Episode 12: Food glorious food

FACT: All Spanish meter
readers are grossly obese,
due to the extra portions
they get throughout the day

I have a theory that my mother-in-law is trying to kill me with kindness. Don't get me wrong, I'm not being paranoid here - well maybe a little, but they are my voices and I'm entitled to listen to them if I want to. I'm actually talking food. Everything in this country appears to be food related and nowhere more so than here in Galicia. The raison d'ê'tre (yes, I know that's French, but the Spanish lesson for this week is coming up later in the show) for Galician women is to feed everyone who walks through their front door. It's fine if you actually live in the house, but when you're just popping in to read the gas meter, it can prove to be a little too much by about 11.30am and your fifth call of the day. No wonder this country's utility companies are in such a state.


The very first time I came here, we landed around 10.30pm on a Saturday night and were met by about a million family and friends, all of whom had come to have a gawp at the new man in José's life. Those who weren't put off were treated to a meal that really shouldn't be eaten at 1am in the morning, but should be served for Sunday lunch with the promise of a post-prandial 4 hours on the sofa in front of mind-numbing TV and regular dribbly-mouthed dozes. As the new boy on the block, I was offered the first choice of everything and it was a little disconcerting. I knew what I was eating, but I didn't want to get the code wrong. What if I took two pieces of empanada when there was only enough for one each? What if I served myself some chorizo, only to find that it was the accompaniment to something that was coming later? What if I took a load of manchego cheese and rubbed it over my naked body whilst reciting the names of every British Prime Minister since 1876........but then it wasn't my night to go to the Young Conservatives club, so my worry over the last one was reduced considerably. Still, I was a little panicked at the thought of what to do. Thankfully, no-one there spoke English, so I was able to talk to José without raising alarm.
"What's that funny looking red smelly thing?"
Actually that was his dipsomaniac Great Aunt Berta, but we'll gloss over that little chapter!

The alcoholic Great Aunt Berta, formerly known as The Alcoholic Great Uncle Bert until a drunken incident with a milk churn in 1987

Dinner passed and I have never been as full as that in my life before or since. I felt that I should eat to show my appreciation of the food that had been cooked and the effort that had been put into it, but in essence, a Kit-Kat and a coffee would have done me as I was knackered. Having eaten, it was time to go out and at 2am, we headed into town. 2am!!!! This is a time I am unfamiliar with outside of a mental hospital (working night duty if you're wondering!) so I had to keep checking that it was still night and I hadn't missed 12 hours somewhere. 

GIN! Or as I
call it, breakfast!!

My new friends drove us to a pub in the centre of town where we proceeded to get as tiddly as possible in as short a time as possible. For me this wasn't easy. The size of Spanish drinks means that one G&T usually does for me, but I had so much food sloshing about inside me, it soaked up every bit of alcohol I threw at it.......and boy did I throw some at it that night! The thing is, it gained me such respect from my new friends because they thought I could really hold my liquor, so each time I see them now, they buy about 3 bottles of gin in order to ply me with as much as I had that night. I now have the reputation of being a hopeless drunk. Well, it's rude to refuse!


We got to bed around 5.30am and at midday, there was a knock on the door of the bedroom to tell us that lunch was ready. I'm not sure why, as María and Pepé don't normally eat Sunday lunch until around 2.30pm. I can only surmise that they had been up all night preparing food in order to welcome me once more. They wanted to make a good impression. They certainly made one that lunchtime! Hungover and feeling as rough as a badger's bum, I splashed some water on my face, hastily dressed and half asleep, sat at the dining table. We started with an apéritif (I don't know why we're more French today?!) and some cheese and chorizo. Then the main course came through. I took one small piece of meat from the side of the plate and was alarmed to see a little face looking back at me............here comes the Spanish for this week.........the meat was conejo (rabbit) and isn't something I'm used to eating. The thing is, here in Spain they are not as squeamish as we are in the UK and they cook everything. I mean everything. For there, staring back at me from behind the piece of meat I had taken, was a roasted rabbit head. All I could hear in my head was Arthur Askey singing "Run rabbit run", which was a rather surreal moment. I picked at the meat on my plate, but kept looking at this thing, which stared defiantly back at me. I kept worrying he was going to make a lunge for me and when María offered me more meat, I had to politely decline. When I looked at the serving plate, the head had gone and I swiftly looked around the room, half expecting it to be on the dresser behind me, ready to pounce. Finally, I realised his dad was tucking into it and I looked at the view out of the dining room window until it was all over. Still, it served the bloody thing right for staring me out.

