El hodgepodge

With only a couple weeks left--oh time, why must you run? Why can't you limp? Stupid time--we're in a mad rush to finish what we've started. What have we started? We don't know. We're here. We love it. I mean, really love it. We walk into restaurants and bars and El Raval Super across the street and we feel we are home. Everywhere, they're playing CocoRosie? How could we not feel at home? (OK, actually we discovered CocoRosie here, but it was like they were playing our song, Sam.) They have great taste in design, I mean even in some of the crappy dive bars there's a sense of style. Why make lists? It's hard to explain. We love Barcelona.

Right, so we don't want to leave, but we're leaving. And there's still a month of sabbatical left. Alan's heading to the American Southwest to drive and explore and record and no look at some monumental land art while he's at it. (The work of James Turrell, land artist/sculptor of light installation/personal hero, here in Barcelona pictured above.) As for me, I'm heading to Seattle to write and write and write and maybe through a serious regimine of running and yoga work off two months of not yoga not running. So much ham. So much queso.

And this rat (top of post)? I saw him in the gutter yesterday and felt his life should not pass by without notice. Poor rat. He was clearly hit by a car. In life, he was bigger than my foot. As women go, I have big feet. Rat, too, has had so much ham and so much queso. Unlike me, he won't be bringing it home as a souvenir! But if he could squeak, he would no doubt squeak "carpe diem" or "ratto dia"!

Rat jokes aside, on the theme of time running out and lost chances, I tell a little tale. We were recommended a restaurant by the ever-awesome Jeff Koehler (above, right, blurry, and seriously, if you are a food or travel editor looking to cover Europe in any way shape or form, this is el hombre!). Jeff sent us to Commerc 24. AKA tapas hopped up on glamour! Oh the food was soooo indescribably good. We had cockles that tasted like the sea in your mouth. We had tuna tartar that draped itself around your tongue before slipping down your throat and black rice the color of the sea on a moonless night. We had ... if I were a better writer I might be able to convey. It was daaaaamn tasty. How's that?

But we also had this waiter-in-training. Nice, soft-spoken fellow. Excellent English, which we needed if we were to understand things like "these cockles are delicately brushed with a watercress dressing," and very polite. We liked this fellow instantly. Alas, he had a floor manager, who spoke not so great English and kind of an uptight pene-hole, if you catch my drift. Anyway, by the time we were through our fifth course (yeah, it was like that), nice waiter-in-training is running out of the restaurant in tears and not-coming-back sweatshirt after being chewed out by floor manager and there have been huge arguments in the kitchen that had all the chefs whipping their heads about and the rest of the wait staff is either literally fighting off tears or acting like total robot scary dudes. And we're very upset because we liked the guy and we just saw him get fired or quit or otherwise have a very, very bad night. And beyond that, if you're serving olives in the form of foam (seriously, not olive oil but olives turned into a frothy shaving creme substance) you should also be having fun, because food this expensive and nice is hilarious in a sick "let them eat cake" sort of way. But no. Everyone is dead serious and one is dead unemployed. This is the only bad thing we have to say about Comerc 24.

Mira! Awesome friend Bart sent us a picture! It's Torre Agbar-meets-Buckminster Fuller. Thanks, Bart!!!

Righty-O, so today, we're walking and we see our ill-fated waiter getting into his car. Totally random coincidence. And we stop mid stride because we really wanted to run over and hug the guy and tell him, hey, you didn't deserve to be fired and your boss is a scary jerkhead and can we buy you lunch or something, but as we were discussing what we might say and whether we would say it in English or Spanish and if he might think us a little strange and nosy for doing this, he drove off and all we could do is applaud the fact that on his sad (very sad) little red car was a "fuck bush" sticker. We missed our strange chance and we wonder if there will be another because soon we will be gone.

But a couple more weeks. No complainy. Only enjoy-y.

--JENN

it's a crime to upstage carnaval posts

But there are other shots of the Torre Agbar here. Bart, these are for you. Thank you, faithful blog reader!


Here's what's interesting about the Torre, not unfamiliar to big projects built in the "Third World" (aren't we in the EU?): large international commisions ("big fancy projects") in/near slums ("pre-redeveloped sites"). Note the foreground.



