Episode 46: Home Again

We returned from Europe to find our valley in the early throes of a full-throated Spring. The Korean dogwood was surpassing its past displays. It used to flower this flamboyantly only every other year. Now it denies us nothing every single June.

Another regular visitor is the embodiment of its prehistoric ancestors. Only days after we moved into this house in 1986, she showed up in our driveway, an appearance brought to our attention by neighbor kids. A scary prospect in the water, given jaws purportedly capable of chomping off human toes, the Eastern snapping turtle is considerably less intimidating on land, given itsvery deliberate mobility.

In this case, she even provokes a measure of sympathy, despite her un-cuddlesome appearance. Consider that she leaves the river a hundred-and-fifty feet below us, crawls up a cliff-like hill that is often nearly perpendicular, over fallen trees and retaining walls, and into our yard for the sole purpose of laying eggs.

To improve her chances of producing progeny, she buries the eggs in several places. One year, she deposited them under the spot of lawn that was to be paved over the next day. Some landowners along her unvarying route take pity on her, carrying her out of danger across interceding roads. We expect to continue noting her annual passage; snapping turtles can live up to eighty years.

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"To forget pain is to be painless, to forget care is to be rid of it, to go abroad is to accomplish both."
- Mark Twain
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Mi Segunda Casa
When Geezer was very young and his world incorporated only his home in a New York suburb and the towns outside the Army camps where his officer father was in training for the war in Europe, he only slowly grew aware of the places beyond, across the water. I don't remember when I first heard the simple but evocative advertising slogan "Castles In Spain". In that time before five TV channels became five hundred, those three words summoned images of chest-thumping knights in armor, chest-heaving ladies-in-waiting, dramatic jousts with trumpets announcing deadly competitions, and massive assaults on the fortresses of evil princes.

When I finally arrived in Spain in 1955, courtesy of the U.S. Army, I wasn't disappointed. There were flamenco, bullfights, and attractive young women happy to spot the naive young American G.I. entering the nightclub. On a later visit, driving west of Madrid, I detoured off the main road when I spotted an apparently abandoned castle up on a hill. There was no gate, no attendant, and in my wanderings through its echoing chambers, I came across a room with a full suit of armor. It was tossed in a corner, an unwanted relic of a distant time, of no interest to villagers who were more concerned about the hardscrabble day-to-day circumstances to which the dictator Franco subjected them.

Forget all that. That Spain is barely recognizable now, thirty years after the most attenuated death of a national leader experienced in Western history. ("Franco is still dead," declared Chevy Chase long after the event.) Massive improvements have been made in infrastructure, with thousands of miles of new highways, ultra-fast trains stitching major cities together, expanded airports, rehabilitation of entire urban neighborhoods, and new museums and cultural centers designed by major architects.

Much of this very visible progress is due to Spain's admission to the European Union and its financial support, and one result is that it costs about as much to visit here as it does Paris or Rome (if not quite as breathtakingly expensive as London.) Bargain Spain is past and gone. That's one reason I hadn't returned for over three years.

For me, that's a long time. I first saw Spain in 1955, courtesy of the U.S. Army. Subsequent visits were scattered through the 1960s and 1970s. When I decided to quit the 9 to 5 life in 1976 to become a freelance writer, Spain soon became my prime personal and professional destination. Eventually, I authored four guidebooks, contributed to three others, and wrote over one hundred magazine and newspaper articles about what was, for all purposes, my second home. Spain constituted about one-half of what I referred to as my income, an amount the Pentagon thought of as five ballpeen hammers and a toilet.

When the opportunity to return was presented, I lept at the chance. Our first stop was Madrid, and it was May Day. That occasion assures an influx of outlanders and foreigners more than enough to replace all the Madrilenos leaving town for the long weekend. The annual celebration of unions and working people ushers in a month of parades, open-air concerts and films, bullfights, neighborhood fiestas, fireworks and whatever other events the powers can dream up.

Many of them take place or wind up in the Plaza Mayor. The enclosed square is bordered on all four sides by cafes, a sea of tables stretching out toward the equestrian statue of Felipe III. This day, there was something new, a concert by huge electrified assemblages of musical instruments on flatbed trailers hauled majestically around the plaza by tractors. There was barely room for them among the the throngs. Multiple speakers six feet tall slammed out heavy metal rock until I thought our ears might bleed.

It was the same at the Museo del Prado. Originally meant to be a science museum, its mission was altered to house what is easily one of the most important repositories of classical paintings in the world. After three decades of halting starts, slowdowns, revolving- door directors, political interference, and resurgent efforts aimed at upgrading its infrastructure and expanding its gallery space, it has finally emerged as the equal of any such facility in Europe.
At this moment, the curators had mounted a major exhibition of the works of Francisco Jose de Goya y Lucientes, focusing on his works before and through the period of Spain's War of Independence from Napoleon. The crowds were endless.

