Back at the flat poached eggs slathered in paprika and herb tomato sauce slid around atop fresh toasted integral (whole-grain) from above panaderia out on the terrace dappled in sun when Santiago the saint called on us to make a move. To Alcobendas, said he, for Gallician food fest of mythic delights! 30 minutes of tea and sobremesa (during/post meal conversation "overtable") and 50 more north on linea 10 (Alcobendas is not in Madrid) and we were set to begin feeding again. We made our way to the white-tented paradise where we were to start with awkwardly watching a Gallego folk band play the tambourine/bagpipe traditional tunes of the region surrounded by albariño drinking friends casting us uneasy glances. Onward and out we marched to pass innumerable pastries and cakes along our b-line to the sidra booth.
I remember the first taste of Spanish cider bringing a bitter revulsion but by the end of that first bottle I had begun the comaround. By now I'm deeply enamored with it's sour bitterness and short-term long-pour produced carbonation. We began, renewed, and ended our tenure at the food fair in the trusted hands of this charming beverage mistress you see pouring, without looking, my drink from a bottle held too high to capture in one image.
Other highlights were mejillones al albariño (mussels in Galician white wine sauce) which was slaved over for an embarassingly long time in attempt to savor the onion, pepper, and wine sauce with only the toothpicks provided,
Pulpo Gallego, an octopus dish so titillatingly delectable that Your Humble completely forgot to fotolyze. We walked by the booth and keen salesman with an eye for hunger offered your young heroes a sample. Why not? A young man grabs a tentacle lying on a board and slices off a few bits, upon which we approvingly chew and agree to a full ración. This time a full 'pus gets pulled out of the steaming 100 gallon cauldron, red as a lobster, and after a scissor flurry that would make Johnny Dep proud, salesman takes the wooden tray and dresses it with extra virgin Spanish (read:best) olive oil from a gas can, rock salt from the sea, and paprika and slides it over to your three trembling heroes. Not rubbery, not fishy, just hot salty and rich. Nary a meal so good to be had that day, not in all the mundo.
After a less than appointing tarta de queso, which is anything but the cheesecake of my youth, we three opted for consolatory sidra and found it no less than necessary to order the 10e tabla de quesos, with the famous Madonna-breast shaped smoked Galician cow's milk cheese, Tetilla (itself Spanish for "small breast"), Cabrales, the strongest blueest cheese I've ever tasted that's usually cow but sometimes blended with goat and sheep and more than sublty sweet, a soft cheese creamier and subtler than most bries I've known, and a fourth lesser known varietal that got our pick for planetary top 10. All quesos deemed worthy of bloodshed in their honor. But that would come later in the weekend...
And with that we strolled just short of achingly full back toward the city center for the beginnings of the evening goings-on. 45 minutes back underground and we emerged with the city still yet to have darkened. But this fin de proves more than a single post and must be continuted in time. Is postponed too obvious?
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