Xuxo Ciccio: L'Espagne

Que Bon Dia!

You casually stroll along the streets of Barcelona when you pass a bakery. You pause, double take, and then stare at the window, no longer casual. There, upon a pedestal, separated by only a thin pane of glass, is the pleasure grail. It has brown rough matte skin which only that penetrated by pure sin at high temperatures can obtain, but puffy and with a seemingly flaky texture. Yes, it is a croissant... but also a doughnut? From one side it seems to be stuffed with custard!

Welcome sinners, to the Xuxo (pronounced shoosho), my now favourite all-time dessert: proper croissant dough wrapped around a sparingly sweetened crema catalana, deep fried and sprinkled with coarse sugar. It’s possibly one of the most sophisticatedly rich desserts ever. These climax-causing pastries are so light you could eat them all the way to the operating table. When I asked the baker what they were, I heard the name (quite appropriately) as the Italian word 'Ciccio', an endearing word that means 'little fatty'. Actually, it has nothing to do with that term. Xuxo is used to mimic the sound a fat person’s jowls enhance when they try to speak.

Pastries aside, the Catalan culture is one filled with excellence and pride. A pass to the 7 major museums in Barcelona costs 25 euros and you get to skip all the lines. It’s a brilliant idea because it promotes the Catalan masters and gives you a true understanding of their culture and circumstance. If you don’t leave here with a better knowledge of the civil war, you probably picked up the Catalan audioguide by accident.

It is such a fulfilling experience. All they need is Xuxo stands inside the expositions and their population would triple, unhindered by the rise in coronary bypasses.

Catalan croissant creativity is nothing to sneer at. Perhaps the French might take issue with the sullied purity of their repertoire, but by Satan these mutilated croissants sure are heavenly! Croissant de sopressata is a note-worthy example. Again here as in Tuscany, sopressata refers to head cheese, which is not true elsewhere in Europe. Catalan Sopressata is prepared more as a paprika-heavy pâté than anything else, but it sure makes for an interesting way of enjoying the ‘cut’.

This pastry version is divine. It’s a beautifully made croissant, light, fluffy, crisp, and flavourful: buttery just like the French variety. Only this croissant is stuffed with the staining goodness of a healthy portion of sopresatta. Its fat seeps into the lower area of the croissant and crisps the base a beautiful crimson. The rest of the inside seems to be lightly steamed by the pâté. The whole thing is a mess of meat and yummy. Esta molto bo.

Language. Catalan is a stewed language. It comes from Latin. Alors, like all the rest of Europe the base is the usual mirepoix, but at times, it seems as though many ingredients were thrown in the pot. The crock pot for this forbidden language is Spain, and so the accent sounds kind of like Castilian, but there is so much more to it. One simple sentence: ‘it’s really beautiful’, to my eye seems to contain three nearby culture’s languages. Esta (Spanish), molto (Italian), bo (French), but it’s had enough time in the pot that the flavours have melded beautifully. The only ingredient missing is English which, lets face it, has no place in a European stew.

I’m staying with Joesp in Barcelona. His generosity and warmth are supposedly typical of the Catalan people (so he says). It’s really special. Together, we took a trip to the north to visit Basque Country which contains the other oppressed people of Spain. There is certainly an unspoken love affair amongst the two. I got to see both coasts of Spain in the same week. I was also privileged enough to visit his family’s land near Taragona and drive across the length of Spain. We sat at century-old cafés and visited the Guggenheim. How did I become so lucky? I ate a FRESH olive. We pigged out on pintxos and Spanish cider. We wandered ancient streets and modern water worlds. I ate BABY eels.

People seem to speak French (the vacation language), Castilian and Euskara up there in Bilbao/San Sebastian. Euskara though (the Basque language) is far from being at all comprehensible. I suppose it lacks the usual mirepoix. Now, those people are damned privileged. Everything there is excellent: scenery, food, and culture. Living there is almost unimaginable. Unfortunately, it was too quick a trip to go into great detail but Basque country is quite simply excellent.

