Eat …
I refreshed Google Translate for the third time, hoping, like magic, it might produce an answer I could actually use. But once again, it produced only one translation for Porros: joint. Not joint as in the adjective, meaning conjoined. When I took to regular Google to see if it pulled up something helpful, an image loaded on my screen. A joint as in an actual marijuana cigarette, with a helpful picture of a half-rolled one.
I was fairly certain the indiscernible ingredient topping the “brie y porros” focaccia I had my eye on wasn’t weed in rolling papers. But in Barcelona — where I had to contend not only with the Spanish language I was just becoming rockily semi-familiar with after several weeks immersed in it, but the even more foreign Catalan dialect and spellings — how could I be sure?
The woman waiting behind the cafe counter to take my order stretched her lips into a tight, but not unkind, smile. “Do you know what the porros is?” I asked, fiddling with the euros in my hand. I was glad, at least, that the cafe — located in Plaza Espanya, among traffic, buses, and subway stops that reminded me in its bustle and not appearance of my native Toronto — wasn’t busy. I felt bad enough struggling to communicate with her; I would feel worse holding up a line.
The bilingual customer eating a salad beside us overheard and fondly obliged with the translation. Porros turned out to be something like onions, or leeks. I wasn’t sure why Google didn’t know that. I ended up choosing the salmon, queso fresco (Spanish fresh cheese), and arugula option, when I realized I needed the protein: breakfast, in typical continental, prepaid style, was abundant in white carbs and left much to be desired. I did learn a new word, though.
When I first arrived in Spain, in our first stop, Madrid, the food situation struck me as surprisingly bleak — I’d expected nothing but rich delicacies in Europe, but only the (almost haunting in their pervasive presence at every first meal in every city and hotel) croissants greeted me. Just like in any destination, though, even my hometown of Toronto, all it takes is a little digging, contending with the language barrier, and luck to find a great meal at a gem of an eatery.
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The first truly good food experience I had in Spain was almost a week into Madrid. On the patio of an elegant restaurant in Plaza Mayor, one of the city’s many, many quaint squares, I chanced upon black-colored pasta with creamy seafood sauce that brought out the subtle yet rich taste of the mussels and prawns that swam in it.
In our final stop, my friends and I visited a cute restaurant on the shores of Barceloneta Beach multiple times, across which I enjoyed a warm salmon-arugula wrap, a crisp chicken Caesar salad, and an appetizer of baked goat cheese in thin, delectable honey drizzle. Every iced drink I sipped on tasted sweeter (or perhaps saltier?) with the saline ocean breeze rustling my hair and the turquoise view of the Mediterranean Sea meters away — but I’ll leave those details for my next post.
And we can’t forget the gelato — it’s Europe, after all, and no colder, creamier dessert dared usurp its rightful reign on my tastebuds. If you have any semblance of a sweet tooth, take note of Amorino Artisanal Gelato: they have macarons filled with gelato. I don’t think any more can be said.
Oh, and the Starbucks here sell cheesecake and “American pancakes” (just pancakes). Somehow, that food-related fact has resonated deeper with me than anything else.
