Food, food, food

A few facts and figures on the amount of pigs slaughtered in this country, the rate of bowel and cholesterol related deaths, not to mention lung cancer, will be the subject of a future post.

This shouldn’t be taken as a disliking for the food, quite the contrary. First stop Madrid for a series of happy accidents in orders that would set the tone for a checklist before saying ponmelo.

Two chains I daresay compete with the international junk food outlets are El Paraíso del Jamón (Ham Paradise) and El Museo del Jamón (Ham Museum). A sign on the front door assures us we are allowed to smoke in Paradise despite the massive legs of ham that cover the walls from half height to ceiling. We proceed to order a sampler with íberico, cured ham from acorn fed pigs; morcilla and cecina, both blood pudding style meats, very smoky and strong; chorizo; and manchego cheese on top, a jug of sangría and a salad to bring back some sort of health to the order. We munch down with bread while locals stand at the bar for a caña (beer), montadito (mini roll) and cigarette. An old man plays a pokie machine and the TV broadcasts a live speech by the questionable yet popular Galician PP leader (Partido Popular, right wing).

A Bolivian lady comes up to trade us some jamón for olives as she had mistakenly ordered a ración, pretty much a bowl full. You’d think other Spanish speakers would have no trouble getting their orders right but that’s not the case – figuring out what size and exactly what bit of the pig/cow/fish you’re getting takes some time. Waiters are quite happy to ignore you while you figure it out and decide yeah I’ll go the pig’s cheek and sometimes leads to the happy accidents I was talking about.

At El Boñar de León, an al fresco diner on a grubby, graffiti-scrawled laneway in Malasaña we decide to try Madrid’s typical dish, cocido. The waiter explains you don’t get a starter as you do with any other option on the menu because the cocido has its own soup. The other half of the dish is a mixed meat plate that should have a bit of chicken, beef and pork on a bed of chickpeas and vegetables. What comes out is a pot full of a meaty broth with noodles, followed by a platter with a quarter of chicken, two big osso bucco medallions, a turkey neck, a chorizo, pork, two potatoes, three carrots, and cabbage all on a bed of chickpeas. It was great, but of course, no human can eat so much.

When the waiter takes away the three quarters of the dish we were unable to eat, the owner goes on to describe their Monday special – the cocido is bigger(!) and if you manage to eat it all they give you a ticket to the Canary Islands. Has anyone managed to do it? They try, they try, he says.

The humble Spanish cafe/diner is a beautiful thing though. Every place has a bar where stools are optional, and there’s usually two middle-aged men behind the counter, churning out coffees while they yell out your order to the anonymous chef that makes churros with equal ease and speed as toasties, bocadillos (baguettes) and burgers. Some pre-made sandwiches, cakes or tapas are already there for you to choose from, and on one side of the bar, an ever-present feature: a leg of jamón on a wooden bracket, to be hand-sliced on request.

An absolute standout was the conejo guisado (stewed rabbit) from a hole-in-the-wall, plastic –tablecloth, poker-machine-on-the-corner lunch place around the corner from the Reina Sofía Museum. Melt in your mouth bunny, slow cooked in a thick garlic pepper sauce washed down with a couple of beers.