Every day at 1:00 sharp he leaves to have lunch in town, about a five minute drive from here. He returns at just about 2:15 on the nose. The other day I was going to catch a ride into town with him, just to have a look around and he invited me to have lunch with him. I knew he always ate with a friend, so I didn´t want to impose, but he insisted so I gladly joined him.
Miguel apparently enjoys routine. He has been eating at the same restaurant, the Hotel Cadi, every working day, for at least thirteen years. Probably longer. "Muchos años," he tells me in the nice simple Spanish I appreciate.
We pulled into a parking spot in the center of the village of Martinet (it really is a village, very small, very quiet). There are a couple of restaurants here, a store that sells only fruit, a small market, a bakery, a meat market and a "tobacs" shop where you can get everything from stamps to shaving cream, sort of like one of our 7-11´s but without the ancient hot dogs rolling around on a stainless-steel grill.
We walked down the street, Miguel waving to everyone seemingly who passed us, whether they be on foot or in a car, and he suddenly veered off and walked into a non-descript door on the street. An old man was just sitting there in a rocker. I noticed no television or radio on, he wasn´t holding a book or a newspaper. He seemed to be just sitting there, at the ready.
¨"Vamos comer," he said to the man and then stepped back outside and moved in his rapid quickstep into a tavern. And it smelled just like any old tavern, Catalan or not, it had the scent of tobacco and stale beer attached to it and I thought, "oh man, we´re not eating in a bar are we?" But after Miguel greeted the bartender and slapped a few chums on the back, we beat it up the stairs and I was presented with an amazingly posh-looking restaurant complete with linens and chandeliers.
I was a little nervous, it looked like the kind of place I could ill-afford on my peasant´s budget, but I had plenty of cash on me, so I just decided that whatever it was I would just pay and be done with it.
Miguel motioned me to go sit at a table near the window and he disappeared into a couple of swinging doors, which I took to be the kitchen since a moment later I saw a waitress striding out with wine and water.
As I sat there, eyeing the decor and listening to American standards played in a big-band style (an odd choice I thought for a Catalan hotel), the same gentleman who Miguel had summoned to lunch tottered over towards the table. He was wearing a beige cap and jacket, with a plaid shirt underneath. He had to have been at least eighty years old and he made his way to the window seat and sat down next to me. We "hola-ed" each other and then we both sat silently eyeing the decor and listening to the Muzak.
Miguel came back to the table with two menus and a waiter´s pad and pencil.
"¿Tu trabajes aqui tambien?" I joked at him.
He smiled at me, "no, no...mire," he said, pointing at the menu. I started flipping through it, realizing I could barely afford a soup and salad combo when he took the menu and turned to the front page, "this", he said.
It was the fixed meal of the day...four courses, with two or three choices of each. "No..no..," I said, "too much...too much." Of everything, too much money to spend on lunch and WAY to much food.
Let me say a little something about the vast amount of food I am eating here at Sanilles. We eat three meals a day and they aren´t just a cup of oatmeal, a PBJ and maybe a salad and some meat and bread for dinner. Oh no...they are all full on meals, sometimes with three or four courses for both lunch and dinner. In the past week we have had guests at the hotel, which means we all sit down and eat together, and this means we are providing a pretty fancy meal with each setting. I was eating too much. It was all amazingly good (I´ve written down several recipes), but between that and not getting a ton of excercise...I felt I was getting a tad soft around the middle. Not good fighting form for the walk I´m about to undertake.
Anyway. Miguel says, "No..this."
And I couldn´t argue with him, with this guy sitting there...who, Miguel also has had lunch with...every day...for the past millenium.
So...we started to pick our choices, which Miguel then wrote down on the ticket and would later bring it himself to the kitchen.
First course is a choice of gazpacho or something called simply. "tomate." I order the gazpacho, which was wonderful, and the guys got the tomate. Which is really a glass of tomato juice, but which they then add olive oil, salt and pepper and down it with a flourish.
Next I had a choice of macaroni and ham, (obviously, I´m translating this for yáll and for me, since I can´t remember how to spell all of that.) or a fish soup. His friend and I (dammit, I can´t remember his name) had the soup, and Miguel had the pasta.
The soup was amazing. It was a clear broth, glistening with oils, and had such a rich flavor - to die for. In it were shrimp, clams and garlic croutons. Yum.
Next was a choice of fish, rabbit or sausage.
Guess which I had Gwen?
The sausage was unceremoniously plated by itself, save for a few strands of french fries thrown on the side. "Hey...french fries!" I said. Miguel looked at me and shook his head, "no..no bueno french fries." I liked ém just fine. And the sausage was awesome. It didn´t come with mustard, or sauce or anything else. It didn´t need to, it was flavorful enough on it´s own.
Ice cream or melon?
I wanted ice cream, but we still had the whole afternoon of work ahead of us, and I would have a hard enough time working off that sausage, so I opted for melon...which came in a huge wedge - it seemed like a quarter of the melon on the plate. Miguel had ice cream, which he put sugar into. I tsk-tsked him for that, and he just shrugged his shoulders and put in an extra scoop for spite. Since I can´t show you pictures, I´ll just tell you that Miguel is skinny as a post.
All the while, all through this lunch, there was a little chatter between Miguel and his amigo. I would´ve loved to talk to this guy, but was feeling pretty shy about my Spanish just then. Friends and relatives, I implore you, if you are going to spend a goodly amount of time in a foreign country, it would behoove you to learn some conversational words in that tongue. I would´ve loved to ask this guy where he was from, talk about his past work, ask him about anything...but I just couldn´t get there. Maybe I´ll try again next week. He did ask me if I played baseball...it was a random question and I appreciated it. I answered, "si, me mucho gusto baseball."
Ripping conversationalist, I am.
The bulk of lunch, however, seemed to happen between Miguel and two guys sitting behind him who were wearing city-worker or construction t-shirts or something. On of the guys cell phones went off, and it was playing that creepy little tune from the Exorcist that for some reason guys choose often as their ringtones. When Miguel heard it, he got the guy to show him how to put the Exorcist ringtone on his phone.
I shook my head at him, teasing him for his poor choice of ringtones. "No..no Ex-or-cist...Tubular Bells," he said to me. "Ex-or-cist," I said back to him..."no bueno ringtone."
He ignored me and played me his ringtone over and over again while we were trying to enjoy our dessert. I almost threw it out the window. Then his lunch companion handed his phone over, and the construction guys put it on his phone so I got to enjoy it in stereo until I said, "that´s it," and readied myself to leave while they laughed. I asked Miguel how much the meal was and he told me, "nine euros." Only nine?
I knew that meal was more than nine euros, it had to be. But I gave out ten euros and went to look around a bit while Miguel finished up with his friend.
Later, in the car, I asked him about the price.
"Si...14-15 euros por las turistas, but with me? Nine euros only."
Thanks so much Miguel.
No comments:
Post a Comment