Barcelona too is absolutely incredible: ancient neighbourhoods seamlessly connected by an efficient grid and a frequent metro, packed with public squares and modernist architecture. A mélange of cultures immigrating from around the world creates a cornucopia of cuisines. I had the best dil bahar of my life here. I wasn’t expecting that. It was the freshest yet and its centre was filled with proper whipped cream. It makes me wonder about the freshness of the dil bahar back home.

There is a secret as to how late people eat supper in Spain: the 4 o’clock xurro (churro). Xurrerias are open in the afternoon, and it’s quite normal to stop in here as a ‘treat’ mid-day. When you order xurros amb xocolata, you might expect a doughnut and hot chocolate, but what you receive is many doughnuts: fresh and crisp, long, thin, and juicy, these basically unsweetened pastries dip beautifully into your mid-day creamy-sweet bevvie. This way you’re less hungry after work and can afford to get some things done in the evening and thus eat dinner at a ‘reasonable’ hour. I don’t know if you’ve yet realized, but that makes four meals a day. I'm not arguing and I don't mean to implicate anyone here. It is only natural. It's just not really supper if it's number four is it?

To start a supper in Barcelona without bread and tomato is like Christmas without Yorkshire puddings. It just leaves you feeling unfulfilled. Pa amb tomàquet, is essentially a tomato’s juices and a garlic clove’s oils rubbed into the pores of sliced bread. It is then dipped or covered in good olive oil and it is every meal’s appetizer. If you’re lucky, you get around to eating this course around 9 o’clock… but dinner guests are usually late.

Fideuà is hopefully on the menu of your Catalan dindo. Maria Dolores, Josep’s mum, made this dish for me and her family while I was visiting and it’s really terrific: a mixture of small fish and pasta cooked in fish broth, fried, and topped with strong aioli. This dish generally replaces paella in these parts. Truly scrumptious. Seafood always tastes better when you can hear the ocean.

In short, Spain = incredible. The food is unique, time honoured, and filled with desire. There are many peoples with different histories linked in struggle and creation. Its scenery is ever-changing and stunning. The people are charming and beautiful. I don't know if the next language I want to learn is Castilian or Catalan. One way or another, I'll be back.

Adéu. Vagi bé.

Palermo Peccati

Mountains and sea, Mountains and sea, Cobblestone and crags, Sicilians and me. Al' anima trovato.
- Giacomo Barrington

"Un taglio e un barba costano quanto?" I ask the elderly Sicilian barber in my broken Italian. He looks at me confused, as though no-one has ever asked before. "Tredici?" he half answers, half questions. I wasn't about to argue with him on price; it would cost at least three times as much at home.
I sit down to the best shave of my life and a quick "back and sides". Sitting next to me is a man with damaged vocal chords; either that or he's looking to perfect his voice for the next Palermian community theatre Puzo-palooza. I knew I wanted to get a shave in Sicily, but I didn't realize it would be so easy to find this kind of place. Whether or not any of these guys have ever been involved in anything criminal, they all act like made men.

Sicilian men greet in an extremely tender (and yet manly) way. They don't touch each others hands or body, but walk over to the acquaintance and lean, presenting a cheek. The man opposite leans over and a touch of one cheek to another occurs (kissing noise optional). Then of course, they begin to argue.

The Hotel Firenze is a hotel in Palermo with a colourful group of people you will assuredly make friends with. There are two terraces, a kitchen, one dollar beers, and it costs about 20 bucks canadian a night. It is located in the very centre of Palermo. Walking around Palermo you find a lot of neat squares and markets. My new friend Diane lovingly calls them "Bourdain-worthy". Too right she is. Fluorescent-lit markets serve freshly grilled fish next to picnic tables in front of the neighbourhood depanneur. The only condiment is a bowl of limes. It's the least you'll pay for food in Italy and it's probably the best dining experience too. The ambiance immediately puts you at ease.