'nother view:

Dissapointingly, the much-heralded 40-color glazing doesn't limn from within at night in a multihued way. Other than visible elevator action, no other activity or services: it looks quite static at night. From the South, the blue fluorescents of the Hotel Arts make abigger impression:

The Torre Agbar: from this layperson's view, an effort with higher, perhaps more *manly (bad phallic riff) aspirations than are fulfilled.

-ALAN

Carnaval!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

It's Carnaval!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

And everywhere we go there are people dressed as prisoners and crusaders and slaves and fallen angels and Disco Stu and we don't know what all. The above children went to school and came out punk rockers. It's crazy like that. I was going to write a long entry complaining about how the Spainards don't seem to understand the concept of cleaning up their dog poop when their dogs leave it on the sidewalk that we all have to walk upon--OK??? It's gross and disrespectful and wrong. but whatever--it's Carnaval!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The cannons aren't real, but they are real loud. They made huge smoke rings and left me deaf and the pigeons were absolutely freaking out. I've never seen pigeons freak out.

In case you were wondering, yes that child on the right is dressed up as a pack of cigarettes. The cigarettes danced for us. It's Carnaval!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

More on the cigarettes. This entire neighborhood Carnaval!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! event, which also involved sausages and wine and beans, was a pro-cigarette rally because of the odd assumption that new laws requiring smoking sections in large restaurants are somehow fascist. In fact, you can't walk your pooping-on-the-sidewalk dog without getting second hand smoke all over you, but nobody seems to think this is in anyway a problem. No, laws that protect nonsmokers are a problem. Hence, dress the kids up as cigarettes and dance.

I'm sounding bitchy. I apologize. I will end on a happy note.

This is a happy note! The above man is pretending to be insane. As far as we can tell he's a smoker bound in white straightjacket. The hat, the police hat, Alan has tried but in fact can't explain any of this. Whatever. It's Carnaval!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! We're happy. Everybody's happy. Hip hip hooray!

Tomorrow we attend the big parade, and there are upcoming omelette and bury the sardine events. More on this soon.

--JENN

Que pene!

It’s hard to be in Barcelona and not walk around all day looking at buildings (and eating and drinking, but we’ve already covered that). And that’s what I’m doing here in my own personal project (on architectural photography): looking at buildings, taking pictures of buildings, reading books about how to take pictures of buildings. I know, only a few people can get really jazzed by this kind of thing, and I am one of them.

Frankly you can get a bit tired of all the Gaudí boosterism around here, but what can you do. If he wasn’t a genius, he at least had a highly idiosyncratic design language that imparted a visionary, proud, individualistic flavor to this city. And it’s crazy to deny how many tourist €s his work alone brings into the region.

The work by Gaudí and the modernisme lot is beautiful and abundant here, but there’s also quite a lot of interesting progressive contemporary architecture here and around Spain in general (viz the current show at MOMA). I went on a little pilgrimage to the fanciest new addition to the skyline, Jean Nouvel’s Torre Agbar. You can’t miss it; it’s tall and in a part of town without any other skyscrapers. It also has a highly suggestive silhouette; it’s shaped like, ah, a bullet. Yes that’s it, a bullet.


It’s an intriguing idea, I think. There’s always been a Freudian interpretation to skyscrapers. This building literalizes those ideas in an almost comical way: it’s both phallic and ballistic. For what it’s worth Nouvel claims that the form is inspired by weird massif at Montserrat, which we just visited; okay. Maybe it doesn’t matter so much.

What’s also interesting is that we’re used to most buildings, especially on this scale, as being mainly monochromatic. The Torre strays wildly from that, in that its skin is made up of glazing in 40 different colors. It makes it a lot weirder, but also more inviting. It’s playful and psychedelic even while it’s oh so corporate. (Frustrating side note: I got to see the lobby, but that’s all. You aren’t allowed to tour the building! “Oficinas privadas” I was told. This makes little sense to me. Don’t go through all the trouble to hire a foremost architect to make a major statement for your company [a water supply/management concern] with much fanfare, implying that it will become a destination, and then close it off to the public.)

It gets mixed reviews among the public. Its anatomical similarity makes it a bit of a joke. But then, in Gaudí’s time, modernisme wasn’t popular either—it was widely loathed and often laughed at. What a difference a century makes. Most buildings that are at first unpopular tend to grandfather their way into fonder regard, eventually. It will probably be that way with the Torre, which simply has the funniest profile of all the amazing architecture going here.

