Gourmand Traveler surfaces again...A meal for all time, or at the very least a Nobel

I SWEAR I woke this morning with the tastes still in my mouth. Somewhere coating the inside, near the pivot of my jaw sat the salty, nutty flavorfulsensation that conjures sounds like 'zing'. Down in the back of my throat laid the tannic coffee, pipe tobacco, darkfruit and chocolate vanilla textures that helped me doze so well. Both zones as I left them when I laid me down to sleep a most satisfying slumber. It was just last night that I ate the meal I'll be holding on to for some time. Perhaps a short prologue is in order.
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Weeks ago I was handed a student of an exceptional level. Difficult to come up with compelling lessons when every grammar point is revision and vocabulary is extensive. Classes tend toward conversation. At some point, probably very early on, the warm-up dialogues of our weekend activities became the topics of discussion and we soon began spending copious amounts of time on our shared passion for Spanish delicacies. My students all know me for it, and they sometimes exploit this to keep the lessons grammar-free. The smooth, dark texture of Rioja wine and the indescribable delights of Iberico de Bellota or Morcilla de Burgos. I could go on. But after extensive time on the subject I felt we were making little progress, and so I looked to the crafted words of Robert Frost for a richness to explore and elaborate. It had a powerful effect on said alumno, and I suppose he saw in me a person with a high capacity for appreciation. Now he's determined to show off.

Bringing our tale and your humble Narrator to calle Blasco de Garay just after 9pm on a bright, warm Tuesday evening. Street and sidewalk alike buzzing with those heading home or the opposite, and one English teacher briskly walking through it all, anticipating the delights ahead...

Abridging the tour of this guy's remarkable place with spacy salon, large quasi-terrace, and well-lit enameled wood kitchen, we move to your humble and two old Spanish friends peeling and cutting golden potatos, opening wine, and cutting meats and cheeses. 'Twas I on potato duty as the other two moved around helping me or each other set various things up. I kept hearing "toma", meaning 'take' or 'have this' and sounding strangely like my name in Spanish accent, and being handed things to eat and drink. The first was the wine.

>Wine bottles in Spain are very cheap. I usually buy a bottle of Rioja for less than 3e. So young they hide the vintage, so over produced the price changes each day depending on the stock. But still enjoyable. Last night, the first 'toma' turned my eyes to a wine glass the size of a fish bowl in which swirled the dark, brooding essence of the northern Rioja region. A Gran Reserva from one of the finest wine regions in the world. The pipe tobacco, dark cherry, and choco-coffee flavors invaded wrapped in a velvet blanket and enveloped my senses. It was like smoking opium in a dark red room, this hold on your senses and immediate intoxication. In no way young, vibrant and fruity; rather a seasoned snakecharmer. I went back to the potatoes with a healthy grin that would never leave. Then came the bread and cheese.

>They tell me time and again that Spanish olive oil is the best there is. Primary disbelief gave way to scepticism and gradually to acceptance. But it was never confirmed until this meal. Normally, I don't eat bread before a meal and even during it, in order to save space for the better items. So when my student said he would give me the "key" and began to pour plate of lime green olive oil and cut a piece of bread, I tried to think of a way to politely decline. But the Rioja had already taken effect and I recalled a recent promise to say only "yes". So I dipped. I topped the oiled bread with a slice of strong, aged Italian cheese and took a bite. And everything stood still. The texture of the bread, holey and khaki and slightly difficult to chew, mingled with the cheese, which bridged the gap between dense, almost brittle texture and rich, sharp flavor over to the oil. I have never had oil like this. The kind of stuff that creeps up into your nasal passages, and glides along the surfaces of your mouth. A flavor that tells of its extraction from the earth and ascention to something higher. I would love to describe the flavors but I am ill equipped for the task. All I know is that other oils I've tried were things in a constant state. I could have them once, 6 months later, and a year after that and I believed they'd taste the same. This was like a living culture in a dish, soaking into my bread and working its way past my cellular membranes (The guy wouldn't let me leave without taking a bottle of it, and I sit here recounting this magic hour while taking breaks to sip a glass of the other great region, Ribera del Duero, and chewing on bread and tomatoes soaking in the oil. I don't know if I'll ever leave). We finished the potatoes and sat back to enjoy our wine as Antonio the host readied the oil on the stove for commencement. In the meanwhile, Alumno Alejandro handed me a piece of the fabled Jamón Iberico de Bellota.

>I first saw Spanish hams in Andalucía, wandering into smoke filled bars whose ceilings were completely blocked by hundreds of hanging pig legs. I had never encountered such sights, and I feared the setting too indecent for my girlfriend's eyes. Years later, it's almost expected. Of the varieties available, one is called la pata negra, the black foot. 2% of Spanish ham is this type more commonly referred to as Jamón Iberico. High quality hog that ranges free, creating in its lifespan beautifully marbled meat and a great deal of muscular enzymes necessary for converting bland proteins into savory amino acids. An even smaller percentage is Iberico de Bellota, Iberico of the acorn. These pigs graze on wild growth and thousands of acorns. About a month before they go under the knife, they are given extra rations of acorns on a daily basis. This creates a new layer of fat around the edges that's nearly transparent. It's hardly animal fat but an intensely flavored nut fat that dissolves when it lands on your tongue and suffuses your mouth with strong, almost sharp, salty nutmeat. It absolutely glistens with years of accumulated and calculated flavorful precision. Sliced paper thin and eaten in strips, this can be one of Spain's greatest contributions to the planet. Forget Cervantes; when you slowly chew Iberico while hearing the story of the process from birth to death to cure and the paramount importance of all factors such as lifestyle, diet, microclimate, and even the specific local mold harmonizing in each jamón, all passionately elaborated in Castilian, attempting to provide a more gratifying experience seems quixotic. And these were only the aperitivos.

> Food prepped and oil hot, Antonio began submerging the potato strips as Alejandro and myself readied the table. Post potatoes came the eggs. Huevos rotos (broken eggs) are cracked over and poached in oil. They set the hot liquid raging but the confident cook tames the pan and dextrously spoons the oil over the yolk, encasing it in a thin layer of cooked white while preserving its liquid state. We seat and portion, and after a toast, begin feasting. The act of poaching eggs in the lighter Spanish oil creates a fluffy texture like a normal aqua poach, but it takes the flavor into the stratosphere. Placed atop the crispy/soft golden potatoes and draped in that glistening ruby red iberico, it becomes an orchestra of sensory delight. The yolk is released and soaks into the potoato. Its wrapped in thin Iberico and washed down with that dark liquid diary of the comingling of regional sun, soil, water, grape, and man. Erasing economic anxieties and dissolving urban frustrations. One forgets regrets, reproachments, and resignations. There is only the plate and the worldwide conspiracy to put it together in front of you. One bite and it's clear that, as Antionio proclaims, the dish's inventor deserves nothing less than the Nobel prize for Peace.