NAfter a year and a half of doubting, almost asking, backing away at the last moment, admonishing herself and lying awake for nights – at least that’s how I like to imagine it – the woman from the bread shop across the street from us finally asked that one question: ‘ Hey, what do you do with all that bread?’
Eat it?, my friend said, more caught than she wanted. This was a question we did not expect. The two or three baguettes we bought every week from our bread shop in Madrid had always seemed like a reasonable amount for a two-person household. All the while, behind her permanent mask of friendliness, the salesperson had apparently been very surprised by us, unleashing her imagination on possible explanations.
It is perhaps no surprise that the bread lunch is difficult for Spaniards. Food is a serious matter in Southern Europe, and therefore also in Spain. What I underestimated is exactly how seriously they take their meals here. Food – and by that I of course mean Spanish food, the one and only food – turns out to be topic number one, a matter of the utmost national importance. Forget the empty church: in modern Spain the cuisine is alpha and omega.
Walk past a terrace and the discussions you overhear are more often than not about black pudding and octopus. Spaniards are never more proud than when they talk about the crispy pork belly from their parents’ village, which always happens to be the most beautiful village in the country. They are never more fierce than when the question arises as to whether or not onions belong in the tortilla (I say yes), an issue that pits entire families against each other.
Lunch is the highlight of the day. Spaniards do their homework on this. More than once I have been approached by a stranger on the street with the question ‘where you can eat well here?’. The idea is that you refer them to a restaurant with one menú del dia, a daily menu of three courses. Including a glass of wine, this may cost no more than 15 euros; anything more is obviously a rip off.
Eating and doing business flow seamlessly together. Also for journalists. When planning a report, I sometimes receive the names of the best eateries in the area from sources on the phone. An interview can also be completed with it. In Lorca, southern Spain, I had a tough conversation with the foreman of pig farmers who had stormed the town hall. Half an hour later, on his advice, I was sitting in a roadside restaurant with a mixed grill, perhaps made from his piglets.
Even when purchasing a house, which is quite a serious matter, food is not far away. When we bought an apartment on the coast last summer, the purchase included a list of the fourteen best catering establishments in the area, specially drawn up by the long-time residents. Without exception, the descriptions are in caps lock: ‘VERY BEAUTIFUL AND EXPENSIVE, BUT YOU HAVE TO GO.’ ‘NOTHING TO ADD. TASTING EVERYTHING.’
Because bread and cheese every day does not really make the taste buds tingle, we now sometimes go out for a daily menu. The other day, at a restaurant around the corner. When the waitress brought a basket of sliced baguette with cutlery, the rustic white slices already looked eerily familiar. Only when I was leaving did I see her sitting at another table: the friendly woman from the bread shop.
While we had her baguettes piled up in our Dutch stomachs, she had used them in the only sensible way: as a bargaining chip for a hot meal. Outside, my girlfriend and I looked at each other and knew: we still have a lot to learn here.