--ALAN

Achoo, but at least it's not bird flu!

Healthy (?) birds in Marakkesh (above)

It appears that I have a cold! It's not too bad. My nose and ears are congested, making me feel a bit loopy. When I talk, I sound like I've dragged my vocal chords over the coals one too many times. Fortunately it's Sunday and nothing is open, so I can stay indoors and rest without feeling like Spain is passing me by.

The good news, is it's definitely not bird flu. Yes, according to the papers, la gripe de los pajaros is due to arrive here in Spain sometime in the next two to three weeks. Since the flu seems only to affect birds and the people who spend a lot of time with them, we're not too worried. We do, however, expect it to be a fascinating situation to see unfold up close.

In the meantime, I've posted links to some recently published articles on the fBlog.

And with that, I'll go back to my sniffling.

-JENN

Dude, stop dissing our 'hood!!!

We have now spent a month living in El Raval. The neighborhood is five minutes from Las Ramblas (think new Times Square for Barcelona), seven minutes from the Gothic Quarter, fifteen minutes from the big old Christopher Columbus plaza thingy. I other words, we are just a few clicks away from the center of the tourist universe. But there are no tourists here, except a few drunk Brits stumbling around lost and shouting on a Saturday night. Why?

This is, according to many, a lousy neighborhood. PBS-fave Rick Steves, a nice fellow whom we met at our friend's (a former employee) wedding, declares in his guidebook to Spain: "The Raval is of least interest to tourists." And when Alan, returning from Morocco, was passing through customs, the officer took one look at his address and told him to watch his wallet. And, OK, I was awoken from a dreamy siesta one afternoon by a woman repeatedly screaming "puta" and "vaca" (that would be, alternately, "whore" and "cow"), but I have no reason to believe she didn't have good cause for her outburst. And, yes, walking back from the movie theater we did pass some hookers, but here in Spain, they wear pants, which struck me as a big improvement over San Francisco, where they wear almost nothing and probably aren't even the same gender they profess to be. And we have, at last, deduced that when a stranger carrying a six pack in the middle of the street in the middle of the night offers you a cervesa what he really means is, "Want to buy some hash?" But this makes our neighborhood no less tame than, say, the Haight-Ashbury where we usually live. Online guides tend to call it a marginalized area known for crime that is kind of improving, sort of like where we used to live in Oakland.

In facto, we're grateful that tourists have been shooed off because that makes this a far more interesting place to live. We are thankful for the strong Middle Eastern immigrant population here because unlike certain Catholic types they keep their shops open on Sunday. Gracias! "Hipster" is almost an embarassing word these days, but there are plenty of, uh, nifty vintage and new shops here that we are about 3 gazillion times more interesting to visit than the standard "I went to Barcelona and bought this lousy t-shirt" places that pepper (hi, Cheney!) neighborhoods that would, no doubt, be categorized as of the most interest to tourists. You can actually get into the restaurants on a Friday night and the food they serve is pretty darned tasty, plus you don't have to listen to the loud-mouth next to you talk about how the Spaynaaaards don't know how to make a good burrrger, or whatever.

Anyhoo, for anyone out there reading who wants to visit Spain as a typical tourist. El Raval means stinky rats and the place is full of them. For the rest of you, this place rules.

Loco por los gatos

My cats. How I miss my cats.

No soft and fuzzy friends to curl up with while reading Cervantes. No prickly tongue to lick the jamon y queso from my finger. No loving meow to greet me when I return home from a hard day on Las Ramblas. To Alan's horror, I have even chased down ferals in the park and pet them, scabby ears, sticky fur, and all. "Cat flu," Steve warned solemnly, and perhaps he has reason.

But, a fix is a fix, I say. And if that's not convincing, then out comes "I'm the Mother Theresa of cats" argument. Why should they not receive love just because they're covered with pussy scabs?

One night, from a darkened Gothic quarter corner, I looked on in jealousy as an old, hobbled matron with hunched back and gray frizzy hair pulled from her purse handful after handful of guts. Gleaming beneath the streetlights along this narrow stone corridor, these entrails lured alley cats from every dark corner. "Brava!" I wanted to cry, but she caught me staring at her and all but growled so I, full of sighing, walked away, content with the knowledge that the city was crawling with kitties.

