The Spanish live in quite a different culture than ours, as many of you have experienced, even if you have only been to Spain for a handful of days. Rather than the home being their castle, the community is the focus of their lives. “Home is where I sleep,” a Spanish friend of mine explained, “I live in my neighborhood.”

In smaller towns on any given evening, you will see people of all ages strolling the streets together, making a paseo. It is an inter-generational time where you might see older people walking with their children, and the younger generation, too. More often than not, the goal is a favorite café or bar they have been going to for years. There they will chat with old friends, cousins, neighbors, including small children who play with each other within sight of the older people.

My life as an adult in America is not at all like it would be in Spain, or even as it was when I was a child. As a little boy, I could play with the kids in my neighborhood for hours, come home for a little supper and then go outside to play some more until it was dark. I liked the days of June especially. Not only was school over for the year, but the long hours of daylight suited me perfectly. It was sort of like Spain!

Now that I am older I do not go out routinely to enjoy friends and neighbors. We may schedule a cookout or meet at an organized picnic – that is what our neighborhood did for Memorial Day. Maybe we go to a local concert on the lawn once in the summer. But we have lost that childhood freedom to go out into the neighborhood just to be with friends, as many of us did as kids. It is not customary in America.

For suburban Americans, our home is our castle. We get up in the morning, sometimes before the sun rises, eat some breakfast and individually drive to work. When the day is done, each of us drives back home, pushes the automatic garage door opener and safely parks within the confines of the house. There we have dinner with the family, play with the children before putting them to bed, and then relax, perhaps watching a ball game or working in the yard. It is a nice way of life in many respects.

However, the routine many of us follow in America precludes spontaneous contact with our neighbors. Part of the reason is that Americans move so often – the average is about once every seven years. So we or our neighbors may come and go before we get a chance to know each other. Another factor is that our extended family may be spread across hundreds of miles, so practically speaking the only family we see is under our roof.

Most Americans are taken aback by the late dinner hour in Spain. Part of the reason for the late hour is the accident of time zones. If you look on the map, you will see that Spain is directly south of England and ought to be operating on Greenwich Mean Time. However, because the Iberian Peninsula is physically attached to Europe, it is more convenient for commerce to conform to European time, which is one hour later. In the summer Spain effectually operates on “double daylight savings time” where it is still daylight at 10:30 in the evening. Who wants to go to bed then? And so, Spaniards don’t!

Traditionally, most Spaniards have an ample noon meal at 2:00 or 3:00 PM and may take an hour to eat, followed by a siesta. The stores are closed for several hours. After work (maybe 7:00 PM) is time to be with friends and family at the local tapas bar. It may be close to 10:00 PM by the time they return home for a light supper.

Many young people then go out to socialize at discos into the wee hours. I remember one time we were “sleeping” in a small hotel in Valencia and the din of the merrymaking did not end until 3:00 AM! After the clatter produced by the bartender who emptied hundreds of empty bottles into bins by the street, there was finally some silence. To this day, I have not figured out when the Spaniards get any sleep!

I remember when I was a young naval officer and we were living in downtown Puerto de Santa María among the sherry bodegas. We would often retire for the night hearing outside our window the laughter of young people and the rhythmic clapping of flamenco echoing down the cobblestone street. It took some adjusting to raise our little children when I had to begin work at 07:30 – a perfectly reasonable time for the Navy to start the workday when we were in Norfolk. I don’t think adjustment to Spanish mores was high on the command’s list of priorities!

In my early days touring Spain, I did not see any need to adjust at all. Touring was so efficient: everything conveniently halts in the middle of the day, and all the truck drivers dine at roadside cafes (and dining is the correct term – no quick hamburger for them). Nobody is on the road, all the museums are closed - what a great way to cover the country! This was my chance to speed to the next town on my itinerary, with a ham and cheese bocadillo in hand. I soon realized that I ended up observing Spain, without participating in the enjoyable life style of the Spanish people.

In recent years we have learned to travel differently. On our visits now we enjoy the gracious rhythm of the culture. Rather than rocketing from town to town to see as much as we can, we slow down and stop to eat when the local people dine (including the truckers). It is a leisurely respite: good fresh salads and seafood cordially served by people who take pride in their service. If we are in town, we find a popular café and allot an hour or two to enjoy life. (Often people at the other tables will acknowledge us as we join them in the restaurant - and say goodbye to all as they leave.) Having a large meal at 3:00 PM leads to eating supper late at 10:00 PM, not 6:00, which for the Spaniard is the middle of the afternoon!

To appreciate people you need to be with them, adapting to their way of life. Ruth and I cannot think of a more pleasant time than sitting with friends, having a glass of Manzanilla and some shellfish in the main plaza of Sanlúcar de Barrameda. Around us, life unfolds: we see young couples with their babies being fed caramelos by some delighted grandmother; pensioners basking in the sun; little boys and girls scampering gleefully around the central fountain.

America is not Spain, and our approach to life can be quite satisfying. We are mobile and individualistic, easily adaptable since our family roots are not as firmly planted in one location, as they would be in Spain. Just imagine a Spaniard coming to Colonial Williamsburg (where we live) and expecting dinner at 10:00 PM! I am afraid he would go away hungry. The place would be buttoned up for the night!

But we find the two cultures are complementary. The great advantage of modern travel and communication is that we can learn from one another and have the best of both worlds.

Saludos,
Don

A while back I spent a month or two at a language school in the city of Cádiz, attempting to brush up on my Spanish (a daunting task for me!) My visit coincided with the preparations the townspeople were making for the celebration of their patron saint, Nuestra Señora del Rosario. They were garlanding streets with lights, constructing modest scaffolds for bands and other musical events and assembling an exhibition featuring several floors of religious displays: many golden crowns for the Virgin’s brow, heavy jewel encrusted capes for her to wear, different colors to match the liturgical calendar.

It was clear to me that people made these items with religious devotion over the centuries, but as a man whose background is largely northern European, and not Mediterranean, I was perplexed by what I was seeing before my eyes. I turned to my Spanish companion and said, “I wonder what this splendor has to do with the simple maiden of Nazareth?” In turn he replied with an incredulous expression on his face, “Nothing directly, I guess. But this is our celebration and the Church exists for fiestas!”

It is this juxtaposition of fervor and fiesta which is so very Spanish. You can see it in baroque and rococo churches, and you can see it on the street. The religious component of celebrating their patron saint is swept into the elemental exuberance and spontaneity of the people. Somber and pious religious expressions and prayers were not the dominant theme of the feast day, although I am sure this was part of it for many and central for some.

At another time my wife Ruth and I were witnessing a Semana Santa procession in the ancient city of Zamora in Old Castile. Hundreds of men, some with their young sons, were wending their way through the streets of medieval Zamora. Some joined together to carry massive mahogany pasos (floats) depicting the last days of Jesus' life. The five hour long penitential march of the brotherhood cast a somber tone.

But then halfway through their journey they stopped the procession in a park near the cathedral, took off their hoods and enjoyed a picnic with friends who brought some bocadillo sandwiches, a chunk of cheese and bottle of the local wine. Refreshed, they donned their hoods, hoisted the pasos and continued their profound procession! As in Cádiz, the line between the fervor of their faith and their love of life and community was blurred. Secular and sacred were part of a whole piece.

Perhaps the most vivid example of this merger of fervor and fiesta is the Romería de Rocio, an amazing pilgrimage to a marshland village of Almonte where the Virgen del Rocio resides at her Ermita, a remote shrine or hermitage. This massive migration of people each spring stretches into the mists of time, the current annual pilgrimage dates back 800 years.

