Of fish, and chips

I didn’t seek it out deliberately, I promise!

After enjoying an exploratory wander through the Raval, I stumbled upon something most unexpected. In the district of Barcelona best known for its high immigrant population, halal meat shops and (let’s be honest here) prostitution, a genuinely British Fish & Chip shop was the last thing I expected to see.

Naturally, as a self-sacrificing blogger, I had to venture in and check out the food so that you, my loyal readers, might know whether it was a haven of British cuisine, or simply second-rate grub for grease-starved tourists.Rest assured that my research was undertaken with the utmost care and scientific standards. Assistants were drafted in to provide second and third opinions, and the endeavour was undertaken with the seriousness that befitted it.

Featuring the option of a full english breakfast in addition to the generous traditional fish & chip shop menu and a sign announcing, “real english chocolate”, if anything the café offered more than one might normally find in your average local chippy.

Aside from the menu appearing in Catalan and Spanish there was little to suggest we were in Barcelona at all. The drizzle and grey skies outside only added to the authenticity of our experience. A certificate even proudly proclaimed all the produce to have been sourced in the British Isles.

And what about the actual food?

Here we have an example of my personal favourite, chicken and mushroom pie and chips, accompanied by a dr. pepper.

I’m pleased to report the chips were suitably greasy, there was a noticeable quantity of chicken in the pie in question, and the dr. pepper was served well chilled. Vinegar was offered, but declined. Salt and ketchup were accepted.

On your right is an example of the classic fish and chips. A small portion size was chosen, gravy was the condiment of preference, to be accompanied with the somewhat unusual choice of a Nestea. The batter was found to be crisp, the fish succulent, and the chips once more pleasantly greasy.

I’m getting hungry again just thinking about it. A return visit is definitely in order, but I’m going to have to make an effort to tone down my guiri ways in future. A recent comment that I was turning a bit, to quote, “Costa Brava tourist” has made me think carefully about future blog posts.

So look forward to a higher Spanish content in future posts, dear readers.

Even if I write them while drinking Yorkshire tea 😉

http://www.fishandchipsbarcelona.com/en_who-we-are.htm

Stereotypes

Stereotypes

As my previous posts on bullfighting, guiris and marmite go to show, I love a good stereotype. As I see it, there is a thin line between pinpointing the culture of a country and generalizing about the habits of its people. In Spain, it’s a two-way thing. Which came first, the restaurants selling overpriced sangria and paella on the Rambla, or the tourists eager to pay for it?

And so it was on Sunday night when I ended up going to a flamenco show. Now, I won’t pretend that I know anything about flamenco. I was lucky enough to see Pepe Habichuela perform live, but I couldn’t tell you much about the art form in general. In fact, I was looking forward to seeing flamenco dancers for the first time, with the added highlight of an acquaintance singing in the show .

Yeah, get me, mingling with the locals.

Not that there were any locals watching. The restaurant was the worst example of a tacky tourist trap. Themed to look like an Andalucian tavern, complete with plastic grapes adorning the walls and a rustic ’well’ in the centre of the room, it was filled with slightly bewildered looking Russian, Japanese and American couples. Everything was an over exaggeration of “typical Spain”, from the golden statue of the Virgin Mary to the terracotta tiles jutting out over the alcoves.  At the entrance was a stall selling castanets and fans- because what self respecting tourist could go home from Spain without them?

Don’t get me wrong, the guitar playing and the singing were excellent. I find it incredible the coordination between dancer, singer and guitarist, not to mention that the friend in question was only on her second night, without ever having practiced with the others.

I suppose my point is this. A desire to see something of an authentic Spain is, in my opinion, admirable, and far better than using the country solely for its beaches and weather. But it can sometimes turn into a vicious circle. Tourists want Spain, and the more “Spanish” their experience the better. So those who sell the spanishest things get the most business, and the whole thing gets warped. The natives mock the tourists dim enough to pay for the products they’re selling, but the visitors themselves don’t know any better.

Anyway.

The main conclusion I have drawn from the whole experience?

I’m going to take up flamenco dancing. ¡Olé!

Me, in the near future.

Be careful what you wish for…

Be careful what you wish for.

Hello all, apologies for the shortage of posts while I enjoyed a brief Madrilenian interlude (of which more later). I arrived back to Catalonia very late last night, only to discover that, all of a sudden, the season had finally changed to autumn.

I say finally, dear readers, because for me this has been a long awaited moment. I have a wardrobe stocked with jumpers, and a longing to wear socks. My eyes are tired of watering in the glare of the Mediterranean sunlight. I yearn to snuggle up in my 13.5 tog duvet. But most of all, I wanted the chance to wear my coat.

