A week in Spain (and some transit on both ends): Part I
1a. One of the things I love about traveling is eating up all the food in my fridge before I go away. I like calculating the Leftover Arc. How many things I need to eat during the three days, then two days, then three hours before the taxi arrives. It’s a consumption puzzle—an edible enigma, a waste-not Gordian Knot. If I’m just going for just a week—like now—I can leave behind a half carton of milk, and eggs, citrus, mayo, and hard veg. Those will keep. But greens and meat and any cooked leftovers need to be finished up.
The three-hours-before-the-taxi meal is the weird one. Today it was a bit too much cashew cheese with some puffed corn crackers, and a LOT of grapes. One corner of artisanal (and somewhat dry) québécois cheese, about four tablespoonfuls of black-bean chile, two pieces of steamed cauliflower, one cubic inch of membrillo, and a quarter of a half-litre of still-fizzy kefir. (Shoot. Nope, actually, I forgot to drink the kefir before I left. I guess it’s stable enough for another eight days. Fermented, and all that.)
So the fridge is now in sleep mode. Nothing will rot or drip. The red rice—that will have to get chucked when I get back. I think it was a little rancid anyway.
This was my pre-Madrid meal. The gastronomic set-up for I don’t know what. Óscar has told me that he and his housemate Xara have no food sense and don’t know how to ‘eat healthfully.’ Spending a week with them will be curious. Delicious and experimental, perhaps. Best-of artisanal Madrid, maybe not. I’ve promised to cook for the two of them, but have no idea what to expect in terms of ingredients and kitchen. It will be yet another partly pre-scripted, partly improvised performance.
1b. At the international Maple Leaf lounge in Montreal (renovated, finally, and quite nice), I have a quarter of a glass of someone’s odd Chardonnay, a full glass of their own cucumber-lemon water, and a small handful of edamame. I only have twenty minutes to wait, but I need a little fix of privilege, since for the first time in a while I’m traveling with no e-upgrade. Dreadful. Simply. Dreadful. That one time flying business class ruined me. It was like spending a night between a Victoria’s Secret big spoon and a Davidoff Cool Water little spoon, and then going back to the plastic cutlery drawer of Grindr. (Sorry, TMI? Here’s a distraction: The word “chardonnay” used to not pass through a lot of corporate email filters, because the embedded alpha-string, hardon, was considered by early spam software to be dangerously pornographic. But why would you send an email about Chardonnay, anyway?)
1c. “Chicken or pasta?” I also love airplane food. I love deciding between the testicle-shrinking risk of hormone-laden white meat in ‘cream’ sauce and gut-ballooning, all-Canadian, gluten-enhanced vegetarian penne. It’s another juicy conundrum of transdisciplinary gastronomy. Plus, there’s the truly special gift of getting that look from the flight attendant. You know the one—the sneer of Protestant disdain when you ask for a second ¼ bottle of Assemblage Rouge (a hand-selected grenache-pinot noir-cabernet-mourvedre blend, I believe). That look is my dessert. Sweet, tart, and bitter all at once. Subtle. Balanced. I think AC flight crews are only slightly more shaming than the KLM on-board staff. The Lufthansa gang happily hand over tumblersful of rotwein, and the Air Dolimiti ladies practically leave the bottle of prosecco with you (along with a white-bread, ham, aioli, and artichoke sandwich). It’s only the prudish Dutch and Canadians who seem to think that 187.5 mL is just plenty for one meal.
I also ate some raw cashews, golden raisins, and Mary’s crackers (the classic flavour), as a little pre-nosh nosh. The very tall and very built pink-and-red man one seat away from me also brought his own snack—some very robust-looking trail mix—which seems to be a necessary calorie-infusion for him. He also eats his in-flight meal. Can’t let those muscles might wither over the next hours.
1d. It is 3:30 am Madrid time and they will soon try to feed me aspartame-flavoured strawberry yogurt and an individually wrapped slice of banana bread. I will decline, fearing a bloated belly by baggage claim. Breakfast on AC is the worst. (Wait, what did I just say about airplane food?)
