¡ Viva Las Vegas !

Our favourite local restaurant goes by the star-spangled name of "Las Vegas". Oh the glamour, the lights, the prawns! It never fails to entertain when you say, "I know, let’s go to Las Vegas for dinner". How extravagant! The food on offer at this culinary mecca to the stars is definitely not all glamour and flashing lights. More a single, non-energy bulb kinda glow. There's no molecular, pea-in-spit starter, no jus de framboise, no muddled or pulled anything. In fact, all they sell is good, simple food.

That's the great thing about most Spanish eateries, the food is simple. Consequently, the flavours aren't in constant strife with each other, they come through loud and clear and can indeed hold a conversation at a dinner table, so to speak. There's no overwhelming whiff of a mystery ingredient. You get what it says on the menu. Of course, this can be shocking to the uninitiated. You order fish, you get fish. If the chef is feeling a bit fancy that day, you may be treated to a limp lettuce leaf on the side, but in general, you'll just get a beautifully cooked bit of fish. Fantastic.

Apart from the delights of "chocolate mouse",  the Las Vegas menu also tries to tempt you with curious local dishes such as "migas". On many a menu this is translated rather directly as "crumbs". A plate of your best crumbs, please. It turns out "crumbs" is a mix of breadcrumbs, strangely, and lard. Some people, locals mainly, get very excited about their crumbs, but it's just not my cup of tea, I'll stick to the fish, gracias.

One thing I tried recently and did really like was ajo blanco. Again, like the beloved horchata, a slightly chalky texture, but this time not sweet but a touch vinegary and garlicy. It’s made of almonds, oil, vinegar and water, oh and a hint of garlic. I loved it, but can imagine other north europeans wouldn’t. I think it’s the colour. Where as horchata looks like dirty milk, ajo blanco looks like clean milk but certainly doesn’t taste of it. I think that’s the problem, it looks like milk so your brain has already told you, “that’s milk”, but surprise, it’s a sour garlic drink. Don’t put it in your tea.

Once you’ve managed to tell your brain, “don’t worry, I know it’s not milk, I’ll be fine”, you’ll be able to enjoy a pernod and water a la France, ajo blanco for lunch and a tasty horchata to cool down in the afternoon. My love of milky looking drinks however has never extended to Gaviscon. Although, I might need some at this rate. More crumbs anyone?

¡ Que aproveche !

Horchata

I love horchata. Most people hate it, I love it. With everyone else around me ordering their coke zeros and una caña, por favor, I go straight for the straw and sup my horchata. Horchata is an over-sweetened drink made of tiger nuts (none the less). It’s sort of an “elephant breath”-coloured drink that is slightly chalky. Not selling it, am I. If you’ve been to Valencia, you may have tried it and even fallen in love with its weird sweetness. If you’ve not been, you may never heard of it. The truth of the matter is, if you’ve been to Spain, it’s more than likely you’ve seen it in a bar somewhere in an over-sized slush puppy machine being constantly stirred and rarely drunk. Right next to the fluorescent blue smurf drink.

Valencia is the capital of horchata. Saying that, actually Alboraya, a small village suburb to the north of Valencia is the epicentre of Spain’s horchata production. A true mecca of tiger nut lovers. It’s not busy. Anyway, it’s here on the outskirts of Valencia, in the fields that start right where the city stops, that the famed tiger nuts are cultivated. Tiger nut fields as far as the eye can see, well, until Alcampo by the motorway. Valencians are very proud of their horchata, even if it’s a Alborayan invention.

The story goes that King Jaume, the king whose name features most frequently on street signs in Valencia, happened to be passing Alcampo and a girl (valencian: chata) handed his majesty a glass of the yet to be named refreshing drink, the monarch took one sip (presumedly through a straw) and declared “this is or (valencian: gold), chata!” I think he liked it. When you’re in Spain next time, go on, risk it, try an horchata (pronounced: or-chat-a). You might like it, probably not enough to shout out “gold!” - that would be weird, but you never know.

The last time I went to Valencia I noticed a lot more pop-out horchata stalls (how very trending!). At every tourist site we were greeted by fake rustic ladies presumedly in their tiger-nut-harvesting frocks trying to get us to sample their chilled horchata. Strangely though, not one of them asked us if we wanted to try their horchata, instead they had obviously all been told to ask people if they wanted to try a tiger nut. A hard shrivelled up old bean. As a marketing ploy, I can’t see that being over-successful, to be honest. Crunching on a dried up nut and then thinking, oh I’ll have to try an horchata now. But fair enough, trying to engage people into a conversation about the grey concoction was a way of breaking the horchata ice. I thought they were going to rip me off, so I instead headed for the horchata ice lolly dispensing machine (yes, they exist!). Lovely and no gritty bits of tiger nut in your teeth. A win-win. In fact, horchata is the way ahead as they are traditionally eaten with a sponge pastry known as a “farton”, so there’s comedy value, too.

¡ Vamos a España !

So, here I am back in the land of paella, sangria and mañana. A land of incredible contrasts, illogical goings-on, blazing sun, proud puffed out chests and ex-pats.

I first moved to Spain years ago straight after graduating in the UK in linguistics with German and Swedish. I’d had enough of Central European/Nordic organisation and precision. I needed to experience something a bit livelier than a debate about the ecological impact of a new car park in some town in the Black Forest. What I needed was the much-hyped, real hispanic passion. From old ladies dressed to the nines while out shopping in a supermarket seemingly arguing over a triviality (normally the price of patatas) to crazy take-your-life-in-your-own-hands festivals involving much wine, tomatoes and fancy dancing. I had decided this was exactly what I needed rather than a sensible teutonic office job. Madrid was on the prescription and it did the trick.

I loved, and still do, Spain, and in particular Madrid, with all its ridiculous lack of reason and lateness. I’ve missed mashed up tomato smeared on toast for breakfast, gallons of olive oil poured on the same pre-toasted bread, sunbathing at five in the evening, eating too much at lunchtime and drinking horchata through a straw. I’ve missed downing cheap chilled red wine at lunch, because you can and it’s included in the price anyway. I’ve missed being able to park badly and get away with it. I’ve missed that feeling you get when for a split second you’re not sure if you’re inside or out, when strolling around a Spanish city at night. It’s good to be back.

My exaggerated, insomniac days in Madrid are however a distant, and yet fond, memory. No, now I’m not living over the road from Plaza Major, above the rather strongly smelling deep-fried calamari sandwich bar. No, I’m up a dried up valley in rural Almeria. Apparently, the sunniest part of Spain (sounds good) and basically the place where Andalucia runs out. I’ve got older, as Spain has too, and now the bright lights and never-ending parties of the capital have been replaced by a rural setting so quiet you can hear your own ears. I bought and did up this farmhouse over ten years ago, and so I’m not exactly new to the area, but having not been here for quite a while and that quite-a-while having been spent in Germany (I gave in to its punctual charms - who could resist!), I wonder what delights are in store for me. Hasta pronto.