Almonte is a very small village most of the year which somehow finds room for nearly one million pilgrims every spring at Pentecost. It is located close to the Atlantic Ocean southeast of Sevilla and adjacent to the wildlife preserve of La Doñana. Every year on the weekend of the feast of Pentecost (late May, early June) the road to the Ermita becomes packed with horses and decorated carriages that travel to the sound of music and drums. Travelers (or "romeros") come from all over Andalucía on foot, on horseback or by cart. No motorized vehicles are allowed. Most of these pilgrims wear traditional clothes, women in bright gypsy-inspired flamenco dresses and men in the unique wide-brimmed "bolero" hats and short-cropped jackets associated with Andalusia. As they get closer to Almonte, the pilgrims camp out in the fields and forests of the surrounding La Doñana National Park.

The town has broad unpaved streets, with hitching posts by many of the houses. The only traffic noise you hear is generated by hoofs. Some of them are classic Andaluz stallions with flowing manes and braided tails. Among the regular horses are even white Lipizzaners, similar to those trained at the Spanish Riding School in neighboring Jerez de la Frontera. Then there are the faithful oxen straining to haul wagons that carry the Madonnas called simpecados - elaborate silver and gold altar pieces.

These are brought from the churches of nearly one hundred Hermandades (brotherhoods) who make up the majority of the pilgrims. They are devoted to the Virgin of El Rocio and make their way to her Ermita, led by the elders of each brotherhood riding ahead four abreast, followed by their town's simpecado, and then a surging throng of faithful, clapping, chanting and beating drums.

While all of this is unfolding, another type of Romero is arriving. Hundreds of tour buses deliver bands of faithful from all walks of life. They come from parishes across Andalucía and beyond. Although these pilgrims become a part of the festive atmosphere, prancing stallions are of secondary interest. Prayerful piety is the focus of their journey.

On Pentecost Sunday mass is celebrated for the throng of people who have migrated to the miraculous site of the Romería. Later that night the culmination of El Rocío occurs within the Ermita, the resting place of the Virgin, ”La Paloma” – the Dove. As they do every year, the young men of Almonte jump over the iron railing demarcating the sanctuary and hoist the image of the Virgin onto their shoulders. As they process through the village, many ecstatic faithful reach out toward Nuestra Senora del Rocio; some young mothers reach out over the enthusiastic crowd to have their babies touched by the Virgin.

For this brief moment of time, the panorama at Almonte contains elements of a camp out for hikers, a family reunion, a site for fervid devotion and carnival. The crowds sing traditional songs and dance the Sevillana together in the fields. Sometimes you will hear soulful flamenco from a man overcome with emotion. Wedges of Spanish tortilla, slices of jamón serrano, plates of langostinos and other shell fish, sizzling fried peppers - all are sold, accompanied by plenty of refreshing manzanilla sherry and other local wines. Many pilgrims bless themselves by dipping their hats in water and anointing themselves. El Rocío is of one piece, not to be evaluated separately. In a day or so, the crowds will disperse and the fields of El Rocío will become quiet again.

Traditional Spain is another world, an ancient culture where continuity and variety are one. It is so different from our very young America, (233 years old), formed by waves of disparate people from every corner of the world. Just as with the celebration of Cádiz’ patron saint, and the venerable Semana Santa of Zamora, it is hard for the imagination of Americans to capture the elements of fervor and fiesta which are inextricably combined, unless we are willing to immerse ourselves in the event; or better still, to allow ourselves the freedom of participating in an ancient culture.

Tu amigo,
Don

I find it fascinating how our roots draw nourishment from many sources, and often result in something quite beautiful. As an analogy I think of our favorite Señorío de Vizcántar extra virgin olive oil, which contains the oil from three distinct strains of olives. It lacks the pristine flavor of a single fruit olive oil such as Arbequina or Picual produce, but it has a rich complexity of its own which is very satisfying.

What goes for olive oil applies to cities as well. As I grew up in Boston I could see how a culture with strong English roots was changing: the North End was populated by Sicilian immigrants, “Southie” was the turf of Irishmen. Yet somehow it has all worked out and the city is the richer for it.

You might think that mine is an American story, but it is all of our stories. In Spain, for example, as you walk through the old Jewish section of Córdoba you will come face to face with a timeless structure which is a huge cathedral enclosed by a classic mosque, which in turn was built over a fifth century Visigoth church!

The town where Señorío de Vizcántar is produced is Priego de Córdoba - a jewel set among the dozens of sparkling white cities that dot the countryside of Andalucía. It is situated strategically on the crest of a small mountain with a commanding view of olive groves which stretch as far as the eye can see. In medieval times, Priego de Córdoba was the center of a thriving silk trade nestled in the rugged terrain between the Mediterranean port of Malaga and Córdoba, then the magnificent capital of Islamic Spain.

When you visit Priego de Córdoba today, you can still see remnants of this time of great wealth within the narrow cobblestone streets of the Arab Quarter, the handsome civil architecture and the stately residences. Its large and baroque marble fountain still draws from a subterranean spring, a source of water since Carthaginian times. This synergy occurs within families as well.

My wife Ruth and I first visited Priego de Córdoba in 2001 in search of an olive oil which would serve as the signature olive oil for La Tienda: a personal selection made by our family which we would like to have grace our tables at home. We were invited there by Fermín Rodríguez. He is a gentle man whom we had met at the Alimentaria in Barcelona - a giant food fair whose origin dates back to the time when it was one of the three major Medieval Fairs in Europe, the others being Paris and Cologne.

During our time with Fermín we visited a formal room where the local olive oil was evaluated. Fermín is one of the professional tasters who determine which of the freshly pressed oils from that region are worthy of the designation D. O. Priego de Córdoba. He and his fellow tasters pour the several oils into small cobalt blue glass cups, so colored that the taster is not distracted by the color of the oil – which has nothing to do with its quality. Each cup is covered with a clear circle of glass so that the oil’s aroma is captured.

The tasting process is just as you would do if you were a taster of fine wine - after all, both wine and extra virgin olive oil are juices, just from different fruit. A taster selects one of the cups and cradles it in his hand to warm the oil – somewhat as you would a brandy snifter. He breathes in the fragrant aroma, and then sips the oil, savoring its freshly pressed complexity. Since the extra virgin olive oil of the Priego de Córdoba D.O. is a blend – not a single fruit olive oil – accurate evaluation of the balance of flavors is critical.

Just as there are a variety of grapes - cabernet, tempranillo or grenacha, which produce distinctive wines - so there are different olives such as Arbequina, Hojiblanca or Picual, which yield distinctive extra virgin olive oils. Some have the clarity of a single variety. Some are a blend. At La Tienda we have examples of both. Which is the best is a matter of taste.

Eight years later, we returned to be with our friend Fermín. Years had passed since Ruth and I had visited, and now Fermín is a happy family man with a warm and vivacious wife, Aixa (pronounced eye-sha) and their radiant three year old daughter Sofía. It was a daunting task to climb the mountain and navigate the winding streets of Priego de Córdoba in our rental car, but the moment we made renewed contact with Fermín it was as if we had never left. He invited us to return with him to his olive groves - a natural request since olives are his life, and that of his father, and so on for generations past.

So, with his wife Aixa and some friends we visited his acreage near the neighboring hamlet where he was raised, and his brothers still live. He showed us trees bearing Picudo, Picual, and Hojiblanca olives, growing side by side as some of them have done for centuries. We saw an olive tree that was more than a thousand years old, within whose hollow Fermín used to hide as a young boy.

I felt something almost mystical standing among the olive groves. These gnarled trees with their deep taproots are strong and timeless. I thought to myself, “I may well have been standing in a grove that a Visigoth farmer harvested fourteen hundred years ago!” And then, “That hollow which Fermín hid in as a child might have harbored another little boy eight hundred years before – much the same, except he probably would have been a Moor.”

I was returning to my fascination with how our roots often draw from many sources and may result in something quite beautiful, such as Fermín’s olive oil. The next afternoon, as I walked beside Aixa along the cobblestoned street of the Moorish quarter of Priego de Córdoba she turned to me and laughingly said that she embodied the history of Spain: She was a Jewish Muslim Berber from Morocco with a Christian husband and daughter!