Indeed, I see them everywhere I go. Here are just a few of the furry, not so furry, and not even feline surrogates I've managed to meet here in Spain and also in Morocco over the past month.

--JENN

This town doesn't souk -- and other adventures from Morocco

Steve, Alan, and I returned from a five-day trek to Morocco yesterday. No words can possibly convey the feeling of being plunged into chaos as you enter Jemaa El Fnaa, Marrakesh's main square, at dusk. It means Place of the Dead, though it's anything but: motor scooters whiz by in front of you, behind you, while snake chamers charm, pick pocketers pick, and men in jellabas gather around professional storytellers, savory smoke rising from the food stalls. I wish there was some way I could upload the perpetual smell of motor oil, dust, tumeric, and lamb kebabs that soaks into your clothing and hair. If only there were some way to explain why, in the mazelike souks that spread like tiny capilaries through the Medina, it's impossible not to get lost or get out without buying something, and how it feels, when you enter those dark, narrow passageways, like a metaphysical journey as well as a physical one. If only I had a recording of the breathtaking sounds of kids drumming and women ululating filling the night air during the Muslim New Year celebration, the peals of thunder and crack of lightning the following night and the way the rain sounded as it hit the red tarp that covered the center courtyard of the the Riad Nejma Lounge, where we stayed. Everyone should be so lucky to receive the warm and heartfelt hospitality we experienced in the hands of our Riad's co-proprietor, Pierre. And I haven't even gotten to the fish stalls, tattered feral cats, and tiny craftsmen's studios in Essouaira, where we passed a night, purchased many a gift, and feasted on the freshest grilled fish you could imagine. (I snuck some to the cats.) And the palaces! I must not forget the amazing palaces, with their beautiful mosaics and astonishingly tall walls. And the fact that I apparently can't speak French any more. And, and, and ...

I must say a word of thanks to our dear friend Alison Bing, author of Lonely Planet's upcoming Best of Marrakesh. We followed every word of her advice and she never once led us astray (can't say that for the foolish dribble of Time Out's guide). Alison is one of these scarily talented people, who speaks multiple languages (including Arabic) and not only worked relentlessly to explore and uncover every last hidden gem of the city, but her writing is a pleasure to read and her taste is above reproach. Everyone who goes to Marrakesh must buy her book!

Incidently, this is the second Muslim country I've visited since 9/11 and I have to say it was no problem at all being from the USA. Everyone we met wanted to know where we were from. When we told them, we were always warmly welcomed. In the souks we were frequently offered "democratic prices." Obviously, it's a different story in some parts of the Muslim world, but in Morocco as well as Malaysia I always felt comfortable, safe, and honored to experience such a rich and wonderful tradition up front.

And with that, I'll leave you with a few more of our favorite images from the trip.

Jemaa El Fnaa (above and below)

Steve(above)--The tarp covering the garden at our Riad cast a lovely red glow
Sight-seeing in Essouaira (below)

Souk solutions! (above)
Pitstop on the road between Marrakesh and Essouaira (below)

--JENN

Torino borino

Apparently there was a Superbowl. We would have missed it if we were in the States, but here we couldn't help but miss it. And now we hear Winter Olympics (do those even count?) are to be held somewhere in Italy called Torino. Those who would interpret our obliviousness to sporting events as either snobbiness or cluelessness or both will have to bite their tongues because on Sunday Alan, our visiting friend Steve Mockus, and I had a little triathalon of our own.

First event: Barcelona Flea Market
Challenge level: Medium
Can you maneuver yourself through the thick crowd and avoid getting burned by people who walk in crowds with cigarettes while finding yourself a great bargain on a 1960s Esperanto primer? Alan and Steve tied for Gold while Jenn was disqualified when severe claustrophobia caused her to bag out and watch from the sidewalk.

Second event: Breakfast
Challenge level: Low
Trinxat and the tortilla sampler were on the menu at this thrilling post-flea market event. It was looking to be a three-way tie, but Steve and Alan got distracted looking at their new finds leaving Jenn as the clear winner.

Third event: Who can take the best photograph of Barcelona's Olympic stadium torch?
Challenge level: Very high
In a stunning turn of events, the jury is still out on who actually won this nail-biter of a competition, which took our athletes all the way up scenic Montjuic (wheeze wheeze), past the pan flute guy playing "Every Breath You Take" (we nearly lost Jenn when the song got lodged in her head). ONce there they had to tromp around for at least half an hour (exhausting) looking for the entrance to the Olympic stadium park area. Alan made the daring choice of shooting on film while Jenn and Steve used dependable digital formats.

