No Reservations

I've recently become obsessed with an American television series called No Reservations hosted by the author Anthony Bourdain who wrote, among other things, the bestseller Kitchen Confidential. From the few episodes I have seen thus far, he basically just travels around the world, eats, and drinks—not a bad gig if you can get someone to pay you for it. So far I have watched the shows about places that have meant a lot to me over the course of my life: Paris, Greece, Peru, Mexico, Italy, and Spain.

It's not a cooking show in the traditional sense where you are shown how to make a certain dish. No Reservations is a celebration of food and drink from around the world. What sets it apart from other cooking/travel shows is the writing and the insights of the author/host. More than just about any other travel writer I have read (let alone cooking show dorks) Anthony Bourdain really gets the places he visits—or at least he really tries to really get them.

One thing he said during an episode about the U.S.-Mexico border stands out in my mind: “When I started to look at Texas with the same respect I show other lands I started to find much to love.” Bourdain does have a great respect for the countries he visits, but he seems to have an even greater respect for the culinary traditions of the people and the places that he visits while making his show. He often gets into the thinking of great chefs by exploring their cooking roots, this means going back home, whether that is on a Greek island or in a Mexican village. Out of all of the places he visits on his show, the one place to where I most want to return is Mexico. I love the food there more than anywhere else I have every been.

I can't wait to go back and learn more about Mexican cooking, especially with my new and improved Spanish. I think I will have to try the recipe for mole I learned on a trip to San Miguel de Allende I made back in 2002. I have never tried it since I was there. I think that I can find all of the ingredients here in Spain. Finding people to ate this with me is another problem. I miss people who like spicy food. I desperately want to smoke a cigar with someone who smokes cigars. Oh brother, where art thou? His observations on that standard of European society, the cafe, reflect my own thoughts almost exactly. Another observation he made about life in Spain really hit home with me. He was commenting—among other things—on the Spanish way of life, of having a coffee or a glass or wine or a tapa in a little corner bar. He wondered why he didn't have these things every day. In a nutshell this is why I came here. I wanted these things every day and that has made all the difference.

One thing that is particularly annoying about the show—and it has nothing to do with the show itself—is that American television requires that there be a parental warning after each break in the episode. It's positively embarrassing that our government feels that we are so delicate that we need to be protects from every coarse word, every casual remark about abusing alcohol or drugs, every off-color comment about sex that you hear on the show. It's as if we lost and the Mormons have taken over the entire country. I've never understood people who are offended by profanity. It's just words, people. Just because we don't let people say the word “shit” or “fuck” on America television doesn't mean we will have a world without poop or sex. By the way, those two words are bantered about on Spanish television in an extremely casual nature, as if they were both just two more things that make up what is called human existence.

What people in America should be more concerned with is our casual acceptance of depictions of extreme violence on TV—something that I believe lowers our collective sense of outrage when we hear about violence in real life. What do the folks who require this childish censorship think would be the worst-case scenario if we allowed profanity and nudity on TV? We are already one of the most violence and crime-ridden cultures on earth, maybe a little sex and dirty talk would do us some good? When I watch an American movie or TV show that portrays violence in America I am invariably asked if this is how it really is in my country. I am ashamed to say that it is like these movie portrayals, at least sometimes in some places. We need to work on that. We need to stop glamorizing violence, stop making it sexy and cool. It's incredibly uncool and unsexy.

Shop 'Til You Drop Or “It” Drops On You

Shop 'Til You Drop Or “It” Drops On You

Shopaholic spinster found dead under 3 feet of unopened goods

A spinster who obsessively hoarded clothes died in her home after a mountain of suitcases fell on her, burying her alive. The woman, 77, owned 300 scarves as well as thousands of trinkets and valuables.

There's a lesson in this story. Or is it a metaphor? I always get those mixed up. Or am I thinking of a moral? A paradox perhaps? I guess it could be a cautionary tale but I'm pretty sure it's not an analogy. Pretty much any way you slice it, the old gal is with her maker now. That's if there is such a thing as heaven, and my gut feeling tells me that there isn't. I am one hundred percent positive that you can't “take it with you,” as they say. The “it” in this case is all of the crap she had stuffed into her house and garage. Even if there were a heaven, or life after death, or a place where you meet your maker—be it god or Allah or Buddha (is he a god?) or Krisha or whoever you worship—even if there were such a place, I'm pretty sure you wouldn't really need to take your “trinkets” with you, whatever the hell they are. Is there a trinket aisle at Wal-Mart?

