Spanish flying III

We were in Santiago de Compostela – which you must have got by now if you read this – and seemed to be eating most of the day and evening. Most days began with a large vat of café au lait and a wide range of breakfast bits and bobs to choose from. The first day I, who is known to almost never eat anything before noon, wandered through buttery croissants, tangy cheese and Parma ham, before sliding blissfully into a deep dish of fresh-cut fruit. By the third morning, I was biliously averting my eyes from anything edible and burying my over-fed nose in an enormous bowl of herbal tea redolent with the soothing scents of peppermint, chamomile and hibiscus.

But Galicia exists just for the tummy, or so I am convinced. The meats, the vegetables, the aromas, the spices, the fish, the olive oil, the bread….well, perhaps not the local paysan bread. The first time I met the bread roll, I was delighted, since I absolutely revel in the smell and taste of fresh pan, or pain or just plain old pau, especially when slathered in butter and eaten warm out of the oven. So when I saw the rolls nestled into a basket, steaming gently in the chilly morning air, dampening the snowy white serviette, my mouth opened and I stared covetously, enough for my mother to hiss disapprovingly in my direction. I headed straight for that pile of bread and picked up one roll, hot and brown and crusty and placed it on my plate.

The sound startled me. It was definite, hard, loud, its maker threatening to break the china or bounce off into the far end of the hall. Balancing it carefully in the company of a couple of pats of butter and a small dish of fresh strawberry compote, I went over to sit down. My stomach growling gently, my tongue already feeling the texture of the tiny loaf, I broke it open. Or tried to. This was country bread, I knew, but I didn’t realise that they used jackhammers at the dining table in this part of the country. Ever the optimist, I took a stab at the roll, literally, trying to work my knife into it and slicing through. To no avail. The knife edge slid off the crust and crashed deafeningly on to the plate, attracting all eyes to my struggles. Pink through my sunburn, I gave up and attempted to dig my thumb into the roll, finally succeeding in tearing off a small piece. It was completely worth all the work – the bread was delicious, soft inside like the Indian gutli, with the wonderfully yeasty, homey fragrance and flavour that only fresh baked bread has. Over the week we were in the area, I managed to develop a lovely case of tendonitis of the thumb, but I had one happy tummy.

As ubiquitous as the rock-hard bread was the flan. Basically caramel custard made in small moulds, one serving each, it was eggy, milky and sweet, the burnt sugar and cinnamon flavour taking over from the egginess that was rather off-putting. I headed for it the first night, wanting something sweet to seal my enormous meal of fish, veggies and, of course, bread. It was divine, the warmth and sweetness the ideal end to a long and cold day. And then we met again at lunch the next day and then at dinner…and again at lunch and dinner…and again….Today, ‘flan’ is a cue for the family to remember that summer in Spain and those wonderful wee and wobbly puddings and go into fits of hysterical laughter.

Perhaps one of the most memorable times I spent at the dining table was one lunch, when my mother and I walked after a trip into town in as Daddy Dear and his colleagues were just finishing their meal. Of course, he stayed with us, but so did a few and fond old friends. Before I knew it, but after my aching thumb had managed to pry open the bread, I was deeply embroiled in an argument with James Morrison – known as ‘Jim’, for obvious reasons – a Nobel winning physicist, on the virtues of green peas. He hated them. I liked them and still do. From opposite sides of the gustatory fence, we duelled. I am not sure who won, but he took the honours in making me laugh. My giggles left me with a stitch in my side and a memory of Spain that only I will ever have.