Some might call it foolish, buying a winter coat in August.

Indeed, some did.

 “A waste of money!”, they cried. “You’re moving to Spain!” they chorused. Perhaps rightly so, there being no need for a wool-lined hood in a city with parrots and palm trees, at least for a few months more. So I have been willing the weather to grow colder, glancing at my overpriced abrigo hanging forlornly from my bedroom door. The arrival of autumn would silence the coat critics, I thought, as the beauty and warmth of my coat prevailed.

So autumn finally, finally decided to arrive in the form of dangerously high winds across Spain, lashing rain and a two hour delay to my flight back to Barcelona. When the airport was finally in sight, the turbulence was so bad that I thought one more gust of wind could easily have nudged us into the sea beside the landing strip.

But I have to say, I do look rather dashing in my winterwear.

Ode to the Metro

Ode to the Metro

 

For someone who prefers to imagine the metro is, in fact, an aboveground service between buildings that just don’t happen to have any windows, I get a surprising amount of enjoyment from being on the underground.

 

Of course, any metro service has its fair share of eccentrics. Then there are the buskers, the transvestites (heading to my part of town at the weekend, Gaixample), the men selling fake designer bags, the pickpockets and far too many cockroaches on the way back on a Sunday morning after the underground has been open all night.

 

Anyway, I love it.

It’s the perfect place for people watching, eavesdropping and casual gawping. I overheard a Spaniard joke to his friend, saying “Watch out! Here come a herd of tourists”, and it’s really true. Groups of Germans, Americans and Brits hang around in packs, moving en masse from one tourist hot-spot to the next. Although it’s getting better moving into October, for a while it was quite easy just to get swept along in a tide of ‘guiris’. (guiri, noun. Normally derogatory term used by Spaniards to identify foreigner, usually from northern europe or the USA, who sticks out for their pale looks and ignorance of Spanish culture)

I have already picked up the very Spanish habit of mocking sunburnt northern europeans. I glance with disdain at anyone showing a pink nose, and chuckle inwardly at glimpsing white strapmarks contrasting sharply with a reddened décolletage. Even worse are the foreign visitors who come straight from the beach without even bothering to change out of their sarong and flip-flops. They couldn’t look more out of place in a carriage full of people commuting to work, who in any case wouldn’t head to Barceloneta for less than 30⁰.

Perhaps it was so easy to be caught up in their group because, much as I might pretend otherwise, I’m quite obviously a guiri too.

Several times I have been asked, quite seriously, why 'my people' wear socks with sandals

—————————————————————————————————————————————-

“A guiri is not just a foreigner, it is a plainly obvious foreigner that is subject to ridicule”

“Debido a su desconocimiento del sistema económico normal y su empeño en utilizar moneda extraña, los sagaces vendedores y tenderos de los países de visita, sobre todo en la Costa Brava y Barcelona, les venden cutradas y objetos inútiles a precio de oro.”

Comida

Comida.

We’ve arrived at a topic which lies close to my heart (and of course, my stomach). It was always going to be tough moving away from the culinary delights of my university home. I kid you not, students we may have been, but we took food seriously. We had pancakes in the morning at the weekends, a different chef rustling up a meal every Sunday. Sometimes in-house cooks, sometimes guest turns from visitors.

So obviously, I knew that food would be an important factor for my wellbeing in Barcelona. Of course, I already knew I was a fan of jamón serrano, squid in its own ink, chorizo, lentejas and tortilla de patatas.

                                    

The capital of Catalonia is also famous for its grub, and I had heard of many local delicacies before arriving. I was all set to settle happily into a Mediterranean diet.

But it was not to be.

Readers, without Marmite there is a part of me that just doesn’t function properly. I need it to keep going like oil on a bike wheel; without it I squeak slowly to a halt and begin to rust. For a while I held out, sustained by chorizo toasties and a desire not to be an expat Brit pining for home.

The weeks ticked by until, ambling around the city one day, my yeast-extract deprived body subconsciously found its way to this shop.

Almost like a mirage in the desert, I rushed in. It seemed too good to be true, as my eyes fell upon a shelf full of the sticky brown nectar.

Marmite it was. But at €11 for 500g, I could see such an extravagant purchase turning into a habit that would spiral rapidly out of control as I gorged my way through jar after jar, saving together pennies to get my next fix.

Life without my favourite spread continued. Try as I might, I could never quite push it out of my mind. Breakfast times were particularly trying moments for me, and I would often brush away a tear as I took out the jam from the fridge.