At the end of the games, rivalries are cast aside and competitors remain good friends who can all appreciate the sight of this full moon rising over the beautiful city of Barcelona.

--JENN

Feast your eyes on these holy tatas!

Unless you're really into obscure Catholic saints, you may not realize that today, February 5, is the Feast Day for Saint Agatha. We first discovered St. Agatha in her very own cathedral in the gothic quarter of Barcelona. In a typical portrait of the poor saint, she was looking rather calm and lovely while holding her two breasts upon a platter. This aroused my curiosity. Who was this coy lady? Had she chopped these off herself or had the ill deed been done to her? Was the delightful presentation on the platter a predecessor to our modern-day Hooters? If priests wanted to see some boobs, wouldn't a copy of Playboy sufficed? I have searched and found answers.

A young Sicilian hottie from the 3rd century, St. Agatha consecrated her virginity to God and God alone. This pissed off a local named Quintanius, who wanted to get in her pants. But try as he might, he could not win her over. So instead he had her breasts cut off. Talk about a sore loser! Agatha cooly responded to this unsavory treatment by saying, "Are you not ashamed to cut off from a woman that with which yourmothers suckled you?" Take that, Quintanius! St. Peter kindly showed up with some celestial ointment and restored Agatha's chest to its former state, but her suitor still wasn't happy. He had her dragged over hot coals. God responded to this with an earthquake during which Quintanius, the entire town, and an imprisoned Agatha all perished.

The adventures don't stop there. When a volcano threatened her hometown of Catania, villagers waved her veil and thereby averted certain disaster. Other Agatha relics in the Catholic Church's possession, according to the book "Lucy's Eyes and Margaret's Dragon: the Lives of the Virgin Saints," include no fewer than six breasts. Me suspects some mightly foul play on second base! Surely there are some boobless saintettes out there who'd like some credit for their noble sacrifices! But noooo, it's all about Agatha.

Sadly, we are not in Agatha's home town of Catania, Sicily, where the past three days have been one raucous boobfest. I did however notice, in the bakery where I went to buy bread yesterday, some rather shapely pastries which may have been Nipples of the Virgin. According to this Web site: "the minni di virgini, or Nipples of the Virgin, a custards filled pastry shaped like a woman's breast and topped with an aroused cherry nipple." I'm hoping there are some day-old leftovers for us tomorrow, as the bakeries are closed today.

Agatha today is recognized as the Patroness against earthquakes, volcanoes, fires and breast disease. We visited St. Agatha's church in hope of finding some sort of celebration, but it was all closed up. All there was to honor the poor gal was this sign which I snapped a photo of.

--JENN

Malditos Churros!

I used to think of churros as amusement park fare, but around here they're apparently what you have for breakfast when you're craving dessert--kind of like a donut, only much, much better. Our new pal Jeff (see Alan's great entry below) took us to try these at a favorite spot of his, Granja-xocolateria in the old gothic part of the city (across the Ramblas from yo truly). That mug you see above is not coffee. It is chocolate. You dip the fried sugary dough in the chocolate and then, if you're so inclined, top it off with a little whipped cream. It's as good as it sounds.

Alas, I continue to give the impression that *all we do around here is eat. In fact, we take long walks between meals after which we shop for the next meal.

We also watch TV.

Yes, my Spanish teacher showed me a way to get our TV set to display subtitles in Spanish. So I went home, flipped on the set, and with some difficulty managed to get subtitles for a dubbed version of the David Lynch's "Mulholland Drive." The first word I learned to say in Espanol using this method? "Fuck." Similarly, while watching a subtitled "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas" in Peru earlier this year, I learned how to say "damned hippies." And they say TV isn't good for anything.

--JENN

Sunday afternoon lunch

Sundays are dead dead dead around here, so we eagerly accepted an invitation from new friend and Chronicle Books author Jeff Koehler to come to his house for lunch.