Carts peddle pizza alla Siciliana. It has a thick and doughy but surprisingly light crumb. Mammoth portions of the pizza are baked in the morning and then piled up onto carts and spread out around the city. The slices are coated in a salty tomato pesto. When you order a slice, the man opens his cart to where a griddle is hidden, drizzles some olive oil and then fries both sides of the pizza. Yeah - it's pretty cool.

Sicilian cuisine is no bullshit cookery: to the point, delicious, eat it or don't. Nobody seems to bother with lots of ingredients or new takes on old classics. The way it is done is just fine. Why move the airport? It's been behind those mountains next to the sea-shore a long time. who cares if it makes pilots nervous? It's character building. The Don doesn't have a problem with it. Do you have a problem with the Don?

Case Pan Cà Meusa are everywhere- a Palermian classic. These "restaurants" serve one thing. You walk in and you ask for "uno, per piacere" What they're serving, translated into Italian (from Sicilian) is panini con la milza. A man standing in front of four ingredients combines them on the spot. He tongs thinly sliced calf's spleen out of the lard bath it simmers in onto a fresh sesame seed bun, adds a knife's-end of unrefined sea salt, and hands it to you next to a bowl of lime slices.

The milza panino is really excellent. I'm not just saying that because it's such an exciting way of using the whole beast, but because it is REALLY good. It becomes so tender from being a confit and loses whatever- well- undesirable flavours it may have previously contained. When garnished so simply and freshly, almost like fish, it transforms the thing into a snack suitable for all occasions. I'm craving it now as I write. I know! I'm craving spleen! weird.

Sicilian cuisine isn't dominated by the savoury though, as this is where the canolo was born. If you go to Sicily I only have one recommendation, save yourself for one particular canolo. Don't just buy one right away. Casa del Brodo is a very reasonably priced trattoria that serves an amazing canolo. It's mammoth, as is the tradition. It isn't "chalk"-full (mind the pun) of icing sugar though. It's light, whipped ricotta with the consistency of just-underwhipped cream stuffed into a freshly fried cookie and coated with shaved dark chocolate. It's a timeless restaurant so don't worry, you've got one lifetime to visit.

Casa del Brodo is so named after Tortelini con brodo - the Sicilian wonton soup. It really is exactly the same as wonton soup except for the shape of the dumplings and the addition of mirpoix to the broth. It's a really nice dish after a long day of walking.

I found something I fell in love with that apparently is not a common dish - or at least an internet search proves useless. For my generation, if it isn't on Google, it's make believe of the most obscure variety. It's called crochina di fragole: an extra crisp, sort of thin rice-crispy crust, filled with sweet whipped ricotta and sprinkled with wild strawberries - so perfect. The same incredible bakery has a pastry that is sort of like a jelly roll. Instead of jelly though, it's rolled with Nutella. It's coated with dark chocolate, capped with cream, and dipped in pistachios. Who are these people? Did I make them up?

This is my last morning in Italy. It may also be the final moment in my selective assimilation of its culture. When I woke, I dressed and walked to the nearest caffè. With one heel on the pole at the foot of the bar and opposite fist on hip, I ordered my usual morning fare. I proceeded to laugh at whatever the other old Sicilians had chosen to laugh at this morning. I ordered an arancino for the road and went on my way.

Arancini are a bit like suppli. They are deep fried rice balls but also so much more. Instead of mozzarella (and sometimes along with mozzarella) the ball is stuffed with a beef and vegetable ragu. The tomato is thus in the filling and not the rice which helps to give a sense of contrast between the layers, and it's breaded and fried in the shape of an orange, thus the name arancino. The new shape and size definitely makes it a more substantial snack, less of a one bite fritter - more a fourth meal of the day.

In the bus on the way to the airport I had much to reflect on. My time in Italy now seems like a dream, one that I awoke from with a new outlook and perhaps some new skills. As the ocean twilight reflects on the distant sky, the sea-worn Palermian houses crawl up the mountain like fireflies against the morning darkness. I have learned to enjoy watching people wake. It's like you're watching the true progression of time in the most human of terms.