So you will understand my utter joy when this weekend brought not only much loved visitors from my native land, but visitors bearing Marmite! I’m trying not to overdo it, but I’m sure I can find a way to give Mediterranean dishes a salty, moreish twist; the best of both worlds.

❤

A Barcelona Overture

If there’s one thing I can’t stand about Barcelona, it’s the noise. It could be that I’m overly sensitive. Maybe I had an excessively quiet childhood growing up in Suffolk. Or perhaps it’s just that the windows of my flat don’t close properly.

I think the problem boils down to the fact that Spain is constantly under construction. From 8.30 in the morning I am rudely awoken by the building works next door, whose hammering is then accompanied by the flat downstairs getting up. Every word echoes up from the first floor and finds its way into my sleeping ear. Every. Single. Word.

At night there are car alarms, drunken songs, police sirens. But the worst, the most insufferable, is the snoring from upstairs. It’s a well known fact among the residents and visitors of this building that the man who lives on the third floor is an unapproachable, bad-tempered tyrant (more of him in future posts). His snoring is, without doubt, his worst attribute.

 Every intake of breath that passes his unruly nostril hairs creates a prolonged snort followed by the wheeze of his mean-spirited lungs. This delightful lullaby is only worsened by the amplifying qualities of the indoor patio, and the fact that I can imagine him, sleeping directly above me.

Obviously these aren't the nostril hairs of He Who Lives Upstairs. I would never dare get close enough, and besides, his are far hairier.

Of course I know the noise is the downside of living in a city. But what can I say, I want it both ways. Silence while I sleep, yet the hustle and bustle of over one million people just outside my doorstep. I think I know the solution: earplugs.

Man vs. Bull

 

So I thought I might ramble about bullfighting.

I know, I know. I can almost hear the disbelieving groans and cries of “cliché!” from the back of the room. But first let me justify myself. I mean, it’s a theme with a dose of old-fashioned gawping at the misfortune of others, a dash of gore and a cultural-political twist. Still not convinced? Well…recently, this happened to a matador:

Juan José Padilla after being on the wrong end of a horn

 

Ewwww! Got your attention there, right? I don’t want to go into graphic details about what happened to him. Let’s just say that horn met cheek met eye. I’d rather not taint the pages of my blog with the worst photos of the incident, but I’ll leave the link for those of you with strong stomachs.

I can’t help it, but I have a morbid fascination with bullfighting. It’s a cruel activity which I cannot agree with, especially when there are equally entertaining alternatives in which the bull is neither injured nor killed, and which maintain the much vaunted “art” of the tradition. I have extremely limited sympathy for injured matadors. If you put yourself in a ring with an angry bull and poke it with a sword, then what do you expect?

But I just can’t help it. Like the desperate hispanophile I am, I guiltily search for the worst “cornadas” on youtube, google stories of Spain’s deadliest bull and woke up early to watch the Pamplona bull run live on TV.

As I’m now living in Catalonia, this kind of thing has to stop if I truly want to blend in. After voting to ban the sport in the region, any good wannabe catalan has to be proud to live in an area where watching bulls die slowly for fun is illegal. Maybe I am a little proud. But is my fascination with bullfighting likely to die down any time soon? No creo…

Related articles

• Last bullfights in Spain’s Catalonia before ban (sfgate.com)
• End of a Bloody Era: Both Outrage and Celebration Mark Catalonia’s Last Bullfight (newsfeed.time.com)
• Bull Gets Revenge on Bullfighter (futuretwit.com)

Unusual things to do in Barcelona no.1: Parrots and cake

After a Sunday afternoon well spent here in BCN, here’s how you can repeat the experience.

Step 1. Find yourself a companion with an affection for both exotic birds and cake.

Step 2. Take the metro to Jaume I, or find your way in Bicing. From there it should be easy to find yourself in Plaça de l’Angel.

Step 3. It’s time to get some cake. On the corner of the Plaça is one of Barcelona’s most well-known cake, pastry and sweet shops. Stock up.

 

Step 4. Wind your way through the Barri Gotic towards the Plaça Reial. It’s a short walk if you go directly, but I would suggest zigzagging through the side streets for a more interesting route.

Step 5. So you’ve arrived in the Plaça! Take a seat on one of the chairs around the square, or perch on the edge of the fountain in the middle. Look up at the palm trees, and watch the parrots flying in between, while you enjoy a well earned munch of your cake.

But don’t parrots only live in more exotic climes? Not any more. Pet parrots were set free by their owners, who took happily to life on the mediterranean coast and the lack of natural predators. So they multiplied just to add a bit more sparkle to your Barcelona visit, you lucky thing.