Ripoll, Catalonia

Dear Devon,

As much as I love urban life, sometimes it is nice to know that an entirely different world awaits me only an hour’s drive from the city limits. In that spirit, we packed up a rental car with a few sandwich-making goodies including loaves of bread, cheese, chocolate (wait, that’s not for sandwiches), cured meats, and apples, and headed to the Pyrenees.

Fortunately, I was not pressed into service as a driver, so I lounged in the back seat, thoughts focused on the intermittently rocky and verdant scenery. Guided by an antique, but still serviceable road atlas and the most recent edition of Lonely Planet Spain (which we tried to ignore), we turned what started as a one-day excursion into a two-day affair. There was no definite plan, and no hotel reservation, no real discussion of endpoints or mealtimes.

We stopped around lunchtime in the town of Ripoll, famous for its Romanesque monastery. It was a beautiful day, so we parked at the train station, and grabbed our lunch and strolled into town. The Saturday market was in full swing. A dusty street was given over to mobile stands of hanging sausages, tubs of olives, crates of vegetables, and other sensual things that caught our attention before we could find our way to the monastic complex at the center of town.

Though we had dutifully brought our own lunches, the smell of slow roasted, herb spiced chicken at a truck parked on the market street was irresistible. For eight euros our humble sandwiches were upstaged by a piping hot roasted chicken, roughly cut by the vendor with a pair of large, and obviously very sharp scissors. Lacking utensils or napkins, we dove into our lunch. Ten minutes later, we were sitting on a bench in front of the church-museum, debating the merits of lunch versus cultural edification. Bellies full and a bit pleased with our lack of decorum, we crossed the street to the monastery, only to find the doors closed for… lunch. Undeterred, we found an empty table in the sun-filled plaza, ordered coffee, and spent two hours in relaxed conversation.

By the way, despite having been very enthusiastically restored a century ago, the monastery is worth the visit, even on non-market days.

Quiche Lorraine

Dear Devon,

Farm fresh eggs. A friend gave me a present of four eggs, real farm eggs from her grandmother’s chicken coop in a small Catalan mountain village. I’ve tried to explain the difference between American and Catalan eggs for my friends from Barcelona. I am still surprised by their natural creaminess and neon orange color. That’s when the egg-collecting grandmother entered the discussion. Her small flock of chickens lays eggs for her city living granddaughter.


In the interest of continuing my education, several eggs were carefully packed in newspaper and given to me. That’s the thing about the people here; they are exceedingly generous. If you show the slightest interest in anything, it will be insistently pressed into your hand. Refusal is not an option.


To enjoy this gift to the maximum, I dusted off the tart form and settled on Anne Willan’s decadent Quiche Lorraine recipe. Eggs, crème fraiche and lardons are the major players in this over-the-top quiche. It’s the perfect mix of creamy eggs and smoky freshly fried bacon enclosed in a flaky and buttery crust. It comes out of the oven puffed and steaming hot. Willan suggests eating it straight from the oven for maximum flavor, which we did, but we also enjoyed cold slices for breakfast the next day and the next.


Quiche Lorraine
(from Willan, Anne. The Country Cooking of France p. 46)

Pate Brisée
1 2/3 cups flour
1 egg yolk
¾ tsp salt
3 tbsp water
6 tbsp butter

Filling
1 tbsp butter
7 oz lean smoked bacon, cut into lardons
2 eggs
1 cup crème fraiche

Preheat oven to 375 degrees.

In a food processor, combine cubed, chilled butter with flour and salt. Pulse until small peas form. Add egg yolk and pulse, three or four times. Add water, tablespoon by tablespoon, pulsing the machine until the dough just comes together. The amount of water used depends on the humidity of your kitchen. You may not need to use all the water. When a rough dough forms, turn out the dough and lightly knead on a floured surface. Form into a ball and rest in a lightly oiled bowl. Cool in the fridge 15 to 30 minutes.

Roll the chilled dough to ¼ inch thick on a lightly floured surface. Line tart pan with dough. Using the tines of a fork, prick the dough all over and fill with pie weights. Bake the shell until light golden color, roughly 20 minutes. Remove from the oven and cool on a cooling rack.

For the filling, cook lardons until lightly browned and crisped. Remove from the pan using a draining spoon and cool on a plate lined with super absorbent paper towels. In a bowl, whisk together eggs and crème fraiche. Line the cooled pie shell with lardons and pour in the egg mixture. Bake until the filling is set and golden brown, 30 to 35 minutes.

Fira de Bellcaire, Barcelona

Dear Devon,

Every Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday, the calls of spirited vendors rise and fall like contrapuntal melodic lines in the Fira de Bellcaire, Barcelona’s open air flea market. I still haven’t found any rare and unrecognized masterpieces in their heaps of junk, but from time to time I feel the gravitational pull of this bustling arena. Perhaps it is the energy of the market that keeps me returning? More likely, it’s the fortuitous location, an easy fifteen-minute walk from my apartment. There is some fascinating people watching here, not to mention enough random dust-covered clutter to keep a third rate antique store fully stocked for years.

Despite my many ventures into the crowded market, I still feel a bit discombobulated every time I walk in. It’s that frenetic energy and the anticipation of hitting the jackpot. I move through the crowded aisle of ancient LPs, rusted hand tools, and yellowing photographs. I want to get to those vendors who display their wares on large plastic tarps. There you can find some potentially good stuff: chipped porcelain dishes, garish golden statues, bolts of brightly patterned fabric, and of course, carved dark wood headboards. I’ve seen people carry some crazy stuff out of the gate.

But while I enjoy the idea of the hunt, the fact is that I lack both the patience and the talent to be more than an occasional treasure hunter. In the end, I always lose interest in these makeshift stands and find myself in the friendly company of a man who sells kitchenware. Gruff, beard yellowed by an ever-present cigarette, and dressed in blue overalls, his appearance contrasts with his almost delicate, soft voice and encyclopedic knowledge of kitchen equipment. If you get him started on paella pans, you’ll be there for at least 15 minutes. Don’t misunderstand me, I am completely captivated by him and I almost never leave without purchasing something, to the annoyance of the person who will be carrying my suitcase home.

My latest purchase is a stainless steel paella pan. When my mother visited, she mentioned wanting to bring one back to the States. So we paid him a visit, but after he went through a long explanation of paella maintenance (not dishwasher safe), she decided against it. Younger, and less experienced, I purchased one. I don’t exactly regret the purchase, but taking care of the light steel pan is a bit of a pain. The pan has to be thoroughly dried and lightly coated in olive oil after every use to prevent rusting. In the end, this shouldn’t be such a problem, but I am spoiled by American no-stress cookware. I love cooking pots, gadgets, storage containers, spatulas, and wooden spoons. I just hate doing dishes!