As you may recall, the Berbers crossed over from North Africa in 711 AD at the invitation of quarreling Arian and Catholic Visigoth kings. For the next 800 years an uneasy relationship existed between the Jews, Moors and Christians as they lived among one another in Spain – Al Andaluz. In 1492 the monarchy forced Jews, such as the Sephardic ancestors of Aixa’s mother, to leave Spain to make their homes in North Africa. Soon the Moors were also forced to leave - Muslims, like Aixa’s paternal family. (Unfortunately the Jews and Muslims did not get along together that well in the new setting, either.)

Aixa’s father is a successful hotelier and restaurateur in Casablanca, where she and her brothers and sisters were involved in the international community in this most cosmopolitan of cities. Over the years she learned French, German, Arabic, and Spanish. She was hired as an interpreter for Fermín when he was interviewed on French television - that is what brought them together.

As they formed a new family they became part of a continuum of olive husbandry that stretches back to antiquity. Just as his beautiful Señorío de Vizcántar is the product of many different olives, so also Fermín, with his loving wife Aixa and their delightful three year old daughter Sofia represent the many strains of modern Spain. Not a perfect analogy, but I think a useful one.

Tu amigo,
Don

PS. 2009 is an extraordinary year for Señorío de Vizcántar, the best we have tasted. A couple of weeks ago we received Fermín’s oil from the new harvest. It is pungent, aromatic and delightfully fruity. Its remarkable dark green color indicates that Fermín must have picked the olives at the earliest possible moment. We love it – you might too.

Within the medieval walls that separate the winding streets of ancient Cádiz from the modern world, I welcomed in the Millennium with my wife Ruth, nine years ago. Our celebration in Cádiz was so magical that we returned the next year, 2001, to participate in its legendary Carnavál, which has been occurring uninterrupted for centuries, even in the most difficult of times.

The unique feature of the Carnavál are the musical fraternities - groups of men, young and old, who rove the cobblestone streets of this ancient seaport singing satirical and entertaining songs based on the events of the day. One group we saw last time was dressed as the First US Cavalry, with packs of Marlboros in their holsters rather than pistols! References to Monica Lewinsky punctuated their satirical songs.

Every week for the rest of the year in this beautiful sun-drenched port situated on a dramatically narrow spit of land, the men sing together in their neighborhood clubs, perfecting their musical presentation for the next Carnavál, and enjoying each other’s company over a glass of beer or Manzanilla.

We decided this year to return to the Carnával to see how durable the tradition remains battered as it is by the storms of post-modernity that are sweeping across the kingdom. Since 2001 many more young women have left home for the workforce, and the peseta has given way to the euro - leading to unparalleled wealth from a booming economy. This set the stage for a radical political shift that has dismantled many long-established social restrictions, such as abortion, divorce, and homosexuality. With such a tumult of change, we wondered whether the traditional values of the Cádiz community were still intact.

You and I are living in changing times, more far-reaching than we realize. To appreciate fully the solemnity of Semana Santa/Holy Week, the gaiety of Carnavál and even the ritual of the bullring, I think it is important to place these events within the context of the rural society from which they came. There are people alive in the villages of Spain who still recall this vanishing way of life that prevailed for well over a thousand years.

A helpful benchmark, which helped me make the mental shift to a pre-industrial mindset, was the astonishingly beautiful and profound movie Tree of Wooden Clogs, which I picked up at Netflix the other day. It is a poignant look at European rural life a century ago, and the hardships facing three families as they bonded together to survive. It is a masterpiece filmed in Italy. Just as easily, it could have been filmed in Spain. I urge you to see it.

Two realities portrayed in the film stood out for me. First, I realized how fully communal was the life of these people, in the best sense of the word. They were their brother’s keeper, working together long and hard to make their lives worthwhile in an unrelenting environment. Their only respite was when the families came in from the fields and their chores, to gather around the fireplace, while a grandfather or another elder would delight the children with tales and ghost stories. They were people who, without a second thought, included even the lame and mentally disabled within their family circle. Our insistence on personal autonomy and individual rights would have been incomprehensible to them.

The second reality that became clear to me was how tied they were to the natural order of the seasons: planting, tending, harvesting and resting before the cycle began once more. They had no time for dreams of social mobility. There was no “time” at all, as we think of it. No clocks marking hours and minutes - just sunrise to sunset. Their unquestioning faith sustained them. Their local parish provided the markers of life: Baptism, First Communion, Matrimony; Advent, Christmas, Lent, and Easter. There was no omnipresent electronic clock, which is as close to us as our cell phone, or this computer.

In this context, Carnavál was not merely a party event for an individual’s amusement. Everyone in the community was celebrating their mutual survival after another hard winter. They could see new life beginning to sprout from the earth and after 40 days of Lenten preparation they would participate in the great festival of the Resurrection which would focus on new life and hope, as reflected in the abundance of the flowers of spring.

Certainly, the waning of the winter months was an excuse for merriment and joy - a big blowout, a sigh of relief - but it was always in terms of the community, not the individual. The traditional concept of the Carnavál in Cádiz is not a no-holds barred time to “raise Cain” and vomit in the street. Instead, even today, you will see as we did, random groups strolling down the winding streets, singing together; or people in a neighborhood coordinating the costumes they wear.

I am not a utopian or a romantic. Not for a minute would I like to trade the opportunities for individual growth that we have today. After all, Ruth’s and my grandparents were emigrants who left their culture in order to improve their lives and those of their children. But, as with everything, this freedom has been bought at a price: individualism and mobility can fray family ties.

What did we find when we revisited the Carnavál eight years later? We found a resilient and prosperous people who are learning to redefine their social boundaries. Some of the traditional social restraint has weakened, but essentially the traditional Carnavál of Cádiz remains intact. Spain has absorbed many waves of culture, and has been the richer for it. I am hopeful that this age-old society, steeped in the traditions of the family and community will emerge intact, strengthened by the modern experience.

During times of less plenty, we in America are learning once more the virtues of taking care of one another. One indication in our country is that more parents are living closer to their grown children and their families. Now that their boom is over, I expect young Spaniards will renew their appreciation of their family culture, as well.

Warmest regards to you and those whom you love.

Don

Dear Friends of La Tienda,

As you read this, my wife Ruth and I are getting ready for a trip to Andalucía in Southern Spain where we will visit friends whom we have made over the past years - many of them are families whose products we bring to your table. And they certainly are friends, not merely vendors. Whatever business we do with them is confirmed with nothing more than a handshake, often while enjoying a delightful meal.

Our family takes pleasure in introducing fine Spanish food to people all across North America, but we get our most satisfaction in supporting artisan producers who faithfully retain the tradition of excellence and pride in what they are making.

We enjoy visiting them at their place of work. In this era of faceless efficiency, they continue to make things in an artisan way. Artisan is a word that is often bandied about in advertising copy, but what I am referring to is the real thing: food made by individuals and often by hand. Through your purchases at La Tienda, we are able to help preserve the traditional production of fine foods.

We are looking forward to enjoying a glass of sherry and a plate of langostinos with Miguel and María Valdespino, and plan to drop by the Pedro Romero bodega where our manzanilla vinegar is prepared. Later, in Córdoba, we will visit with Mari Carmen and her son Sergio who prepare our specialty olives.

I particularly want to sit down with Lola. She and her friends work together to produce income in their tiny village, which was devastated when the only factory closed, and put their men out of work. They make homemade gazpacho, and two Córdoba classics: olive oil and almond soup, and salmorejo. You will see their creations on La Tienda later this spring.

We encourage many others as they preserve their traditional ways. Our friend Esther toasts and glazes her tempting almonds just as her grandmother taught her as a young girl. Carlos continues to make extraordinary Mallorquina cookies in the bakery his grandfather founded in 1929. He uses lots of fresh heavy cream – each one hand dipped in molten chocolate before packaging them to be on their way to your table.

