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Wednesday, September 19, 2012

At a Spanish Pilgrim's Table: Lograno's Feast

Hola! We are (achingly) knee deep into our Day 5 on this pilgrimage to Santiago. They say that if you make it to that day in one piece, that it gets easier.

As we walked into Lograno, we noticed
three men picking the low hanging deep purple tempernillo grapes in the roadside vineyards.

It's begun! The Feast of San Marco.

All over town, fires flame under huge mushrooms, great slabs of ribs, as large as the world paella pans, and urge copper pots of beans and peppers to work towards the most incredible aromas of Rioja!

It seems paella pans are getting larger the further west we walk.

How many servings does this much paella make?

Bueno San Marco Festa!

Sunday, September 9, 2012

At a Spanish Pilgrim's Table: Giving Thanks

El Camino is coming up over the horizon. And what is it all for? Why would you want to walk all that way?

Way back in 1995 along the Canal Lateral in Gascony is when I first heard about the Camino de Santiago. I was entranced to hear the footsteps of so many souls through small hilltop and along the water ways, French villages, heading to Santiago de Compostelle on the Galician coast of Spain.



I am walking to give thanks! Rolling up my sleeves, here goes.

First, to the Ladies.

All, who strap packs on for journeys, laugh, those who wear colors and fibers, and who have suffered losses of profound depths. Women who teach and and retire and teach again. Women whose pens scroll; images and words. Who document the world. Women who massage and lift and anoint beauty, everyday. Who believe. And examine. And love!






And now the Gents.

Who I adore more than life itself, for their bravery to talk, bringing sumptuous delicacy to table. Who sailed on ships in oceans, weathered many storms, standing and walking. Crazy handsome fools who test and thwart and aren't afraid to follow. Or lead. Or love!

And for the old flour door on our Hoosier Cabinet in the dining room. When it springs open ~  and I say oh, hey. You are still here. Always.

Oh, there it goes. Miles ~ Mr. Miles Wipper, thank you, Miles.

At A Spanish Pilgrim's Table: Barcelona

Traveling very lightly, I left behind many things I normally bring along.

Dressy clothes.

Laptop. (this is the third time I've written this on my I-phone and its getting shorter and shorter.)

Uncomfortable but pretty, shoes.

Other things are less tangible, but equally cumbersome; the desire to have a perfect day, perfectly fed, perfectly comfortable and efficiently seeing everything that is deemed the best or the perhaps, to use food lingo, the creamiest views.

On the way towards imperfection, here's a few most memorable scenes.

Iberian ham sandwiches at the crowded and televised Catalonian Independence Day Demonstration.

A very naked and Independent Catalonian leaning out the window across from us at the Hostal Campi.
(luckily only my jaw dropped, but still, no photo!)

Boqueria Mercato Tapas Bar Mirrors reflect on huevos and desayuno (breakfast).

Lone shopper leaving the market.

Did past pilgrims prepare for their long journey by coming to Barcelona? Anyone know?

Saturday, September 8, 2012

At a Spanish Pilgrim's Table: The Packing Day

How long can it take to pack 10 pounds into a backpack?

Not long. Its the unpacking, evaluating and repacking that is lengthy!

So it goes when you travel. What to leave? What to take?

Passport and Spanish menu translations?

Its time for a long walk, on the wild and Spanish side! Join me here for the next month as my husband and tall tale teller, Rich, and I walk, dine, and maybe forage at some of Spain's most interesting tables along the Camino Frances!

To prepare our plates properly. A little bit of Hong Kong in Durham.

Tuesday, September 4, 2012

French Train Travel: Two Hotels in Agen + Steak Tartare, Part Two



TGV

The surge of the TGV, being drawn by the place you are going, leaving out of the station energy is fantastic and electric, so full of anticipation and the unknown. I don't think we were yet going as fast as we would be. I wanted to know which parts of Paris we are traveling under and through. But I would have to look at a map for that and all I want to do is look out the window so I don't miss a thing.

As I recall we met Ben as we left the café and got on the escalator down to our Voie 2. He was only able to get a coach ticket. Once we were engaged in the trip he joined us in first class and never went back. Except to get his bags on the way to the coffee car. Could this be a ritual? Talk and Coffee at breakfast, late morning and late afternoon? This was something I was going to miss on my alone time in France.

But not to worry, life has it's ways and something ~ something would replace it.

After Luli and Nick and Ben and I finished our barge trip in Bezier, I will talk more about those days on the Canal but before I do here's this next part. 

Teen-Chef 2006 on Our Way Back to Provence

The part where I came back to Agen in Gascony. An at first delicious and then encroyable horrible haunting beginning on Halloween Night 1999 at the second of the two hotels I was staying at in Agen. Two hotels on Halloween. Yes, I know. But necessary. 

The first one, Hotel des Ambans, was reasonable and hence my reason for staying there. I tell you there was nothing like lying in your bed and watching the neon sign outside flashing. All night. But it was some very weird situation where it was locked during the day - and when I returned from traveling around to and from Nerac and Poudenas I was unable to get my key to work. It was getting dark, and on this night the time changed too. I think. I panicked as the streets filled with wild shouting revelers from what must certainly have been a world trouncing soccer tournament. Who knows? But these French were out to party. I didn’t want any part of it.

All my bags were just up in my hotel room, there, right there! My window looked out on the flashing Des Ambans sign, but I couldn’t get in. The owners must be out with the crowd, I thought. So I walked quickly among the shadows up the street to Logis Le Perigord. It was expensive and quiet. The door closed on the street noise. Yes, there was a room. They didn’t even ask why I had no bags. I am not sure what they thought. I closed the second door on the world and settled in for a good cry, as I was shaken to the core. When I recovered a bit I went downstairs.

The restaurant was quite lovely. Old wood, brass gueridons, old world. I sat down and knew immediately after the kind of day I had had exactly what I needed. The garcon wheeled the cart over, and proceeded to ask me how much of this, and that. Beautiful lean chopped beef, anchovies, capers, Dijon moutarde, shallots, and Worcestershire sauce. I had had an extreme hunger for raw beef when pregnant with my first son, Erick, and for some reason it made me feel full and close to the memory of being pregnant and a happy time in my life, full of purpose.

During dinner I spoke with a couple from London, while spreading copious amounts of Steak Tartare on slices of crusty baguette.

But in the end that delicious Steak Tatare made the return trip through Toulouse then on to London, then finally back to RDU, on November 1st in 1999, one of the most excruciating journeys of my life.

At least that's what I think it was.

Here is Nigel Slater's recipe for Steak Tartare.

Finely chop 200g of steak – it should be as fine as you can chop it without actually mincing it – then add in 40g of finely chopped shallot, 40g of finely chopped cornichon, 2 tsp capers, 3 tsp of Worcestershire sauce, 6 drops of Tabasco, a little salt, black pepper and then stir carefully. Place the tartare on a plate, neatly in a mound. Make a slight hollow in the centre, break an egg yolk into the hollow and serve.

Don't even think of using anything but the freshest, best-quality meat. Chop the meat very finely or, if you must, mince it coarsely. Season generously, checking the salt and pepper, Tabasco and Worcestershire sauce levels as you go.

Try adding finely chopped anchovies or parsley to the mix. A little grated fresh horseradish will be a twist too far for some, but it is extraordinarily good.
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