The Prado has several entrances - the main one in front, facing the boulevard, and one each at the north and south ends of the building. They are closed and opened as necessary for crowd control. All three had lines of visitors up to two hours away from getting inside. Much as I wanted to see the new galleries, no way I was going to shuffle forward a half-step at a time for that long, not to see a museum I've been through thirty or forty times.

Inspiration! We walked around the back and through the new entrance, unchallenged, no line, no wait. I can't guarantee that will work every time, but keep it in mind. The new wing, which contains a restaurant and several galleries, segues smoothly into the main building, providing easy access to the luminous canvases of Velazquez, El Greco, Murillo, and, of course, Goya. Look, too, for the nightmare imaginings of Hieronymus Bosch and the lush extravaganzas of Titian, Tintoretto, and Rubens.
Not all of Madrid's advances involve infusions of public money. No more than a decade ago, the barrio known as Chueca was a scary place. Its dark, dank streets and plazas were ruled by drug dealers and thugs, desperate addicts, prostitutes and pimps, and lowlifes of every sort. The Plaza del Rey (at left) was a no-man's land. No longer.

The transformation of Chueca is dazzling. At first, bold gay entrepreneurs started moving in, creating hip new shops, businesses, design centers, galleries, clubs, and eating places. Those same narrow streets now course with people, mostly young or youngish, multi-sexual, multi-cultural.

One of the men who first nibbled at the edges of Chueca was Diego. After a long career at the legendary cocktail bar Chicote, once the choice of Hemingway, Ava Gardner, Orson Wells, Gary Cooper, and Tyrone Power, Diego set off on his own.
With his two sons, he opened Del Diego, a sleeker version of his previous employer's digs.

A master mixologist, his every move behind the bar is smooth, precise, unhurried. His drinks menu lists Cosmopolitans, Sex on the Beach, Long Island Iced Tea, and a roster of martinis. What makes regulars out of drop-ins, though, is his knack for making every patron feel privileged. He recognized me as soon as I came in the door. This was remarkable, considering I hadn't been in there in four years. But back then, we had spoken at length, if my appalling Spanish and his lack of any English could be described as "conversation."

Don Diego makes every effort to be understood and tolerates with equanimity my verb-free massacre of his language. He remembered that my drink is a vodka martini, after whipping together a cosmo for Jo, and invited us back after dinner for complimentary digestifs. We departed after Diego kissed Jo's hand and warmly shook mine, grasping my elbow.

We wanted to try one of Chueca's tradition-defying new restaurants. Bazaar was our choice, on a street blooming with forward-edge eating places. In a culture where most residents don't even think about dinner before 10:30pm, we were advised to line up at the door by 8:20. Ten minutes later, everyone gathered there surged in, filling the rooms in an instant. Older Spaniards are reluctant to sample tastes from other lands, rejecting spicy foods and unfamiliar ingredients. But the kitchen at Bazaar draws inspiration from many cuisines, hopping around the globe to borrow ideas. The results, while hardly stunning, are quite satisfying, and given the current status of the dollar, a very good deal - most dishes are 6 to 9 euros. We started with a cold tomato bread soup and followed with curried chicken on rice noodles and entrecote with a cake of vegetables.

Our evening ended back at Del Diego. The brandies were excellent, the handshakes and hand-kissing even better. Madrid has never been more magnetic.

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Eating, Sleeping, Seeing
Americans have learned what tapas are - finally - the basis of what are now known as "small plates" in restaurants all over the United States. Madrid lays disputed claim to the invention of these gastronomic treats, and there's hardly a block that doesn't have a bar offering a counter crowded with platters of them.

At least a dozen cluster around the Plaza Santa Ana, a short walk from the Puerta del Sol. We stopped in at an old favorite, La Trucha ("The Trout") at Nunez de Arce 6, where everyone passing through the door gets an enthusiastic "Buenas Tardes!" from the barmen. We ordered their signature verbena de ahumados - a "festival" of smoked fish. While we waited for its assembly, we had pimientos de Padron - grilled jalapeno-sized but mild peppers - and marinated olives. With a couple of glasses of wine, figure about 25-35 euros.