José lives on the banks of the Rías de Arousa y Muros in Galicia, where men harvest cockles each day, just outside his home. Each day he and his son and daughter “cherry pick” the very finest sweet tasty berberechos harvested. After meticulously preparing them, members of José’s family place each tiny cockle in a tin to form a tiny spiral. When you open the tin in your home, you will see a work of art, not a commercial product. They have been doing this for generations.

Perhaps the most satisfying story of all, concerns the family of María Angeles and Juan Antonio and their daughter Paloma whom Ruth and I met in their farming village in La Mancha. Their family produces what a leading gourmet critic in Spain proclaims as “the most exquisite saffron in the world.”

Once a year in the fall, they go out at dawn with their neighbors to harvest crocus flowers, sort them and toast the stamens by holding a silk mesh screen over a fire. Theirs is a family tradition of many generations.

However, times began to change. A few years ago, sub-standard saffron was smuggled into Spain from Iran, and devastated the market for the precious saffron from La Mancha. The illegal saffron may be inferior in terms of the depth of color and pungency of flavor, but it is cheap and most of us in the supermarket would not know the difference until we started using it while preparing a meal, such as paella.

Many in the town of Minaya lost hope. Family after family ceased growing their crocuses. Out of necessity, some had to plow up their small fields for a more profitable crop, and their children moved to the city. The tradition was dying. It is a familiar story in the world of artisan food production.

Our family thought about what we could do to help – not only to guarantee the finest quality of saffron for your kitchen in America, but also to preserve a tradition that stretched back to Moorish times. Our decision was to consolidate all of our orders for premium saffron from La Mancha and place them with María and José.

Not only were they delighted that they could continue to make a livelihood the traditional way, but also the order was large enough that they convinced some of their neighbors to return to their roots and begin to grow crocuses again. In a small and unsung way, La Tienda made a difference.

The world is a better place when we care for one another, and honor each other’s labor. I think that many of you experience that satisfaction when you patronize your local farmer’s market. Not only is the product better, but also you know the person who grew it. We are extending this same philosophy, as best we can, to support our neighbors in Spain who with their hands keep the tradition alive.

Tu amigo,
Don

Last month my friend Miguel Valdespino described how he and his family celebrate a traditional Christmas together. Let me tell you more about him and his family, which has been around the same neighborhood for a long time. I thought living in one house for 18 years was remarkable (and I guess it is in the US) but when I asked Miguel how long his family had been in the area, he said it was for the last 700 years.

It seems that when King Alfonso X re-conquered Jeréz de la Frontera from the Moors in 1264, Don Alonso Valdespino, Miguel's ancestor, was one of 24 Knights of Jeréz granted land as a reward - mostly vineyards that were being cultivated by the Arabs at the time.

It was not until 300 years later that the fruit of the vineyards would become commercially viable. When the British fleet launched the Raid of Cádiz in 1596, the officers and men were delighted to taste a new type of wine from Jeréz, which they tried for the first time in their forages across the countryside. The British corrupted the Spanish word "Jeréz" or "Xerex" which became the English word "sherry."

In a touch of irony, sherry became the rage in Britain, developing into a profitable trade for the Spaniards. It is an ill wind that blows no good. Miguel observed, with a twinkle in his eye, "The raid proved a good promotional campaign!" So for the past four hundred years the Valdespino sherry bodegas have been a fixture in Jeréz de la Frontera.

Miguel's interest spread to the neighboring manzanilla sherry town of Sanlúcar de Barrameda – not only professionally but also personally. For it was there in the beautiful seaside town that he courted María, his wife of 45 years. Her kin, the Arizón family, emigrated to Barcelona from Ireland, to escape the persecution of Catholics by the British, Miguel thinks in the 1600´s – perhaps during the time of Oliver Cromwell.

Arizón is the Spanish rendition of the English name "Harrison," which was their surname before fleeing the British Isles. What an interesting coincidence it is that my grandfather, William Harris, emigrated from Northern Ireland to the United States in 1898! Could it be that María's family and ours are distantly related?

The Arizón family became important fleet owners trading with America, and moved to the port of Sanlúcar de Barrameda. It was the port designated by the Crown for New World trade. Columbus embarked from there in one of his earlier voyages, and all the ships coming back from America laden with treasures would tie up in Sanlúcar de Barrameda. There, in the suburb of Bonanza, their gold would be weighed and the forwarded to the Royal Court in Sevilla, via the Guadalquivir River. This, not the TV show, is the source of our word "bonanza" - used in the New World to refer to a discovery of dramatic wealth.

As the Arizón family prospered, they built an architecturally impressive housing complex, which the family owned for over 300 years until the government sought to expropriate it as an historical monument. Miguel tells me that in the 18th Century one of María's ancestors became the Marquis de Arizón - a title that is still used by Maria's first cousin.

Later, many of the young Arizón men chose careers in the army, especially in the Cavalry with its magnificent Andalucian horses. One of them, who later became Captain General in the early 20th century, fought in Cuba at the dawn of the 20th Century. Even today, María's father and two other brothers, including Juan, an Artillery Colonel, had experience in the army.

We first got to know the Valdespinos when our family rented one of their summer places for the month of June. Villa Carmen was built in 1910 by an old family from Sevilla when Sanlúcar was the fashionable place to spend the summer. María's parents acquired it in 1950. Miguel reports that the handsome building "soon became the meeting place for so many of our friends and the holiday place for all the family, including ourselves when we married."

Later, as the family expanded, Miguel bought a neighboring villa, "San Francisco." Should you visit Sanlúcar de Barrameda sometime and drive along the shore side avenue Bajo de Guí, you can see the majestic houses, behind bowers of bougainvilleas and night blooming jasmine.

"We married in 1963," my friend Miguel relates. "On January the 10th, my lifelong friend Jaime married Mercedes (they also own part of the front of Villa Carmen) and I married María in a double wedding, which is very rare here. We had two girls and one boy, and now have two grandsons, one of whom is studying dentistry, and the other is in his first year at the University of Navarra."

Miguel is pleased that his grandson is going to a private university with Catholic roots. He hopes this will strengthen the young man's commitment to his Spanish heritage: commitment to the family, strong ethical values and a clear understanding of right and wrong. "We all do wrong," he mused, "maybe some of us far too often, but to me the great problem is when we deprive children of the right to judge situations because all is considered normal and... ('magic' word) democratic." These are the words spoken by a true aristocrat.

Next month, Ruth and I, along with our son Tim's family hope to join Miguel and María at one of the many tapas bars that ring the picturesque Plaza de Cabildo in Sanlúcar. It is right up the street from the La Gitana sherry bodega, and around the corner from the bustling municipal where beautiful fresh vegetables and fresh seafood are brought in from the farm and ocean each day.

There, over a glass of manzanilla and a plate of tortillas de camarones – tiny shrimp crisply fried in the slightest amount of batter - we will enjoy the companionship which is most appreciated in a relaxed and ancient culture, where time (thankfully) seems to pass us by. You might want to consider a visit sometime. There is a wonderful hotel from another era, awaiting you, right across the street from the bodega! May you and those you love have a Happy New Year!

Tu amigo,
Don

Dear Friends of La Tienda,

One of the most appealing aspects of the Spanish people is the prevailing attitude of mutual support, of sharing in a common life. It provides integrity to their way of life, for their communal approach to life is what keeps them centered. Traditional Spaniards view their extended family – all the uncles and aunts and cousins - as their lifeblood, their identity. But it goes beyond this; their neighborhood is included as part of their family in a broader sense, regardless of social position.

This neighborly bond is renewed daily in the custom of regularly stopping by a local tapas bar café to visit with friends. This sense of community is further reinforced when every one, rich and poor alike, participates in the many fiestas that punctuate each year. The most dominant one is the celebration of Navidad or Christmas, which extends from Advent through Three Kings Day – almost a whole month set aside for family renewal and social bonding!

Last year at this time, I asked my dear friend Isabella about her memory of Christmas in the sherry town of Jeréz de la Frontera. Read it here.

