten, morcilla a couple of times since then, but I don’t think I’d order it on purpose.
Another popular tapa is stew. It makes sense. The café can cook up tubs of stew in the morning, then simply dish out small servings for the rest of the day. It gets better as the day goes on. The stew is almost always pork, usually with chucks of potato and perhaps some beans.
Earlier this year at a café we enjoy, we were served two small, ceramic dishes of stew. There were lots of small chunks of meat floating around in a thin broth. It wasn’t pork.
Kay leaned over and peered into the dish. It looks like something from inside of something, she said.
I took a bite, then agreed. There were things, like organ meats, from the inside of another thing, like an animal.
Do you think there’s anything in there I can eat? She asked.
Beans?
She shook her head, pushed her dish to my side of the table and asked if she could have the biggest piece of bread.
Like morcilla, it was a dish I took some pleasure in but wouldn’t order.
I’m fortunate in that the thought of what a food is isn’t a problem for me. If it tastes good, it tastes good. Like rabo de toro, or bull’s tail. Delicious.
And I don’t have a problem with textures, as Kay does. She deserves a lot of credit, she’s been willing to try some pretty strange food, and a few, to her own surprise, she’s liked. Like boquerones, fresh anchovies that are headed, breaded, deep-fried and served in a pile with lemon. She doesn’t love them, but she usually eats one or two from my platter. She’s also developed a liking for deep-fried octopus tentacles, which, when properly prepared, are crunchy and quite delicious. When not properly prepared, they can be a bit rubbery.
One dish that sounded particularly enticing to me was anchoas marinadas, anchovies marinated in vinegar and herbs. The heads and tails are removed from these finger-size fishes, then they’re filleted, butter-flied and marinated overnight, where they “cook” in the vinegar. I ate them in Malaga, on the coast, and they are amazingly delectable. Kay even tried one and enjoyed it.
There are still a few areas where Kay does not venture. There is a café near our house called Los Caracoles, the snails. The first time we went there was with Kay’s brother Mason and his friend Monte. We didn’t know the word then, so we were surprised when our beers were served with an enormous bowl (it was intended for four) of snails in a thick, spicy, garlicky, brown sauce. Monte and I ate our fill. For Kay, merely watching us eat a pile of snails was less than appetizing.
There are a few dishes I’ve yet to try, like tortilla sacromonte, an omelet with calf’s brains, bulls testicles, ham, shrimp and veggies. I want to eat one in a place where it’s a specialty.
Kay has shown lots of pluck during our adventures in eating. As for me, I’m like Brer Rabbit in the briar patch. Bring it on!