A week in Spain (plus transit): Part II
It turns out I don’t really like writing as a food tourist. Yes, I dutifully kept eating notes while in Madrid, but I think I ran out of glibness. I also felt some weirdness about the colonial tourist gaze. And then it just got hard to keep up with all those meals. Too many, too late in the day, constantly eating when I wasn’t hungry. So here are my notes, at least. Sorry to be a tease. Sorry to be boring.
2a. coffee with oat milk, toast with Melis tomato/walnut spread, olive oil, paleta iberico (front-leg ham), halvah, almond biscotti. A jetlag nap on the couch.
2b. more paleta and Galician smoked cheese, sweet potato chips with “winter spices,” rosé Lambrusco; chicken ‘Madrid’ (aka stuffed and rolled with veg and cheese) à la vapeur with tomato vinaigrette, red quinoa with leftover cardoons, Greek coffee (not Turkish); discussion of bacteria, cooking rules, not wasting the the Thermomix bong water (chicken broth), throwing out the Air Canada banana bread.
2c. at a crusty retro bar, two glasses of sweet house wine and some microwaved tortilla española
2d. back at home, a simple soup made with the leftover chicken broth, spinach, onion, rice semolina, and shaved carrots; herbal tea
3a – 3d. a blur of jamón, honey, croquetas, bacalao, fried pimentón, more croquetas, beer, tostada de morcilla (blood sausage on toast), middling Rioja, more croquetas, and a bonito tapa (with draft vermouth)
4a. sweet tortas de chicharrones (pork crackling buns) with coffee, a little crossword puzzle, a helicopter floating in the distance
4b. gin and tonics, reheated chicken and quinoa
4c. pesto-stuffed gnocchi (bought) in pink sauce (made), sliced tomato, HB egg and breadcrumb topping; salad of roquette and frisée with olive oil, white vinegar, honey vinegar; Tempranillo
5a. just coffee
5b. a coconut water
5c. gluten-free rice pasta with yu choy, tomato sauce, and leftover egg crumbs
5d. afternoon snack: chocolate with churros, several slender and salty, one large and greasy; aperitivo: Amontillado, olives, Palo Cortado, cecina (cured beef) and mojama (cured tuna); dinner: nettle and zucchini soup, Verdejo
6a. coffee, a piece of cheese, tomato slices
6b. a coconut water
6c. supper at home (I perform): cucumber and carrot crudités with hummous; crostini of cashew butter, roasted cauliflower, black garlic; monkfish soup with miso-and-preserved-tofu broth (also in there: rice vermicelli, cod roe pâté, yu choy, cucumber, cilantro); shumai with soy-ginger-vinegar-lime sauce; a blindingly extraordinary 2004 Lan Rioja (another Victoria’s/Davidoff experience to ruin me forever); Chinese sweet bean cakes and hot-house strawberries
7a. coffee, panettone, and jamón
7b. aperitivo of stewed pork with peas; Verdejo; pisto toledano (caponata-ish) with crispy fried egg, crema de calabazita (zucchini soup), boar stew with fried potato wedges, coffee, chupito (nasty, kiddie-candy flavoured)
7c. afternoon snack: marzipan, yemas de Santa Teresa, mint tea
7d. last supper: Mahou beer; scrambled eggs with flatbread
On the return flight, I have the chicken again, with some puréed potatoes. Another marvellous assemblage (white grenache, pinot blanc, and chardonnay, or some equally bizarre blend), and the last of the Mary’s crackers and golden raisins. My digestion is by now offline. Way off. I need to drink some soda water and eat some fermented things when I get home.
The snack-before-arrival is a ‘hot sandwich’ with either chicken or vegetables. The woman in front of me asks if it’s made with “real chicken” and the flight attendant jokes (maybe) that she’s “not allowed to say.”