The Harris and Diaz families have known each other for more than thirty years. I first met Isabella’s husband Pedro in a Spanish class he was teaching Spanish on the Naval Base. You can read about their background in my February 2007 Update entitled The Shoemaker’s Son.

This year I have asked another good friend, Miguel Valdespino, to recall his experience of Christmas. He is from an old family that arrived in Jeréz de la Frontera in 1264, when Jeréz was still a frontier. It was reconquered by one of Miguel’s kin. Quite a different background from the Diaz family! Nevertheless they share a generous and intimate view of life, such as I described earlier, which is the essence of the Spanish spirit. The friendship that Miguel has extended to me has been remarkable. I think you will pick up a sense of his warmth and that of his family as you read the note he sent me:

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Dear Don,

These are memories as they come, as if we were sitting at the plaza in Sanlúcar, having a glass of manzanilla and, as you say, tortillas de camarones, and, therefore totally spontaneous.

In my younger days, up to my early teens, Christmas and New Year’s Eve were spent in our home in Jeréz de la Frontera. The great event was Christmas Eve, which we call La Nochebuena or the Good Night. Midnight Mass was popularly called Misa del Gallo, Mass of the Rooster because the long and elaborate celebration of the Eucharist almost stretched to dawn - about the time when the cocks crow. Then we would have dinner and carols at as we gathered around the Belén (Manger Scene or Crèche).

Since 1990 when my mother-in-law died, we have celebrated La Nochebuena with my wife’s side of the family as we gather for dinner. We are happy to be in the spacious house of Carmen, which is very close to our mutual parish church. She has eight very willing children that help with dinner, build a wonderful Belén and both individually and as chorus sing the most touching of religious carols.

The Belén was formed on a big table. It depicted the birth of Jesús, along with the Three Kings and a number of shepherds, sheep, donkeys, green dyed sawdust and the inevitable "river" made of the "silver paper" that covered chocolate blocks.

“Midnight” Mass now begins at 9:00 PM. All members of our family attend the whole ceremony together, from infants a few months old to the older members. Last year we were 63 people at Mass. At the church after Mass there is the ceremony of kissing the foot of Baby Jesús who is lying in the manger. We then wish our dear priest Happy Christmas and the whole family walks across the street for dinner, at about 11:00 PM.

Each part of the family provides some special dishes as well as some small presents that a Papa Noel gives especially to children but also to grown-ups. The first course of the Nochebuena dinner is a cold buffet, accompanied by cups of hot consommé and various one-bite hot tapas. Included are tiny Jamón Ibérico sandwiches and all sort of imaginative snacks. The ladies meet sometime ahead for a 3-4 hour long "merienda" – afternoon tea - of which 15 minutes is dedicated to discuss the menu.

Everything has to be homemade, except of course for the "turrón" and other classics like "polverones" and "alfajores", reminiscent of Arab culture. Boneless, stuffed, cold turkey is a must. This is followed by all types of shrimp salads, many of them made of chilled diced potatoes boiled in the same water used to cook fresh gambas or langostinos, and mixed with extra virgin olive oil mayonnaise to make an "ensaladilla."

As for my part, it does not change. I make the Jamón sandwiches as I have the knack of cutting the slices of squares of bread diagonally, I make them very thin, filling them with a mix of minced Ibérico Jamón and a little butter before they are cut into small classic triangles.

Traditionally I also cook one of the main courses, which consists of a roast pork infused with brandy, Oloroso and Pedro Ximenez wines, and aged PX vinegar (see recipe below). We also supply the family gathering with Fino and a Manzanilla "en rama” i.e. just lightly filtered, not treated for bottling. It has a delicious aroma but does not keep long.

On Christmas Eve we give the children some small presents for them to play with during the holidays. The more important presents are still reserved for The Three Kings on 6 January. The whole event ends at about 5 AM on Christmas morning with only the very young having gone to sleep in an improvised nursery.

There are of course very moving moments as we briefly pray for all of our family who have died and, especially, for my daughter Monica who died in a car accident at 20 years old. We remember the many happy summers at Villa Carmen she spent with all her cousins. The host always ends by saying "never again" and her children winking behind meaning "until next year."

It has given me great pleasure to remember all this but when I see the bundle of words on my computer I feel that you do not deserve the penalty of having to go thru it but...it is you that asked.

Warm regards,
Miguel

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I hope you enjoyed Miguel’s reminiscences. Of course, we in America cannot replicate the continuity of people such as Miguel and Maria’s families, whose roots are deep and who have lived hundreds of years in the same location. Nevertheless, I think we as a nation realize the importance of renewing family. May you be able to experience the joy of breaking bread together at a family table.

¡Feliz Navidad!
Don

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Christmas Pork Roast a la Valdespino

16 – 19 lb leg of pork.
A couple of days ahead of La Noche Buena I inject into the leg, literally,
One bottle of Brandy (my own blend of old inexpensive Valdespino Brandy),
Old Sherry Vinegar and some Pedro Ximenez wine aged for years which makes it exceptionally good for cooking! As well as one full bottle of old Oloroso Sherry.

I then wrap the pork roast tightly in plastic wrap to retain all the juices, and leave it in the fridge. On 24 December, I bring the leg to room temperature, and roast it in the oven for some 3-4 hours using a meat thermometer.
Although I remove the skin, I retain the bone, as it transmits the heat to the inside of the leg much more evenly.

I roast it for about one hour at about 425 degrees Fahrenheit to form some crust and retain the juices, then about three hours at about 350 degrees.

If it begins to get too dark and I cover it loosely with foil, always trying to open the oven door as little and shortly as possible.
15 minutes before it is done I remove the foil and baste it generously with a mixture of its own juice, Seville Bitter Orange marmalade and a little syrup (3 parts white sugar-1 part water) and grill it gently so that it caramelizes.

I use a meat thermometer but I choose to leave it rather underdone, so that the outer part is not overdone when is carved. In this way the slices are more useable as a left over for the next day. I let it cool down with the oven door ajar and is always carved at room temperature. I collect the juices to make a very good gravy, which I serve warm with the leg.

From the moment I set foot in Spain more that forty years ago, I was drawn to the beauty of the Spanish people. My wife Ruth and I rented a tiny Seat 600 and traveled the back roads of rural Spain to learn how these remarkable people preserved their traditional values. We encountered villagers who were barely subsisting due to the ravages of their civil war and its aftermath. Yet they radiated a spirit that was far more precious: they cherished their children, were bonded to their families, and they looked after one another as neighbors.

We came to understand that living a life of continuity was key to their way of life. It is preserved by common activities in the town which bind the community together – whether it be fishermen in Galicia mending their nets along the shore or working in the bodegas of a sherry town, where an omnipresent sweetness fills the air.

The most important indication of this healthy way of life is one of the most natural: neighbors and families enjoy meeting at their favorite café at the end of each day to exchange the day’s concerns. The modern industrial age often severs these personal ties to the land and the people. Some of you who have lived in rural America understand what I am referring to.

We hope to diminish this disruption by supporting small artisan producers whose families have lived together in these towns for generations. When we meet these people and acquire their handiwork for La Tienda we enable this way of life to continue. When you in turn bring it into your home, we validate the heritage of Spain together.

A good example is the story of Belén de la Cal Hidalgo. She is the latest in a line of artisan potters that stretch back for six generations. She and her husband Manuel are proud parents of two sons.

The de la Cal family provides La Tienda with a unique type of ceramics that have been produced for centuries in her village of El Puente del Arzobispo. My wife Ruth and I enjoy eating from the cheerful plates every day.

Belén told me that her home town, El Puente del Arzobispo, was founded in the fourteenth century when a key Romanesque bridge was constructed in the area. It seems that Archbishop Don Pedro Tenorio, while surveying his lands, realized that there was no communication between two rich agricultural zones, Castilla y Extremadura, because there was no viable way to cross the Tajo River.

The river narrows where it turns toward Lisbon, creating waters that flow with great force. Thus it prevented transit of flocks of animals as well as general commerce. Don Pedro called for the construction of a bridge and commissioned the best architect of the time, who had made his reputation with the bridge of San Martin in the city of Toledo, as well as the commendable Puerta del Sol in Madrid.