So why was this in the paper in the first place? Not in the paper like a newspaper but on a web page, although the web page is from a newspaper, so why? One poor old woman getting buried by her own trinkets doesn't qualify as news, not in my book. She looks a bit like Margaret Thatcher. Now that would be a news story: “Margaret Thatcher, Compulsive Shopper, Buried Under Trinkets!” But it wasn't Margaret Thatcher so it really isn't news unless there is something for readers to gain from it. I suppose that for most people it's just entertainment, like reading about celebrities. You people are really need to find a hobby. The really sad part about this whole story is that if this woman was a compulsive shopper it means she bought all sorts of stuff. I'm thinking that at some time or another she probably bought a shovel which would have come in really handy when all that crap caved in on her. I'm just thinking out loud here but if she did have a shovel but couldn't reach it that would have been really ironic, or malapropos, or apropos (if you can keep those two straight you are smarter than me, or I, I went and opened a whole other can of worms there), or tragic, or whatever. You know what I mean. And it's all kind of like sad but not “boo-hoo” sad. Just the kind of sad you feel for some stranger you read about on the internet. You can't go too overboard on the sadness thing every time you come across a sad story like this.

Come to think of it, there is something to be learned from this. If you are a shopaholic then about every 10th thing you buy—be they trinkets, scarves, or whatever—every once in a while you need to pick up a shovel, you know, just in case. Either that or you need to be equally as obsessive about stacking all of your crap as you are about buying it—maybe more so. Still, I'm not trying to be judgmental about the lady, I'm just saying. I don't think anyone has ever died from being too organized. So there is the lesson for you: Get organized before you find yourself buried under a bunch of suitcases with no shovel.

Mi Barrio

Ubik Café

There is a cool new café in Ruzafa. I thought that I would take this occasion to introduce everyone to my great little neighborhood, one place at a time. Ubik Café is a café and used bookstore that is on the calle Literato Azorín in the heart of Ruzafa. Good coffee, beer, wine, and whatever other spirits people consume in Spain can be sipped at the bar or at one of the library-type tables. Hip little places like this are a dime a dozen in Madrid and Barcelona but for Valencia it's a bit special. I can already tell that I will be a regular here. On my first visit today I had a cortado and bought a copy of Antonio Muñoz Molina's El Jinete Polaco as well as a Spanish translation of Mario Puzo's The Godfather (el Padrino). The gangster book is to help me pad my 50 page-a-day reading minimum. They have a ton of books with many priced as low as 1.50€ so I got two books and a coffee for 4.20€. If you are in the neighborhood, drop by for a visit.

Just An Observation

The people of Valencia are less tolerant of cold as anyone I've ever lived around. As soon as the temperature drops below about 65º Fahrenheit (still don't like the Celsius thing) girls switch from wearing incredibly sexy summer clothing to ultra-dumpy arctic gear, from bikini to parka in the span of about one week . If the temperature drops to below 50º every single verbal exchange begins with one or both parties complaining about the cold. I suppose that it is a relative thing but I don't think that it ever gets really cold in Valencia. At least this is what I used to say but after living here for a couple of years I have had my defenses lowered. Right now it is below freezing. That seems really, really cold to me.

An odd paradox about Valencianos—and this may be true of other people on the Mediterranean—is that even during the coldest days of winter, these warm-blooded people like to sit outside at cafés and restaurants. I see people at the beach restaurants eating outside in the afternoon, and this is on days when I wear four layers shirts and sweaters. In more northerly cities in which I have lived, it is rare to see people sit outside once the temperature drops to a level requiring jackets. When I was walking around with my camera this morning all I found were empty tables outside but it was unusually cold.

I Know Why the Caged Bird Got Ate (and other stories)

Warning: The following essay contains the word “poop” several times and therefore may not be suitable for younger readers. Either that or it's only suitable for younger readers.

Xativa, Spain. This was the location of the first reported falcon attack against a canary, a once cheery little fellow who probably thought he was safe in his cage on an apartment balcony. Witnesses said the falcon landed on the canary's cage on an apartment balcony. I can imagine the canary was feeling smug in his cage and started talking smack to the falcon. “Oh, look at the big stupid falcon. I'm so scared.” The raptor then stuck one of his talons through the bars, neatly diced the canary into bite-sized pieces, pulled the bits out from between the bars, and ate them. No kidding. Canaries are tiny little birds and there are millions of pigeons for falcons to dine on so I'm guessing he ate the canary out of spite because he was annoyed with the wise-guy song bird.

There have been several reports by local citizens reporting birds attacks. These ate crimes (I am so sorry for that) are not all perpetrated by falcons and hawks, people have also reported seeing sea gulls attack pigeons. The workers in the Valencia area animal control bureau who field these calls basically just tell people to grow up. This is the way life is really is. Don't these people watch all of the nature shows on TV? Perhaps they thought they were witnessing some sort of intra-species bird-on-bird perversion. I have seen three articles in the local paper on this subject so I think they are just trying to assure people that it's normal for big bird to eat little bird.