In Chueca, Bocaito, Libertad 4-6, has survived the district's tempestuous history to remain what many knowledgeable Madrilenos consider the city's premier tapas emporium. It's colorful and atmospheric, but forget cheap. Four pinchos - skewered strips of grilled pork - a few anchovies, and three squat tumblers of wine cost 21 euros. But if you can splurge, consider the
fritura malaguena - lightly fried fish and shellfish in the style of Malaga. At last look, it cost over 30 euros for two.

Not far from Bocaito is Bazaar, Libertad 21, described above. Del Diego Cocktail Bar, Reina 12, is also described above.

Hotel Maria Elena Palace, Aduana 19; T: 913-604-930; www.mariaelenapalacehotel.com. is a sleek, fairly new 4-star hotel in the center of old Madrid, about halfway between Gran Via and Calle de Alcala. In walking distance of most of the city's major attractions, it's on a quiet side street in one of the busiest parts of the city (except when the club next door cranks up on the weekends). Rates for doubles are a reasonable 90-130 euros.

Museo del Prado, Paseo del Prado (no number); T: 902-107-077. Open Tuesday-Sunday 9am-8pm. Admission 6 euros; free for seniors (declare "mayores de edad" and be ready to show your driver's license or passport).

Real Jardin Botanico, Plaza de Murillo 2; T: 914-203-017. Open daily 10am - 6-8pm (depending on season). Admission 6 euros, free for seniors.

Note: At the time, one euro cost $1.55. Also, apologies to linguists - I haven't figured out how to add proper punctuations to this blog.

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Cocido Madrileno
Serves 6-8
This is a definitive recipe for the signature Castilian stew from Penelope Casas, the single most authoritative writer on Spanish cuisine, from her book, The Foods of Spain. Few cookbook authors produce recipes as uniformly reliable.
It is presented here in full, with only a very few minor modifications meant to shortcut a step or two. Yes, it takes time, but it is meant only for important family dinners. (Note how few herbs and spices are involved. Its flavors evolve from the long simmering together of its aromatic ingredients.) Important: Cooking begins the day before serving the meal. Read the recipe all the way through before starting.

To Begin:
2 chicken thighs
2 pounds beef chuck
One-quarter pound slab bacon, in one piece
Three-quarter pound chorizo (Spanish, not Mexican - they are different products)
One-quarter pound serrano or prosciutto ham, in one or two pieces
2 ham or beef bones
18 cups cold water
Salt
Freshly ground pepper
1 can chickpeas, drained and rinsed
1 large onion, peeled and halved
1 leek or 2 large scallions, trimmed and cleaned carefully
2 garlic cloves, peeled
2 large carrots, trimmed and peeled
4 medium new potatoes, peeled
4 ounces short, very fine noodles

For the Meatballs:
1 cup shredded beef chuck (from the pot)
One-half cup chopped bacon (from the pot)
2 eggs
1 clove garlic, minced
1 tablespoon parsley, minced
2 tablespoons broth (from the pot)
Salt
Freshly ground pepper
Bread crumbs
1 tablespoon olive oil

For the Cabbage:
2 tablespoons olive oil
2 tablespoons onion, chopped
1 clove garlic, minced
One-half head cabbage, chopped
Salt
Freshly ground pepper

The day before serving, place the chicken, beef, bacon, chorizo, ham, and the bones in a large soup pot with the 18 cups of water. Add salt and pepper and bring to a boil. Skim off any foam.
Lower heat and cook at a low simmer for one-and-a-half hours. Cool to room temperature, then refrigerate. Remove the fat that solidifies on the top of the pot.

The next day, add the onion, leek, carrots, and potatoes to the pot with the meat. Cover and simmer for 1 hour.

Make the meatballs: Remove the specified amount of beef and bacon from the pot and place them with the eggs in the bowl of a food processor. Pulse until smooth. Transfer to a mixing bowl and add the garlic, parsley, broth, salt, pepper, and enough bread crumbs so that the mixture can be handled. Form into sausage shapes, about 2 inches long and i inch wide. Heat the oil in a skillet and fry the meatballs until firm and golden.
Add them to the soup pot and continue cooking the cocido, covered, about one hour more. Add the chickpeas to the pot, preferably enclosed in a cheesecloth bag for easy removal. Cook for another 30 minutes.

Make the cabbage: Heat the oil in a skillet. Saute the onion and garlic until the onion is wilted.
Add the cabbage, salt, and pepper and continue cooking over medium heat until the cabbage is tender.

Serve the cocido in three courses: Strain the broth, leaving some liquid to cover the meats. Add the fine noodles to the broth. Simmer briefly until noodles are limp. This is the soup, to be served first. Arrange the vegetables on a platter, and serve next. Finally, place the cabbage on a second platter. Cut the meats into serving portions, leaving the meatballs whole, and arrange them over the cabbage.

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