Work began in 1380 and lasted 8 years. The granite used for the bridge was extracted from the Tajo riverbed. The number of workers needed was so great that stonemasons and other laborers moved with their families from Toledo to the site of the new village.

Belén explained that this generated a brisk trade in essential goods, because the families needed tableware for daily use, containers for storing food, as well as ollas (cooking pots), a necessity for every hearth. To meet this demand Mudéjar Christian settled in the area of El Puente del Arzobispo, bringing with them the exquisite art of Moorish ceramics they had perfected in the workshops of the ancient city of Toledo.

Upon the completion of the Romanesque bridge, which still stands today, many of the workers settled permanently in the area. They found they could make a livelihood due to the dramatic increase of commerce from Extremadura and Castilla passing over the new bridge. Many also took advantage of flourishing agriculture nourished by the very rich silt washed down the river Tajo.

Lush broom grass grew along the edge of the water – perfect for use as fuel in the kilns of potters. With prosperity, the art of ceramic crafts evolved. The artisans designed brilliant glazes with metals: copper (green), cobalt (blue), manganese (black).

It seems as if there never was a time when the de la Cal family was not dedicated to producing fine pottery for daily use. There is a 200 year old record of their making tile decorations for convents and churches, as well as enamel tiles for monumental works such as the Plaza de Toros de las Ventas.

Today Belén de la Cal Hidalgo works closely with her father Augustin de la Cal Berreira, a Maestro Artesano since 1980. She tells me that he is her most important adviser in the techniques of traditional pottery. Augustin, with his daughter by his side, has apprenticed more than 400 students.

In their studio they surround their students with examples of the tradition they are committed to preserve. The apprentices learn a technique that is painstaking - requiring great patience. Some of you may recognize echoes of Islamic art in the intricate symmetry and brilliant colors of the traditional designs. This is not surprising, since the Moors were a part of the Spanish culture for over 700 years, and their influence most likely was extended by the Mudéjar Christians when they first settled in the area.

Belén tells me that the location of her workshop feeds her soul. It is in the middle of nature, surrounded by the River Tajo, and built around an old patio. It is enveloped by echoes of the past, including an antique clay press used many employed by her family many years ago.

Among the cottonwood trees by the river, in the company of her dogs, woodpeckers and goldfinches, Belén continues the legacy of her father and their ancestors with imagination and enthusiasm.

We find it very satisfying to be able to enjoy her work, almost as much as she does, while doing our part to strengthen the traditional Spain that we love.

Our family wishes you and your loved ones a warm and loving Thanksgiving Day.

Tu amigo,
Don

Once upon a time, a man named Antonio Rey was born in a hamlet located along the Ebro River in Cataluña. I suppose it was not a particularly noteworthy event, yet there are people whose lives are quietly remarkable - even though the self-important world may not take much notice.

Antonio had an engineer's heart. From the time he was a boy he enjoyed taking things apart and putting them together. If he had access to even rudimentary tools, he was happy employing his innate gift to repair whatever needed attention.

When Antonio grew to be a young man, his family helped him to purchase a gasoline station, where in addition to filling people's gas tanks, he could help making minor auto repairs. He married and bought an older home in the town, which he looked forward to renovating as he could find time. Together he and his wife, Maria Cinta, began settling down to what they anticipated would be an uneventful life, but one which might be fulfilling as they raised two children, two boys named Pau (now 18) and Joseph (now 8).

However, Antonio's life would forever change the day he was rummaging around in the basement of his new home and found parts of an antique olive mill – of the kind used for centuries before the advent of electricity. He became completely enthralled by this relic of another era and spent hours and days tinkering with the inner workings of the machine - studying its construction and tracing back its history. Pumping gas and making auto repairs was one thing, but his heart was with the olive mill.

It was not long before he desired to spend his life replicating the antique tradition of olive pressing, by using essentially the same processes that his ancestors had employed hundreds of years before. Olive oil production has always been central to the life of the people of Tarragona, but nowadays the noise of the whirring blades and spinning centrifuges of modern production have replaced the simplicity of an earlier time.

However, to follow this quest he needed to find an olive mill in working order, as well as the accompanying press. He searched all over Spain, and finally, in far away Córdoba, Antonio located a classic olive mill – purported to be one of the oldest ones operating in Spain before it had been "put out to pasture," so to speak.

Now the question was where to locate. It should be somewhat near his home so that he could still support his family. Yet it should be near the olive trees where he could feed his soul.

An impressive hydroelectric project was underway not too far from his town, which involved building a dam at the confluence of the Cinca and Ebro rivers. The project entailed flooding a valley and relocating the village called Mequinenza high above the waters of the new dam.

Above the mountainside village were hundreds of wild olive trees, which had not been tended for years. Just the perfect spot, Antonio thought, to realize my dream. I will build an authentic medieval olive mill. The olive trees that surrounded the site were the epitome of organic farming since they had grown naturally for centuries.

The reason these trees grow naturally is that olive groves grown in lower altitudes are devastated by a white fruit fly, which can only be combated by the grower spraying the branches with insecticide. The wild trees, on the other hand are growing at a higher altitude where prevalent winds keep away the pest. There is no need to disturb the ecological balance.

It was here where my son Jonathan and I caught up with Antonio. Our dear friends, Hans and Daida who are deeply involved in the culture of olive oil, introduced him to us. One sunny April afternoon Antonio ushered us inside his unassuming building to see his pride and joy: a fabulous antique olive mill composed of three massive conical granite grinding stones, weighing more than two tons each, rotating on a horizontal millstone, which weighed another 5,000 pounds.

Local farmers provide Antonio's mill with their olives, gathered by hand from neglected groves – some with 200 to 300 year old trees. Some are only recently accessible due to the location of the new dam. Because the trees are not cultivated, but growing in the wild, the blend of olives varies each harvest.

The farmers bring in small tractor loads of olives, which are blown with a fan to be rid of twigs and leaves, then washed, and fed into the area of the mill where the massive granite cones converge. Here they are crushed into a mulch/paste composed of up to 60% water derived from the olives, 25% olive oil and the rest fiber and pulp from the stones, (called huesos or bones in Spanish). In modern mills, stainless steel blades whirring at over 1,000 revolutions a minute produce this mulch.

The proud man then escorted us over to the press itself, where he showed us what a labor-intensive job is ahead of him once the paste is produced. He has an upright steel spindle upon which he mounts filtering discs — about 3 feet in diameter, with a central hole.

For centuries, these discs were made of esparto grass as tough as palm fronds. (You can see the same material woven into a paella tray we have at La Tienda.) Today, in one of his few concessions to modernity, he uses polypropylene discs which are easy to clean and do not become rancid with oil. In addition, they impart no flavor, as esparto grass does, affecting the purity of the oil.

Patiently he stacks the discs one by one, manually spreading about two fingers depth of crushed olives between them until he has created a 70 or 80-layer sandwich. Then he presses out the oil with a hydraulic press driven by water (hence the name), not by the 19th Century innovation of oil.

This is what "first cold press" originally meant: olives mashed and then pressed. Today the phrase is an anachronism. A centrifuge accomplishes Antonio's laborious process in the twinkling of an eye. "Pressing" is a thing of the past.

To Jonathan and me, the next stage was the most fascinating. Rather than purifying the fresh oil through a second centrifuge followed by commercial sand and filters, Antonio follows a tradition that stretches back to Roman times. He decants the oil employing nothing but gravity.

The fluid streams into a series of masonry cisterns which have three levels of steps. In the first cistern is perhaps 8 inches of oil floating over 20 inches of water and impurities. The heavier water drains away – and the purer oil flows to the next cistern where the process is repeated, and then again to a third cistern. By now, all the water and impurities have been left behind and the pure golden oil is deposited in large underground masonry cisterns that keep it at a constant cool temperature, protected from the light. It takes a man of dedication and conviction to preserve the traditional way. Antonio's is a life of hard work and sacrifice to achieve his dream.

