April 2005 Archives
We're back in London now, but we still haven't had the chance to try these Pizza Express pizzas made to look like the Royal Family. Is there something wrong when the Prince of Wales looks more handsome and distinguished in pizza form?
Report from Spain, Part III
If you want to see flamenco in Spain, we are told, you have two choices. You can go to a tablao--a flamenco spectacle organized for tourists--and be guaranteed a polished, professional experience that is likely to be somewhat soulless. Or you can go to a more authentic flamenco bar, and take your chances; you might be there for an off night, or you might see something spectacular. Lauren and I have decided to take our chances with authenticity.
And thus it is that we end up at Casa Patas at midnight. We're lucky that there's such an early show that evening; in many flamenco bars, things apparently don't get started until about 2AM. (Tablaos tend to start earlier, since foreigners have an odd tendency to go to bed before sunrise.) We pass through a crowded, smokey cafe to a long and narrow back room, where tables and chairs have been set up facing a small stage. We're seated towards the back; it seems that most of the locals knew to make reservations.
While we wait for the show to start, we scope out the crowd. Seated next to us are two women--one in her late 20's or early 30's, and the other perhaps in her 40's. They're dressed up for a night on the town, and they've managed to attract the attentions of a young Spanish man in a getup that is, shall we say, striking. The unbuttoning of his black shirt has not quite reached his navel, but it's not for lack of trying. Gold medallions nestle in his chest hair. And to top it all off, he's wearing a long white doctor's coat. He's paying just enough attention to the 40-year-old woman to make it clear that he's really interested in her younger friend, but the two women are responding with polite indifference.
I was out jogging earlier between Cadogan Square and Green Park, wearing the Boston Red Sox baseball cap that marks me unmistakably as an American. I passed a construction worker who smiled and said something to me in such a thick Irish brogue that I couldn't understand him immediately, so I just smiled, nodded, and kept jogging.
A few seconds later, my brain finally translated his comment: "What, not a Yankees fan, are ye?"
On our trip to Spain earlier this month, Lauren and I arrived in Madrid to realize we had forgotten one of the most important tools in a traveler's arsenal: a menu translation dictionary. We both speak good enough Spanish to distinguish jamon from salmon, but neither of us can get more than an entry or two into a tapas menu without discovering a word we don't know.
After searching through a few bookstores, we finally find a Spanish/English dictionary of food. Not surprisingly, though, it turns out that it's meant for Spaniards traveling in Great Britain; it consists of Spanish translations for "bangers and mash" and "chips". Que lastima!