♪ ♪ ♫ Run rabbit run rabbit, ♫♫ run, run run.......♫♪

Since that initial visit, I've learned to say "Estoy lleno, gracias" ('I am full, thank you' - you see, the lessons are coming thick and fast now!). The only thing is, there is a little dance that goes with that statement and it goes like this..............I'll do it in English as it's easier, but you'd be so impressed with my Spanish skills.......


María: Would you like some more?
Me: No, I've had an adequate sufficiency, thank you
María: Don't you like it?
Me: Yes, it's delicious, thank you
Maria: Then if you like it, have some more


The subtext of this little exchange is 'I've been slaving away for hours to feed you, you fat northern English bastard, so eat the damn food'. Again, I've learned to play the game and now I take less than I normally would the first time round. When it comes to this verbal tango, I cave in and 'reluctantly' have a second helping, even though I'm very full. I'm then totally entitled on the next round of the dance - yes, it will keep going on and on - to tell María that I've had two portions already and I don't want any more, please and thank you, but it was delicious and we'll fricasée the rest later. It pleases my mother-in-law and it pleases me, now I've learned the rules of the game.

Enough food left for a party
of 10 anorexics

There is one more little thing I've failed to mention about the eating here and it's something called 'La Cortesía del Gallego', or 'The Courtesy of the Galician'. Basically, the first time I was in Spain, I was encouraged to eat every bit of food placed in front of me. Now being a gentleman and someone who is eager to please, I did as I was told, but the silence when I ate the last piece of cheese or the last slice of chorizo from the communal plate in the middle of the table was deafening. The Courtesy of the Galician (from hereon in known as 'the courtesy') is when guests leave one last piece of food on communal plates to show the host that there was sufficient food and that everyone there had enough. José loves to toy with me and chose not to share this little gobbit of information, so lardarse here scoffed the lot, thinking it was what I had to do. Well, they kept insisting I eat more and I wanted to show my approval of their food. Apparently, I could have let out a fart at the dinner table that registered 6.2 on the Richter Scale and it would have been less rude than eating 'the courtesy'. Another game I've learned to play the hard way!


Finally, it's worth pointing out that Galicians - and Spanish in general - eat everything. I've already mentioned the rabbit head and it's well documented that bulls testicles (criadillas), lamb tonsils (mollejas) and other such delights can be found on menu's up and down the country, with each area providing it's own culinary loveliness. They look at me strangely when I ask for boneless chicken breast, as if I've asked for a scabby donkey. No-one here eats boneless chicken breasts. They're all men in this country, even the women. You get a chicken you've raised, kill it, pluck it, wipe it's arse and hack it into 4 or 6 pieces with a knife then bung it in the oven with some herbs and garlic to roast. You want breast??? Then hack the ribs off it first and butch up you wimp!!


The manky bits from the winemaking grapes, once the wine is made, go into a particularly lethal fire water, known as aguardiente which I've grown quite fond of. The family watched me with sheer delight when I first tasted it and were so disappointed when I liked it. They thought that this chicken-breast-loving Brit would loathe it, but not so - if there's one thing I can take it's my drink; even this stuff, which incidentally brought out the colours on cousin Assumpta's soft furnishings a treat!


We brought some wine back the village the other weekend when we went visiting family there. Was it daintily put in bottles and corked up? No, it was in a bloody great bucket thing and tasted rank. I think the lady of the house had used the bucket for soaking her feet in some time before as there was a definite whiff of corn plaster in the vintage.

1. Remove foot salve and fish out corn plasters
2. Pour in wine
3. Give to unsuspecting relative
4. Pour wine down loo and fill with fruit from another relative

The other night, I was sat sitting at the kitchen table minding my own business whilst fiddling with a couple of meatballs (albóndigas), when I casually looked over at the jar of red stuff that we'd also brought back from the village. I thought it was strawberry jam and was about to take the lid off to smell it when José warned me not to. It was blood! Well, I told you they ate everything! Why would they want blood you may ask - well, it's a good question and one I didn't dare ask at the time as Pepé was sharpening the carving knife by running it backwards and forwards over his steel toe-capped slippers. Apparently, they add blood to crêpes (French, again??) and they are delicious. Whoever it was that once made a crêpe and decided it was missing that certain something, needs to be sectioned under the Spanish Mental Health Act. I've decided not to try that particular Galician delicacy, although should I ever decide to re-enact The Texas Chainsaw Massacre here, I know where I can get some bloody authentic props. We're off back to the village sometime soon as the lady of the house has some particularly sore bunions and while my Spanish isn't that brilliant yet, I'm sure I heard her mention something about needing her bucket back!