What is the difference between wild olive oil pressed the medieval way and one extracted with modern technology? Antonio would point out that there are some olive flavors retained only in his oil, since the traditional method of oil extraction is not as efficient as the centrifuge. Also his oil has more texture (syrupy) and still tastes great long after centrifuge oil has gone stale.

Most of all, the difference is intangible. With a great deal of inner satisfaction Antonio knows that that the fruit of his labor is close to the earth – no filters, no machinery - just pure olive juice from wild trees derived the way it has been for thousands of years.

Antonio's mill is one of less than a half dozen olive mills in Spain that preserve the medieval way. What does the future hold? His son Pau, age 18, works at his father's side when he is not at school. He shares his father's pride in this remarkable labor. On the other hand, Pau told Hans the other day that he also is intrigued by IT – information technology!

My best to you and those whom you love,
Don

If you want to experience the soul of Spain, you need to sit at her table. Throughout the week, the people of Spain devote a lot of their leisure time to visiting with one another over food. In traditional Spain, families have their main meal together during the noontime siesta. Later in the late afternoon, they gather at a café with their neighbors over delicious plates of jamón, manchego and olives. Often, the tapas bar is the same one they have gone to year after year – perhaps since they accompanied their parents as little children playing under the table.

A person who personifies this marriage of his native land and its custom of eating is our friend José Andrés. He started Jaleo, our favorite tapas restaurant in Washington, and now has a new television series, Made in Spain, which many of you can watch on your local PBS station. Our family is helping sponsor his creation, because we share his vision to bring to America the wonderful food and extraordinary culture of traditional Spain.

The first time José and I met was at a flamenco concert in Washington. Over the years, as we have gotten to know each other better, I have enjoyed seeing parallels in our lives – even though we are quite different people. For example, we both have ties to the sea.

When I was a young man, I was chaplain to a squadron of five US Navy destroyers. Our first deployment was an extraordinary Mediterranean cruise. After making the Atlantic crossing, we anchored in the sparkling Bay of Palma de Mallorca, and climbed through Palma’s winding streets. Next, we joined the people of Valencia during their amazing Las Fallas celebration. Then we tied up on the Barcelona waterfront close to the fabulous Ramblas on which we strolled while on liberty by the hour. From the first moment I stepped ashore, I felt a kinship with the Spanish people - as I still do 40 years later.

When José was a young man, he enlisted in the Spanish Navy to fulfill his military obligation. After a stint cooking for the admiral’s official functions, he sailed the seas as part of the crew of the magnificent four-masted sailing ship Juan Sebastián Elcano. His ship also embarked on an extraordinary cruise across the Atlantic - just as I had a generation earlier – this time to the West! His liberty ports included Pensacola, Manhattan, Baltimore and the vast naval port of Norfolk on the Chesapeake Bay. From the moment he stepped ashore, he felt a kinship with the American people, which remains to this day.

Another thing we have in common is our mission to act as a bridge between Spain and America. On the one hand, La Tienda introduces to Americans the artisan foods that Spaniards enjoy at their table back home. We travel throughout the Spanish countryside, finding new wholesome products and visiting with the families who prepare them.

Most memorable are the friendships we make with the very small producers, whom we help continue their traditional ways by offering their handmade goods to you through La Tienda. Ruth and I remember fondly our visit with Juan Antonio and María Angeles and their young daughter in their modest home, where they taught us about their saffron harvest. Tim and Jonathan enjoyed their visit with the Villajos brothers in a remote farm in La Mancha to see them make Manchego cheese by hand. Just last April we met Esther Tusal who uses her grandmother’s recipe for glazed almonds.

On the other hand, José acts a bridge between Spain and America in a different way through his love of his compatriots, his joy in preparing their cuisine and his skill in bringing this to America. Under the inspiring direction of famed Ferrán Adria of La Roses, he learned to be an accomplished chef, yet always in the back of his mind he wanted to become the ambassador of Spanish food to America.

After an initial venture in New York, José settled in Washington, DC where he met his lovely Andalucían wife Patricia, with whom he has three young daughters. Together with two businessmen, he opened Jaleo. Several restaurants followed, yet José never lost track of his roots.

He returned to Spain to produce Vamos a Cociner (Let’s Cook) an innovative cooking show on Spanish national TV in which he traveled the back roads of Spain, showing his countrymen the depth of their heritage. Encouraged by the enthusiastic acceptance of his show in Spain, in 2007 he launched Made in Spain, designed specifically for us Americans.

When I settle on the couch to enjoy a segment of José’s show on a DVD, I find his open and inviting personality and delightful sense of humor to be a wonderful tonic. Through watching the show together, Ruth and I enjoy accompanying him on a virtual trip to many of the towns that we have visited in person.

But unlike our actual visits, José introduces us to down-to-earth cuisine prepared by warm and friendly chefs who clearly enjoy José‘s company. Then he takes us to his Bethesda, MD kitchen to show us how easy it is for us to cook it. And he is right!

I encourage you to view his show this fall. If it is not shown on your local PBS station, you can get the DVD of all the episodes of Made in Spain from La Tienda.

We wish you and your families the best, now that summer has ended, and autumn is at hand.

Tu amigo,
Don

Dear Friends of La Tienda,

The running of the bulls is deeply imbedded in the Spanish culture – some say for over a thousand years. In an earlier Reflection I described the event in rural Ciudad Rodrígo. Until now, I had never found a perfectly personal and pictorial description of the famous Running of the Bulls at Pamplona. The enclosed was forwarded to me by a dear friend who lives in the Basque Country, and who is quite an armchair enthusiast. In turn, I emailed the author, who had just returned from Spain, and she graciously consented to share her notes with you. I hope you will enjoy them.

Abrazos,
Don
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July 11, 2008
Notes from San Fermín:

We have learned a number of things during the four weeks we have been here in San Sebastian: While numbers one and two probably don't surprise anyone who knows us, I'm guessing that number three might. It has certainly shocked us.

(1) Everything tastes better fried (as attested to by the fact that our rental unit has SIX frying pans in the drawer under the oven);
(2) Walking the paseo is better than walking anywhere else; and,
(3) Participating vicariously in the running of the bulls in Pamplona is addictive.

This week is the famous festival of San Fermín in Pamplona. San Fermín, by the looks of it, is the patron saint of outrageously dangerous behavior. The running (called the encierro here, because the bulls run along a narrow, closed section of city streets) takes place every morning this week. It began on Monday and will finish this weekend.

Several thousand people (virtually all men) line the streets every day, with a low of about 2,500 to a projected high this weekend of as many as 4,000-5,000, for a chance to see/touch/run away from five oxen and six bulls who are moving from the pen where they've been kept to the Plaza de Toros where the bulls will be fought (and killed) in the afternoon. The oxen have apparently figured out that if they keep their heads down, they will live to lead new bulls to their slaughter on the following day.

We turned the TV on Tuesday morning just as the encierro was finishing up. It had taken about four minutes – much longer than normal – because one of the bulls got confused and turned around and there was a lot of dangerous stuff happening until the pastores (shepherds) with their long poles could help him find his way along the street to the plaza.

Since then we have set our alarm to be sure we see the "pre-game" show – which includes interviews with runners (some of whom have been doing this for 40 years), discussion about the bulls and their origins, and a series of cánticos – chanted prayers to San Fermín asking for his protection and blessing.

It is hard to describe what happens in the encierro itself. At exactly 8:00, a small rocket is lit that shoots up to the sky, signaling the start of the run. A line of police is holding the crowd back about 100 meters from where the huge gates open, so the oxen and bulls are moving at a pretty good clip before they meet the first wave of people.

There's no way the people can run fast enough to stay in front of them for very long, so runners pick a section of the street where they want to run. Some of the very first group will literally just be in front of the bulls for a few seconds and then peel off to the sides and press themselves against the walls of the buildings as the group thunders past them. Others will run with them as long as they can, but nobody could go the whole distance.