SEEKING SOLACE IN A STRANGE LAND

In Search of the Elusive Martini

From time to time, reality deals a blow so brutal that it takes your breath away and leaves you reeling. It feels as if your heart has been buried in cement and your spirits have taken new residence around your ankles. On November third, 2004, just such a blow was dealt.
At such times, it is only natural to seek relief, a spiritual balm, if you will. What was required on that particular evening was a Martini. Nothing less would have done.
Kay and I were staying at the time with Bob and Penny Weiss, who had taken a house in Orvieto, a little over an hour north of Rome by train. Would it be difficult to find a proper Martini — not a glass of vermouth over ice, or that dreadful mix of equal parts gin and sweet, white vermouth Kay and I had been served many years ago in Madrid — in a small, hill town in Umbria?
The café/bar just around the corner had, Penny remembered, both Bombay gin and dry vermouth behind the bar. Surely they made Martinis. The evening was cool, so we pulled on sweaters and jackets and set out.
There were only two people at the bar, which served far more coffee than alcohol. We lined up, side by side, and ordered four Martinis. The bartender nodded and brought four small, cocktail glasses and a bottle of sweet, white Martini and Rossi vermouth.
No, no, said Penny. She explained in Italian that we wanted a Martini cocktail. With gin. The bartender retrieved the bottle of Bombay and put it beside the bottle of vermouth, then left to make a cappuccino. Wrong vermouth, Penny told him when he returned. He took away the gin and replaced it with additional bottles of Martini and Rossi, then walked away again. We looked down at the three bottles of vermouth, red, sweet white and dry white.
We pondered the situation. The bartender obviously did not know how to make a Martini. And seemed to have little inclination to learn. Could we endure two disappointments in one day?
Hey, kids, Penny said, I have the feeling that we are NOT going to get a Martini in this café.
Suddenly Bob remembered a shop not far away that sold kitchenware. I’m sure I saw a Martini shaker there, he said. If they sell Martini shakers, they should know what they’re for. And if they know what a Martini is, they might know where you could get one.
An excellent idea! Grazie, grazie, grazie, arrivederci we shouted to the befuddled bartender, and charged back out into the night.
The shop was located in a cul-de-sac off a very narrow lane. Amidst the lovely glassware that filled the shelves was one beautiful, stainless steel Martini shaker. In what sounded to me like good Italian, accompanied by a variety of hand gestures, Bob and Penny described our predicament. The two, attractive women who ran the shop were happy to help. After a few minutes of conversation (one doesn’t rush such encounters), we headed for the recommended café/bar.
By amazing coincidence (or perhaps not, some things are simply meant to be), our destination turned out to be El Cafetal, a small café/bar that we’d already patronized. El Cafetal is a small place, a counter along which perhaps eight customers could stand, two chest-high, platter-sized tables, and a small space upstairs reached by a narrow staircase at the rear. The proprietors, Marco and Alessandra, both in their mid-thirties, worked long hard hours, dawn till dark, seven days a week. Marco, who spoke some English, told us that they planned to sell the café at the end of the following year and open a beachside café/bar in Costa Rica. They’d already picked out a location, which he showed us on a map.
In addition to being very charming, Marco enjoyed performing. On an earlier visit, he’d used a special dispenser to carefully place perfect, powered chocolate hearts on both Kay and Penny’s cappuccinos. He then held the dispenser over my cup, and, with a sly look, gave it a shake, leaving a shapeless mound of chocolate covering the foam. Only for the ladies, he said, and smiled.
There were only three or four customers in the café when we arrived. Marco greeted Bob and Penny in Italian, Kay and I in English.
Four Martinis, we said.
Martini cocktails? Marco asked.
Si.
While his wife Alessandra handled coffee orders, Marco began his preparations. He put four Martini glasses on the small workspace. To these he added a bottle of Tanquerey gin, a bottle of dry, white Martini & Rossi vermouth, a shaker and a small container of ice cubes. He stopped and gazed at the assemblage, as if reviewing the process, then began. He placed two cubes of ice into each glass, then a scoop into the shaker. He poured the vermouth into the shaker (a bit too much, I thought as he poured), then shook the shaker vigorously. Suddenly he stopped, frowned, shook his head, then dumped the contents of the shaker into the sink.
I start again, he said.
He put fresh ice cubes into the shaker, poured the vermouth, gave the shaker a gentle shake, then put it down. He dumped the ice cubes from the now chilled glasses, placed one vermouth-coated cube into each glass, along with one olive, then filled each glass with gin.
While we watched Marco work his magic, Alessandra had placed coasters in from of each of us, along with small bowls filled with peanuts, olives, crunchy snacks and small, sandwiches. Marco then served our Martinis.
Ladies, he said, and placed drinks in front of Penny and Kay with a flourish, then two for Bob and me.
To sunny, Costa Rican beaches, we toasted, and applauded. Marco and Alessandra beamed and bowed.
We returned the night before Kay and I left Orvieto. Marco repeated his performance, but this time used smaller ice cubes. To make the drink colder, he said. He then presented Kay with a small memento of El Cafetal and promised us all a free Martini at their Costa Rican bar.
It wasn’t the perfect Martini, I would have liked mine a bit colder. But it was delicious. And it was, without doubt, one of the most memorable of our lives.
Ciao.

