Valencia, Spain: Horchata

I hadn’t read much about Valencia before jumping into a friend’s car and driving three hours south. After all, we were to be the guests of a real Valenciana who was eager to show off her city. With such an enthusiastic host, I wasn’t too worried about the itinerary. I had only two requests: to taste a real paella, and to cool down with the best horchata in town.

Nowadays paella and arroz caldoso are available in most Spanish cities, but these dishes sustained Valencian families long before they appeared on tourist menus. Local restaurants specialize in the preparation of rice, proudly displaying large paellas, diameters exceeding three feet, mixed with shrimp, vegetables, and chicken in restaurant windows. Savvy clients pre-order their paellas before arriving at the restaurant to avoid the hour-long cooking time. We weren’t that well organized. But the inky black rice with cuttlefish and seafood paella with giant shrimps and mussels were definitely worth the wait.

Valencia is also famous for a little American known crop called chufa. The root of a tuber called tigernut in English, chufa is the main ingredient in the summer drink, horchata. The drink has only a few ingredients but its production is so involved that when I inquired about home brewing, even locals at the market warned me against it.

After hours of walking in the sun, our friend pulled us into a local watering hole for the typical Valenciana merienda of ice cold horchata and sweet fartons. Clearly, there were only three things on the menu: the classic horchata, horchata granizada (like a slushy), and fartons (a fluffy baton of bread covered with a thick layer of hardened sugar). The décor of white tiled walls, marble tabletops, and closet-like bathrooms suggested both age and authenticity.

Good horchata can be found in Barcelona, but Valencia has the definitive recipe. I opted for the horchata granizada, a blend of horchata and crushed ice. It arrived in a tall clear glass on a white saucer. The texture was fine and fluffy, like soft snow, and the color was a dull off-white. The taste was also distinct, a subtle combination of nutty and sweet. The added delight of a sugary farton rejuvenated me for hours of site-seeing that lasted almost until midnight.

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!