I have stopped complaining about dog poop on the sidewalks of Valencia. This isn't because the problem has gone away, I just got tired of being the only person who seemed bothered by it. I have noticed that Barcelona doesn't have this problem as most dog owners there clean up after their pets. I had never seen any sort of ad campaign in Valencia to get people to scoop up in their pet's wake. I have come across very few street signs urging folks to clean up. I was surprised to come across an article in the Valencia daily, Levante, about a campaign in the neighborhood of Patraix in which residents are trying to raise awareness of this problem. Their idea was to decorate dog waste with holiday motifs. Another article in the same paper some days later said there was talk of initializing a program in which dog waste found on the street will be tested for DNA. I think people have been watching a bit too much CSI.

Both the DNA testing and the poop decorating scheme seem like such passive-aggressive approaches to solving the problem. What ever happened to just screaming at offenders, “Hey, clean that up. Were you born in Madrid?” That's what you say to people in Spain instead of, “Were you born in a barn?” At least that's what people say here in Valencia. I'm not sure if Madrid suffers from this dog poop problem. One look at the sidewalks in Valencia will make you wonder if the rest of Spain says, “Were you born in Valencia?”

I propose a more drastic and direct approach to combat dog poop on the sidewalk. We need a campaign of television announcements to raise public awareness to this crisis. I thought to myself, “How would Leni Riefenstahl deal with this issue?” If you think that employing the techniques of this influential filmmaker and chief propagandist for the Third Reich is going a bit overboard, then you haven't been forced to play dog crap hopscotch down a narrow sidewalk in my neighborhood. I have a commercial in mind.

First, you need a moving musical score. Something brooding and ominous, sort of Schindler's List-y but more melodramatic. Open with a sunny winter day in one of Valencia's lovely parks. A mother and father are teaching their son how to ride his first bike, probably a Christmas gift. After a few strides the father lets go and the boy is pedaling all on his own. But up ahead a Jack Russel terrier is squatting in the bike path. The little boy cheerfully rings the little bell on his handlebars—just like dad taught him to do. The dog moves out of the way but he has left behind the steaming remains of yesterday's Purina. The little boy frantically applies the brakes, but it is too late. Cut to stock footage of the world's great disasters: the Hindenburg explosion, Nagasaki, Joseba Beloki's horrible crash in the 2003 Tour de France, and the World Trade Center collapsing (too over-the-top?). The aftermath. The inconsolable parents, the distraught emergency medical team agonizing over their inability to save the child, and the Jack Russel nonchalantly peeing on the front tire of the ambulance. A cemetery on a cold, gray afternoon. The young couple approach a tiny tombstone and the father places a Power Rangers action figure on top. A Power Rangers figure or whatever toy is in season this year, the toy your kid won't stop screaming about until you buy it for him, even though you gave him the speech about not raising him just to provide another consumer for the marketing departments of the world. Of course you caved in and bought it for the little animal. If you didn't someone probably would have called child protective services and had your kid taken away from you. On the other side of the cemetery the little dog plays with a chew toy, mocking the parent's grief. Fade out.

I'm just sort of thinking out loud but I think you get the mood I'm after with these commercials.

Chelva, España

New Year's Eve in Chelva, España

I spent New Year's Eve (Noche Vieja in Spain) in the village of Chelva, about 70 kilometers from Valencia. A friend from the neighborhood here in Ruzafa rents a place in the village where he spends weekends with his family. I used to do the same thing when I lived in Athens, Greece years ago. Some friends and I rented an apartment in the village of Araxova up in the mountains. We used it for skiing weekends in the winter months. The apartment in Chelva is absolutely enormous and has four floors. There is a fireplace on the top floor and a wood burning stove in the huge kitchen.

There were 15 of us in all, with a big mix of nationalities. Because we are in Spain, there was way too much food. We began the New Year's celebration with a incredibly diverse banquet which included a Russian soup, hummus, Finnish salmon, stuffed turkey, meatballs, a tortilla de patatas, an array of sausages (my contribution), olives (also my contribution as I am a total snob when it comes to olives), cheeses, salads, and bread. I ate for a solid hour. I barely talked to anyone as I stuffed my fat face.

Besides the rustic setting and the United Nations make up of the group, it was a typical New Year's party. Before midnight we headed up the hill to the village square in front of the cathedral. The square is undergoing major renovations so most of it is fenced off. We stood on the steps of the cathedral holding our twelve grapes and waited for the bells to ring in the new year. Evidently, the bell ringer had the night off so after a short fireworks display we took matters into our own hands and counted the bells as we ate the traditional twelve grapes, one for every ring of the bell. There were only a few dozen other people in the square and no one really knew what to do. I prompted our group into singing a rendition of John Lennon's “Power to the People.” Don't ask me why. I think I will make this a new tradition on New Year's.

As usual, I was the last to bed and the first one up in the morning. I walked around the village and took the pictures you can see if you click on the title. When I got back a few hours later everyone was up. We had an English breakfast of eggs, bacon, rashers, toast, and beans...and coffee, lots of coffee. After breakfast (which we finished at around 3 in the afternoon) we went for a walk along the river and through the village. When we got back we had a tremendous lunch of everything left over from the night before. That made three big meals in less than 24 hours. Even for Spanish people that's a lot of eating.