FIESTA 2: Pre-storm Calm

OUTSIDE in the main plaza full of green trees, small soft grass lawns, and anchored in the center by one of Spain's ubiquitous horseman effigy-topped plinths surrounded by a gentle pool, the number of people had begun to rise. We headed to the western edge, where we came in much earlier in the morning, to check the opening time of the tourism office. Behind the bandshell where bundled bodies slept and were slowly waking in the morning light, the closed glass doors bore the hour 10:00 in small off-white stencil. So, down the stone ramp and back into the city to see what might have been missed in the dark.

A building we'd passed, with opaquely colored glass panes and large doors was opening up and we recognized a cleaner version of the massive indoor market pavilions we'd come across in every city we visited. Inside we peered at strings of famous Rioja peppers and counters laden with sausages and great cheese wheels, careful not to get to close and incur the insufferable treatment dealt by all Spanish store owners and shop clerks, who demand that you tell them your every want and desire at once.

"Dime." (Tell me)

"Que te pongo?" (What do I get you?)

A simple reply of "No estoy seguro" (I'm not sure) often only produces puzzled looks and a more elaborate or clarified version of the original demand. But one never wants to say outright "Déjame solo!" (Leave me alone!), for obvious fear of reproach or some unnoticed maltreatment from these bullying vendors.

   So we take the center of the aisle until my curiosity and appetite are far too piqued to hold back. Nose first I pull us behind two old ladies and wait to talk cheese. I want goat, and I see some cured versions that throw my imagination into a frenzy. I read the label, it's some name beginning with a C and I name it. He asks which one and points to two. I say the better, of course, and he grabs it. It's goat cheese, right? No, it's a blend. The other is the goat, but the blend is the best. Whatever you say, cheese monger. 2euros of the blend. My frugality does not go unnoticed, but he still hands a sizable wedge across the high counter.

   Around the corner young women are taking fresh fruit crates out and displaying them bleacher-style on the floor in front of their section. I recall my days serving cheese plate desserts and the lengthy explanations of pairings with berries, jams and preserves and my eyes fall on bulbous, frosty, wet bunches of small black local grapes. The women see me, nod, and ask me to tell them. Half a kilo and 80 cents later I walk out in eager triumph with E at having swiftly dealt with the swift dealers.

   Once again we stroll the central square, a place we were still yet to realize would see us often throughout our stay, this time looking for a bench in the sun. I had been slightly chilled or worse during our stay thus far, walking around blanket-wrapped in the darkness and now wearing scarf and coat. Past ashy thin men with frog-like fingers and golden brown teeth we found our spot facing the white morning sun next to the tourist office. There we sat while tour groups went by united with a common burgundy bandana, watching us unwrap the glory of cheese and fruit.

   The cheese was excellent. Not crumbly nor creamy, off white and with a slight tang of sharpness. Deep flavor and a seriously smooth texture. But it was when eaten with the grapes that things opened up. Those little bulbs of power and history had us talking for at least thirty minutes. I'd recalled learning long ago that red wine gets its aspects- structure, tannins, and redness - all from the skins alone. I never understood how until that morning. These were more like hides than skins. Because of the seeds inside, we tried to devise the most efficient ways of eating the fruit without biting down. Despite their size, some of these things had up to five seeds. Pushing them up against the roof of the mouth, the skin would rupture and the fruit would squeeze out, leaving the empty purple shell. We spat these into our hands and examined them. Green, jelly-like spheres protecting their future generations inside. Meanwhile, we chewed on the skins and felt our mouths dry out and lose all power of taste or food domination. The skin out-meanoeuvered our jaws. After a few, I started spitting the skins out due to the chalky bitterness they would leave behind. I had never come across fruit like this in my life before, least of all in the convenience-loving consumer-friendly States. If we had these, they might barely sell, but at least people would have a far better appreciation for the titanic potency and historical longitude of this tiny, little, ball.  It was a revelation in the morning light. By the way, the fruit was amazingly flavorful and went so well with the cheese we nearly got sick eating as much as we did.

By now the office had opened, and inside a remarkably pretty young brunette once again asked me to tell her.

"Well, we are here. In the office of tourism. Visiting. Your city."

"Ah well, there is a festival this weekend."

"Really?"

"Yes, would you like some information."

"Hm." I looked to Erik for support. "Yes."

So she proceeded to tell us that we had arrived in time for San Mateo, and produced a flyer and a program for the events. She then took out a map and, in that rehearsed manner that every tourist office woman I have come across adopts, drew her pen across to specific sites of interest and recited their significance, taking out additional flyers here and there with photos, hours and prices. She then mentioned the streets famous for pintxo bars and handed us a few more flyers that were quickly stacked with the already growing number. A second map for E and a few thank yous and we were out.

Near our piles of grape seeds and cheese rinds we examined the materials more closely, realizing that we now had more than one different guide to award winning pintxos Riojanos, one of which provided specific bars with addresses, wine pairing suggestions, and prices. Perhaps Erik is more reserved than I. Perhaps he simply hides his emotions with more discretion. But I felt only the sensation of salivation and boiling blood as my eyes scanned familiar adored names like morcilla, pimientos, champiñones, gambas. Foie with PX reduction to be drank with a local Crianza. Grilled apples, brie, and honey to pair with a crisp acidic white. Shrimp, peppers, cod and onion with an older oak-aged white. 2 euros. 2.50. I almost screamed and cursed the early hour. We put the menus away and reviewed the sites of interest. We agreed to find those and familiarize the routes between, as we read about kick-offs, parades, live music, and tastings. The festival was not yet on, but we were already wild with anticipation of the gourmandizing to come.

And we believed we knew what it would actually entail.