Some days, the group of 11 animals stays together, but generally at least a couple of the animals lose speed or stumble as they fight their way through the sea of humans and then they are separated from the rest. Apparently, the runners like this because it means they have more of a chance to get in close – experienced runners do not try to touch the bulls (because they know it's…ummm… really dumb?), but sometimes even they are thrown into that situation by the people jostling and falling all around them.

It is clear that the bulls themselves are just trying to get away from everybody and are trying to follow the oxen, who are in the lead and are wearing bells around their necks. When they fall or become disoriented, however, anything can happen.

Most of the injuries that occur are people-to-people things (when you go down, you are told to stay down – so that you don't stand up in front of a bull, I guess – which means that people are tripping over each other all the time). Occasionally, people will go down and then get run over by one or more of the animals, so getting stepped on by a many-ton beast is another problem.

Amazingly, you can tell that if the bulls have a chance to do so, they will actually jump over something in the road – not because they are trying to avoid injuring the lump on the ground but, rather, because they are trying to avoid falling themselves.

We have seen virtually no one be gored. Bulls will just as often hit someone with their heads as get them with their horns. In the four days we've watched, there was one guy who got caught in the abdomen (he was on the ground and the bull tripped and was trying to get up and away from the bodies down there) and one who got caught in the leg in a similar situation, but there has not been any "attack" on a runner. Most of the injuries, as I said, are related to falls into the sea of humanity (or inhumanity) with people and animals just desperate to get away.

Today there were two bullfighters who ran – one for the first time. They were up in the TV booth just a couple of minutes after it was over and you could see that the one whose first time was today was still beside himself with fear and adrenaline. When asked what section of the course he ran, he said he thought he knew where he started, but wasn't even sure about that anymore.

It was fascinating to see this guy who stands up in the Plaza de Toros and faces these animals on a regular basis admit to being absolutely terrified, disoriented, and lucky to be alive after his few-second encounter with the animals on the street. His comment was that in the plaza he only has to face his own fear. On the street, his fear was joined to everyone else's fear and it was overwhelming.

Watching the faces as they pray and prepare to start, watching them as they run looking ahead of them and behind them at the same time to avoid animals in all locations and to try to avoid each other, watching them go down and watching them drag each other out of harm's way – it is a bizarre and intriguing spectacle.

The risks are absurdly high, but for those who have been there for 40 years, there is clearly something extraordinary about it. Yesterday an older man (one of the 40-year veterans) fell and hit his head on the street. We saw the image of his body as he lay there, unconscious. Today he was there – singing the cánticos with his colleagues. He didn't run today (and may never again), but he wanted to be there with them as they prepared to go.

That devotion to the pageantry and the ritual (and, at the same time, the fearless matador who made it abundantly clear that he will never do it again) is the sense of San Fermín I will take away with me. Images that will stay with me almost as long as the desire for everything fried...

Barbara Hulburt

Each time I return to Spain, I encounter the essence of her culture in just about every Spaniard I meet, and in every place I visit. Recent events may have made Spain the European trendsetter; however, the substance of Spain remains constant. Come with me back forty years to the medieval town of La Alberca and I will show you what I mean.

The village of La Alberca is nestled in the northern slopes of la Sierra de Francia, close to the border with Portugal. This terrain is called the Dehesa, a remnant of the original forests that once covered Europe. It is a forest of holm oak, cork, chestnut, pines and fruit trees as well as meadows of wild flowers and herbs where black hoofed Ibérico pigs have feasted upon acorns for hundreds of years maybe even longer.

The La Alberca that Ruth and I experienced back in the 1960's was a primitive place: the roads reflected the ravages of time, cobble stones were loose or missing in the plaza mayor with its simple granite cross. The traditional houses surrounding the square were made of granite and stone and wooden beams, many with three floors, each with a different function.

Life was basic, and apparently little changed for centuries. Animals were kept on the ground floor of the home, and the kitchen was on the next floor. They used the loft to cure the local Jamón Ibérico, as well as pork and sausages. Its floor had holes in it so that the smoke from the kitchen could rise.

A burro or two wandered through the square when we were there, and then there was a privileged pig who trotted the alleyways of the village. I learned that each year on June 13, the feast day of St Antonio, the villagers dedicated one piglet to their favorite saint and released it into the streets to wander where it may. The pig was nurtured by all until the next January when it was sacrificed at the matanza.

As you can imagine, it did not take much effort for Ruth and me to imagine ourselves in medieval times, hundreds of years in the past. But before we romanticized too much, we realized that the rustic touches of their local way of life were not the choice of the villagers, or to entertain tourists, they were the result of poverty.

To put things in perspective, a little more than a generation earlier Spain was devastated by a horrendous civil war. It was brother against brother, father against son and almost one third of the men of Spain lay dead; 35,000 priests, nuns and monks were slaughtered.

The country was left to its own devices during the ensuing World War II, and decades beyond. No other country came to its rescue. Starvation was a fact of life.

That La Alberca was a living functioning town when we visited was a tribute to the resilience of the Spanish people. I found it beautifully expressed by the villagers who, despite their hard life, took time to adorn with flowers the large wooden balconies of their ancient houses.

When Ruth and I returned to La Alberca ten years later, we could see the first hints of what prosperity could bring. There in the town plaza we saw piles of new cobblestones, with workmen artfully laying them, one by one, by hand. The aura of the town was one of optimism a time of rebuilding. The town had been declared a National Heritage site and tourism was beginning to bring a new face to the town.

With my sons Tim and Jonathan, I returned to La Alberca in 2005. This time the beautiful mountain village was bustling with activity. We dropped off our luggage at the tasteful and commodious Hotel Doña Teresa and drove through town to the headquarters of Embutidos y Jamones Fermín, the object of our journey.

The owner, Santiago Martín, and his family greeted us cordially and showed us their ham curing facility, which he had sensitively designed to reflect the architecture of the town. He announced with satisfaction that they were soon to receive USDA approval to export their Ibérico hams to the United States. The family exuded confidence, proud that they would be the first to bring this celebrated pata negra ham to America. La Tienda will be delivering these same hams to the homes of some of you in the next few weeks.

My first thought was that the Martíns were very different from the villagers my wife and I encountered forty years before; but on second thought, they are not such a far cry at all. The modern ham curing operation that my sons and I saw before us was the fruit of dedication and years of hard work by the Martín family - a family whose grandparents undoubtedly lived in the medieval town I visited in the past.

I decided to return to the old Plaza Mayor, to see what had happened to it over the ensuing years since my first visit. I found that the cobblestones were neatly laid out and in good repair. The 12th Century granite cross was still at the center. Tourists were mingling with the townspeople at the local cafes. The houses flanking the square were beautifully restored. There were no animals sheltered on the ground floor of the dwellings.

"This is quite a change", I thought to myself. Then, at that moment, I saw a priest with two altar boys piously making their way across the ancient plaza to the parish church, behind a raised processional cross. As the three disappeared from sight, a mule meandered by. On his back was a bundle of golden straw. It could have been hundreds of years ago.

Last month I enjoyed meeting several members of our La Tienda community at our Paella and Sangría Festival in Williamsburg. With Spanish music in the background and a glass of sangría in hand, we felt a common bond as we reminisced about our life among the Spanish people. One of my new friends said wistfully that she was sure that the Spain she loved was no more.

To be sure, her observation had an element of truth, just as I am not the same person I was 20 years ago, or even five years ago. All I have to do to confirm that is look in the mirror (albeit fleetingly). However, there is another truth: I am who I always have been. The essence of my personality has not changed. When I meet friends and family after years of separation, we know each other.

So it is with Spain. Much has transpired since the Civil War of 1936. Nevertheless, when I see families working together for generations, the rural way of life, the Church - to me this is the essence of traditional Spain. I feel no regrets. The traditional Spain we have loved in the past is alive and well in our modern times.

Saludos,
Don