Fair Play, Once Around

Judges' table

At Goya, people gathered among skateboarding youth, art market browsers, septuagenarians in solidarity, and the terraza set to queue up for entrance. Madrid is all about the queue, or cola, as they call it. This one for the annual Feria de Tapas. A fair dedicated to the consumption and competition of Spain's most famous export. Naturally, the TEFL bloc would have to attend.

Twas a Friday eve and sky still light when we shuffled in and through and down to the recessed floor of Real Madrid Basketball's home arena. Surrounding the floor was a ring of about 40 yellow and green booths (everyone's favorite Madrid cerveza to be sole beverage provider), where fish, pork, sausage, bread, cheese, and combinations not yet imagined by your humble were being meted out to the greedy masses. It was early yet but still the place was dense with people not seeing each other bumping around as if in the dark focusing only on the small chalkboard menus posted brilliantly on the inner side walls of each booth rather than the more visible and less hazardous rear. Nothing like it to whet the appetite. First thing then, taquillas.

1e:1 taquilla: almost everything. Pretty simple (though a bit much when tapas are free with the beer as often as not). Scoundrels. No choice but to secure some beer and begin the hunt. The mood for gambas (prawns/shrimp) settles in simultaneously with seeing them on a menu with piña and a pink dressing called salsa rosa. The cold shrimp mingles well with the sweet fruit and creamy dressing, and appetite gathers steam. But already 2 coins down, and only 4 left. The next must be wise choices. Very quickly you realize the crowd is a living catalogue and each group of passersby another page. I follow the trail of pretty plates back toward the entrance. Two adjacent booths. One serving a slice of bread topped with cordero de parrilla con queso de cabra (grilled lamb with goat cheese) and the other displaying puff pastries filled with apple filling and morcilla, my favorite sausage on this earth. Push and wait, signal and order. Plates secured, back to the high-top we've taken as our own. Lamb alright but nothing special. A bit bland, and not at all hot. Morcilla barely noticeable. I give the pastry away. What have I come to? Around me, colors fade to a wash and everything seems desolate. The noise of mass consumption rises to a roar. I can not leave without some croquetas or proper morcilla. I leave the table alone in search. One, and then another person pass by with what look to be croquetas, and I follow to the origin. Upon the chalkboard my eyes water as they read: Croquetas de Morcilla. My body hurls itself to the counter without volition and I hear myself order one croqueta. When she turns my eyes fall on a tosta with brie, cured pato (duck), and mango coulis. One of those as well. Back at the table they stare at me in astonishment and laughter as my face trembles with the ecstasy of my croqueta. Salty, smooth, creamy, slightly sweet, hot, heaven. Never before, and I doubt ever after. True oral bliss. Freshened up with some cheese and mango, and out of that chaotic and ever-crowding scene for one of the better espresso shots I've come across in the city of careless coffee. Seated supremely satisfied on the steps of the arena, and out the way we came for some wine, beer, and games until past the turn of the calendar.
I think as long as I could keep my tongue, I wouldn't mind going blind.