We sat on stools without backs. The restaurant was a swell of sound, of bodies. Hot, loud. Catalan.
A blackboard perched before us. The day's specials jotted in chalk. Incomprehensible to any but the most fluent.
A waiter with a warm brown face swept up to our table. His mouth spilled Spanish. Bayreuth Boy perked his ears. I went dumb. My friend Alesia jumped in. "Out-of-towners," she said, indicating her voiceless companions. She grilled the small man about the menu. She placed the orders.
The Boy asked for Cerveza, I for agua, por favor. "They do quite well for themselves," the waiter told Alesia, laughing. Or something like that.
A Monday in September: I barreled (late) into my German language class. Muttering apologies. It was my second week and the class was accustomed to my (loud) entrances. This time four new faces looked on. I blushed. "Let's do introductions again," said my teacher Anja. Around the table, and there she was: Alesia. Yellow hair. Wide blue eyes. No denying it: a woman my age. Oh joy! In this bastion of twenty-somethings. She lived in Barcelona.
If there's anything I learned from nine years in New York: Work your contacts.
"Barcelona!?" I cried out. "I need your e-mail!"
First came the artichoke. Paper-thin slices, heart and leaves. Crisp to the touch. Golden green.
Then slabs of bread. Wet with oil.
Prawns. I would have bit right in. Alicia yelped. Off with the head. Off with the legs. Peel back the shell.
Patatas, cut blunt like French fries. Ketchup and mayonnaise, dribbled in long wavy lines.
Grilled toast, sliced into triangles. Squishy with mozzarella, olive paste. Best you ever tasted.
Finally, the squid. Fat pink bulbs. Squiggle legs. Punctured with a fork, out spat ink.
The minute the artichoke hit the table, I knew I was in for it. Our lone vegetable, breaded and fried? Shit.
Sometimes, though, you just have to say: "What the hell. Tonight I will eat gluten. Tonight I will eat cheese. Tonight I will build a meal of crunchy bits and pieces." Which is precisely the kind of meal that rips up my gut and makes my head crazy. "Tonight, however, I will not let it."
Funny how that works. On foreign soil. Exclusively.
Still, I left the hunks o' bread to the others. The desert, too: Three chocolate mouse balls, served with shimmering salt rocks.
Over dinner, we learned that "Alexandra" had become "Alecia" when she moved to Barcelona six years' past. "You're from Russia, right?" I said. "Weiss Russia," she corrected me. She worked in the frozen fish industry. Export management. She lived outside the city (rents within so very steep). She spoke Russian, English, German, some Catalan, and fluent Spanish. The two weeks I'd known her in Berlin were the only she'd ever spent in Deutschland. She'd come to improve her language skills "You must return," I told her. "Visit us!" She smiled ruefully: "My husband has no interest." And speaks no language but espagnol.
Alesia was nothing if not lovely. She tipped us off to the best of Gaudi; a sun-soaked restaurant named RA; and Gracia, a hipster neighborhood on the hillside. She even gave us Russian spongecake in a box. Whatever that is.
At the main plaza, she hugged us both goodbye. She had to go home and cook pasta for her husband.
The Boy and I walked the Ramblas back to our hotel. "I couldn't relax all night," he said. "I saw that food and thought, shit. What will Lilan eat?"
"You did?"
"Of course!"
This was just about the sweetest thing I'd ever heard. I squeezed him tight.
We maneuvered through the Ramblas stream: sloshed Australians; solo youths (I gripped my purse); tourist-kitsch kiosks (all identical); South American immigrants painted silver or soot-black, still as statues, tip baskets before their feet. Then: "What is White Russia?" I asked.
"You're kidding."
"No."
"It's a country. Like Latvia, Estonia... Remember when the Soviet Union broke up?"
"I know that," I said quickly. "I just thought White Russians were, like, a blond strain of Russian... You know, like the Black Irish?" He had not heard of the Black Irish. This made me feel better. "Maybe it's not called White Russia in English?"
A Google search on the Boy's iPhone suggested that it was, indeed, called that.
Only now, writing this post, have I figured it out: Belarus. Which I have heard of. Making me a little less egregious in the geographical stupidity department.
Still, I never need to eat tapas again.
But that is unrelated.
beautifully written post my dear.
and... mouse balls! tee hee -- sometimes typos are the best entertainment.
thanks for the smile. and BTW: lots of tapas are gluten-free, no? i hope you had more of the veggie and seafood kinds while you were there!
Posted by: Julie | February 15, 2008 at 03:54 AM
Did I really write mouse balls! Ha! You know, the name of the desert in Spanish was something like "shit balls." Not kidding. The Catalonians are big on poo humor.
As for gluten free Tapas, and veggies: Um, in California, sure. But Barcelona? And this place in particular? NO. I said the word "vegetables" and Alesia looked at me like, "are you kidding?"
Posted by: Lilan | February 17, 2008 at 03:02 AM
Hey, I meant BARCELONA tapas. I was there in 1995. Although I could still be confusing matters: The only food I really remember clearly is the tortillas (yum!), the calamari (not fried -- double yum), and the olives. I know I had white asparagus at least twice, once from a can so the other must have been in a bar???
But then there was the dinner in the restaurant that only served one thing -- there was a typed letter next to the unmarked door that basically said, you'll eat what we give you. That turned out to be meat fondue -- and by fondue I mean a pot of oil to cook the raw cubes in. We found out later we could have requested a salad, but by then the meal was over. At least the place had character and the proprietor came to each table and did magic tricks.
Posted by: Julie @ the calm before the stork | February 22, 2008 at 09:28 AM
I'm so glad you mentioned the mouse balls. They were KILLING me.
Posted by: DaMomma | March 02, 2008 at 06:43 PM