TALES OF TRAVEL, TALES OF WOE

By Car or by Rail, There’s No Avoiding Misfortune

Almost all our friends rent cars when traveling in Europe. The advantages are many, they tell us. Luggage, for instance, is no problem. No matter how much you take, you simply load and unload at the hotel. You set your own schedule, no getting up at six-thirty to catch the train. And best of all, you can tour the countryside, visiting picturesque villages and staying at country inns accessible only by car. Sounds good.
Our friends then proceed to relate tales of misadventure, of getting so lost they didn’t reach their destination until early morning; of having the car broken into; of dealing with a fender bender in a foreign language; of having a breakdown in a small village miles and miles away from the nearest rental-car agent, of mornings lost in search of a parking place, of spending hours navigating through medieval streets in search to their hotel before giving up and driving on to another town.
That’s why we prefer trains and buses, we tell them. It’s so less stressful. Plus, it’s part of the European experience. We go to the train station a day or two before departure, check the schedule and buy our tickets. We travel light, a roller and a smaller, attached bag at most, so luggage is not a problem. Instead of pouring over a map, we’re relaxing in our train compartment, book in one hand, glass of wine in the other, as the countryside slides by our window. If our hotel is close to the station, we walk; unlike driving, neither heavy traffic, one-way streets nor construction presents a problem. If walking is not practical, we take a taxi to the hotel door. What could be easier?
Then we relate our travel stories of woe and absurdity. Like the time in Paris when we took the wrong train to Chartres, were put off and sent back to the station, only to board the wrong train again. Or the time we arrived in Mestre at 4 a.m., and, not knowing that it was necessary to change trains to go into Venice, watched our fellow passengers rush for another train, then spent the next three hours waiting for the next train in a cold, November dawn. Then there was the time we left Milan for Switzerland only to find ourselves passing through Genoa, the Mediterranean on our right. Or just last August, when we decided to upgrade our second-class train tickets to Madrid in order to get a non-smoking car; we turned in Monday’s tickets and mistakenly received tickets for Sunday. We arrived at the station early Monday morning with outdated tickets, which would have been honored except that the train was full.
But wait! There’s more. In late October, we visited our friends Bob and Penny Weiss, who had taken a house in Orvieto, in Umbria, for a month. Our travel plan was as follows: we flew to Rome, took the train into the Rome terminal, then the 10:40 p.m. train, the last for the day, to Orvieto, where we were to arrive at midnight. As Orvieto is a hill town, and the train station is located far below, the Weisses had arranged for a taxi to meet the train.
The train left Rome late and it was after midnight when we approached Orvieto. We took our bags and headed for the end of the car as the train slowed. No one else in our car seemed to be getting off, so we stood by the door alone. The train stopped by a large sign announcing Orvieto. Kay pushed the door. It wouldn’t open. She tried again. No luck. After no more than half a minute, the train began to slowly move. Maybe we weren’t in the station yet, I suggested. The train picked up speed. I stepped back out into the passageway. Orvieto? I asked. A man pointed back to the rapidly receding station.
I returned to Kay. We are, I said, in a difficult situation. Or a word to that effect. How could this have happened? It was then, as we stared at the door, that we noticed, taped high on the door, far above the handle, a small sign. Door broken, it said, in four languages. We returned to the passageway, where we saw the conductor. The door, we pannomined, is broken. Yes, he shrugged. Broken. The next stop was Chiusi, 25 minutes north.
We left the train at Chiusi. It was 12:45 and, other than two bench sleepers in the station, there was ABSOLUTELY NO SIGN of life. There were no taxis and the only hotel in sight was closed and dark. We called Bob and Penny and told them what had happened. The next train back to Orvieto was at four, which would leave us at the station from four-thirty till seven, when the buses and funicolare up into the town began running. They would wait up for further news. Outside the phone booth we saw a sign with a taxi number. Kay called. We could hear the phone ringing at the empty taxi stand.
We staggered back into the station and slumped on a bench. With elbows on knees and head in hands, we watched the station clock tick off the minutes. Sixteen down, 164 to go. Then Kay heard a car outside and turned to look. It was a taxi looking for a last fare. We raced outside, hailed him, and began our inquiries, not so easy when one speaks no Italian. But Kay, not being hindered by small details, pressed on, and we arranged to be driven back to Orvieto for a mere €70.
We arrived a little after two. Bob and Penny were waiting.

PS: The four of us rented a car the following week to visit hill towns in the area. We left Orvieto in a thick fog, got lost on the way back, and drove into the night on narrow, hilly, potholed country lanes; winding, lake-side roads; and through a thunderstorm and monsoon rains worthy of Bangladesh. Visibility was limited, road signs few and shoulders non-existent. We arrived back in Orvieto very happy to be alive. As for Kay and I, we survived with a renewed appreciation of train travel, for no matter what mishaps we have encountered, none was life threatening.