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342 pages, Hardcover
Published October 20, 2020
I was scanning the map on my lap for a town that might be more than a cluster of stone dewllings when I felt the car turn on to a bumpy road.
"What are you doing?" I said as Alberto shifted the Seat from fourth to third.
The only signs of human life on the hilltop were a small house and a rudimentary barn. Alberto didn't answer for a moment and stopped by the open barn door.
"I'm starving," he said and got out of the car.
In the doorway, a wrinkle-faced man who could not have stood more than five feet tall watched motionless. Immediately, I thought of the Spanish war and what Alberto had told me.
"The children born and reared during the 1930s never thrived," he said. "We were all mal-nourished."
I had seen for myself. Alberto had reached 5'7", but his cousins, born a decade later when food was more abundant, were all nearly six feet tall. Still, Alberto seemed to tower over the rustic figure in the doorway who wore a black beret, the type the spaniards call a boina, a white collarless shirt and shapeless brown corduroy pants that looked to be the one-size-fits-all variety. What I could see of his weathered face and exposed forearms appeared to be brown corduroy, too. The men exchanged a few words then disappeared into the barn. When they emerged a few minutes later, Alberto motioned me to join them.
"We can eat here," he said.
"Here?" I looked around.
At that moment, Alberto chose to speak English.
"Yes, the old guy says he has food."
The farmer looked at me quizzically, then beckoned me to the barn. To one side, just past the door, stood a small wooden cask. He lifted the lid with a tentative smile alternately tapping his chest and pointing to the barrel. Inside, lay the glistening river trout he had pickled himself, and for a moment a whiff of the pungent brine replaced the aroma of grain and livestock.
"Muy bonito," I said.
The farmer's smile broadened. Before I could say more than very pretty, he had pulled a pair of sawhorses from a corner, set a plank upon them, and then dashed up the rise to his house. He returned with a chair dangling from the crook of each elbow and his wife a few steps behind.
I knew the woman was his wife because of her dress -- long-sleeved, calf-length and black -- the traditional mark of a married woman in rural society. One expects cultural differences between countries, but even in Spain itself the difference between city and village was extreme. As I stood before the farmer's wife in my pale beige hip-huggers with the flared cuffs and a sleeveless top that opened in front to what I hoped was a tantalizing inch above my bra, the difference must have seemed extraterrestrial to her.
The woman carried a tray with plates and cutlery, a bottle of wine and half a round of coarse country bread. She set the makeshift table with a white cloth while her husband talked trout. When she finished, she turned to us.
"Huevos fritos?"
"Perfecto!" Alberto and I answered in enthusiastic unison because, though it sounds quite simple, an egg fried Spanish style is a wonderful thing. There is magic in the olive oil. Slipped into a skillet of near-boiling oil, the egg white shudders and bubbles. As the cook gently bastes the egg's center, the white forms a lacy halo around the yolk. Sometimes the white gets crisp around the edge. I always ate that part first and then, after piercing the yolk with the crust, soaked it up with a chunk of bread. Salty, hot, golden and delicious.