Spain, Day 7

The Italian tradition of serving primi, secondi, insalate, e dulce spoiled me; not that I needed that much food, but I can never claim to have felt uncared for. Spain celebrates the same gut-busting custom, and dangerously so, because the meal appears much more seamless to me. Italy's pasta and risotto screamed primi, and only ushered in the requisite meat and roasted potatoes, to be followed by a panna cotta or custard. In Spain, however, the cuisine seems to just sneak by, and when I think that I have eaten my main course the true gut-buster comes out, which tortures me because I never know how much I should enjoy (consume) of each dish in case something new comes out from the kitchen.

Sometimes, however, I just can't bring myself to care about "saving room," I simply have to enjoy each dish to its fullest, regardless of its place in the chronology of the meal. Mostly, I just realize that I possess a terrible talent of being able to consume unnaturally vast quantities of food. For example, when yesterday's dinner began with a cheese plate I knew the possibility of maintaining a dignified poise for the evening meal was doomed.

A cheese plate needs no description, thankfully, because I would be hard pressed for words to bind in words the soaring joy a fresh, warm, loaf of bread and a plate of fresh cheeses inspires. Try it. Unfortunately, for those like an uncle who happened to sit next to me, who cannot find it within themselves to properly appreciate cheese then I can offer no words of advice, just pity.

It should come as no surprise that within arms reach of my place at the table the tastiest primi could be found: the cheese, the tantalizing, aromatic, and and fleetingly salty cured Spanish ham, the succulent pieces of octopus with soothing spices that accented the natural flavor, and complimented the warm texture without masking it, and the Fanta de Limon... Yes, I do consider the Fanta de Limon to have been one of the crowning achievements of the meal. I have been told that pop is tastier outside the U.S. because it lacks the high fructose corn syrup that the American Corn Lobbies force into every can of American produced pop. I have not bothered trying to substantiate these claims. Suffice to say that I do not drink pop at home, but here I relish the opportunity to drink Fanta de Limon, which bursts with a fresh lemon taste that suggests it was bottled on my uncle's farm from his lemon trees. Anyway, I must confess there is also a bit of nostalgia attached to my affinity for the pop, I used to drink one almost every day once I discovered them back in eighth grade on my first trip to Spain.

But continuing on with the meal: I suppose there were other foods on the table aside from the ham, cheese, bread, and octopus, but I couldn't actually tell you with any certainty what they were. Those foods remained in another quadrant of the table, where I wasn't, and I would assume the other guests at dinner enjoyed them, because I heard few requests to pass the food from my end down to them. Again, it could just be that there were requests and I didn't hear them, or that nobody felt comfortable enough or brave enough to endeavour to divorce me from my food.

Once I began looking up from the octopus and cheese, the Doradas came out. Glistening beautifully like a fresh school of fish, the eight medium sized standard white ocean fish brought my appetite to a new level. The small silvery fish has a fresh neutral (as far as fish goes) taste, and resembles the mojarra of the Western Hemisphere. From the Costa Dorada of Spain (Mediterranean Coast of Catalunya) they were now a succulent brown from the oven and stuffed with potatoes, gambas, and other sea-goodies.

Though afraid to look up once more, I did so, only to be faced with a rich flan coated in a warm plum and raisin reduction. After this I was unsure whether I wanted to look up again or not, or even weather I could.