I was introduced to Jeff through my friends and colleagues Leslie Jonath and Amy Treadwell—in Amy’s case, he’s her author, of Chronicle’s upcoming paella cookbook La Paella (coming this fall). I’m really looking forward to it because I now have an idea of how authentic it will be. This isn’t the kind of book where he’s throwing raisins in there just to eke out another recipe. He also photographed the book and did the location photos for this new regional cookbook. Saveur editor and photographer Christopher Hirsheimer did the food pictures in her signature selective-focus style, but he points out that the cover has a major flaw. You’ll have to look closely, and clearly know more about paella than I do.

We first met Jeff a few days ago, for late breakfast at Pinotxo, in the Boqueria market near our flat. Because the Boqueria is right on the Ramblas, I assumed it would be overpriced and toursity, essentially inauthentic. One visit dispels the notion. Jeff asserted that Pinotxo itself is one of the best places in town to eat; we met at 9:45, between breakfast and lunch, so we could get one of the 14 or so stools. At the counter Jeff saw a friend, a young chef named Ismael Prados, host of a popular cooking show and “one of the ten most recognizable faces in Barcelona.” So if it’s good enough for Ismael, it’s good enough for everyone.

Jeff was right—it was pretty amazing: perfectly tender garbanzos with raisins and butifarra negra (blood sausage). We could have had the head-and-feet stew, which the guy next to us was eagerly inhaling, along with red wine, but we decided to save it. We had a pastry, I believe called a chuchò, that had some cream in the middle; strong contrast to the savory garbanzos, but incredible.

Jeff has traveled round the world for years, but has been in Barcelona for nearly a decade. He lives in the Eixample neighborhood with his wife Eva, an organic chemist, and their two daughters Alba (1) and Maya (4). As I cleaned xiporons (tiny calamari) of their spines, which Jeff battered and fried whole, Jenn talked to Eva in the living room.

Jenn likes the men in the kitchen while the women socialize system. We learned enough from them about life and food in Barcelona in one afternoon to feel like we’re getting a real perspective on it all.

So, okay, what was lunch? The aforementioned xiporons (Jeff was disappointed, the batter fled, and he forgot to serve the aioli until late--but they were still tasty), and caldero de arroz de pescado de roca y tallarines de sepia (caldron of soupy rice of rockfish and strips of cuttlefish): a recipe he got from Ismael. I could get into all the details, but I’ll try to be brief:

This is not a paella, as it’s not cooked in a paella pan. It starts with the classic sofrito—onions sautéed until soft, then cooked with tomatoes, celery, and carrots until reduced. That’s the stock base, to which some seafood essences will be added. This comes in the form of small crabs—in Jeff’s words, “2 to 3 inches across the shell—shore crabs, shamefaced crabs, or swimming crabs.” You keep these guys alive, sluggish, in the fridge, then bang all over them with a wooden spoon or something, throw them in a pan over medium heat until they turn pink. Yes, you abuse them while living. When they’re pink you roast them in the oven till they dry up a bit.

Meanwhile, there are these small rockfish and horrible-looking sea crustaceans called galeras—“praying mantis of the sea.” Their legs are extensions of their mouths—you can’t tell which side is which. I found this reference online: “The Mantis Shrimp looks like a cross between an insect and a lobster. It is reported to be the world’s fastest striking animal in underwater combat. Mantis Shrimp have been in existence for 135 million years and have been named as ‘spearers and smashers’ or ‘weapons shrimp.’”

¡¡Buen provecho!!

Clearly, we’ve never seen these on the menu anywhere before, as nobody eats them in themselves. They, along with some small monkfish, do impart nice sea essence to soups though.

The stock also gets some toasted saffron and pimentón added—it has to simmer with the seafood for a while, but not too long. The soup needs just get the flavor of the sea, not get all fishy. Strain all the seafood and other solids. You don’t eat the fish or crabs.

Separately, Jeff had frozen and slightly thawed some cuttlefish. Freezing allows for cutting very, very thin strips, which are then fried and added to the soup—they remain, unlike the rest of the seafood.

The final addition is a picada: like roux, but a finisher: almonds, hazelnuts, oil, salt, and garlic pounded in a mortar. It thickens the soup and imparts flavor. This goes into the stock, stirred up, then when everyone is ready at the table, the rice goes in. It takes 10-15 mins., but as the saying goes, people wait for rice but the rice waits for nobody. Meaning, when it’s ready, it can’t sit.

There are a lot of steps, but it seemed fairly straightforward. Perhaps I can attempt it…

--ALAN