Pata Negra

I had been planning my trip to Pata Negra, a Spanish deli and market, for many months. It adjoins Costa Brava, a Spanish restaurant that uses fresh products from the market. I walked into the clean cool shop and and turned to the cheeses. All had arrived from Spain. I pressed my eyes into the soft cheeses made of sheep's milk. Behind the counter a man was slicing a variety of fresh salamis. The last thing I wanted was to interrupt a person using a powerful slicer--not so much for their safety, but I get queasy when I see blood dripping. As soon as it was clear, I gave an inquiring "Hello". The man turned and gave a quick biting, "Hello. How are you so sexy?" Being in a nice market and not on the street corner, I decided to take this as a compliment and laughed a sarcastic, "I just don't know." One moment later, the man was leaning over the counter separating the cold meats from the cheeses and proffering me a crumble of Spanish blue cheese. He accompanied it with, "Almost all Spanish dishes use this cheese." Hopeful to accept his offer, yet concerned with my steadfast dislike for blue cheeses, I smiled and boldly took it in my hand, broke a piece into my mouth and held my breath. It fell apart and the creaminess spread across my tongue. Aside from the natural foot-like essence, the cheese was quite good. The man then came at me with a much larger slice of cheese, triangular and thin. Knowing my mis-taste for so many highly esteemed cheeses, I waited for the verdict. He said, "This is manchego cheese." I had always known that one day I would have to force this cheese past my palette and down my throat. My last experience with this foul cheese was at Whisk'N'Ladle in La Jolla in California--a fantastic restaurant with locally made meats and cheeses. I admitted to my new-found friend that I tend to have a distaste for many cheeses. He shared a slightly strained smile to which I could only say, "But I will try it for you." The drums rolled. I closed my eyes and bit into the tiny tip of the triangle with my front teeth and mulled it across my tongue. I slowly opened my eyes and allowed them to meet with the man's. "It's actually pretty good." When I taste this cheese again, I will remember that moment. My fingers allowed me to nibble the slice while my legs moved me around the store. The decorated olive oils and balsamic vinegars, made from both wine and grape juice, sat enthroned in the far corner opposite the cheeses. The many boxes of anchovies, small to large, with head to without, occupied the center. My friend recommended me the medium headless anchovies, which come drenched in olive oil, adding that they should be served with a squeeze of lemon. He asserted that it would be like nothing I have ever tasted. The cardboard box crinkled and slightly opened as I grabbed it off the shelf. We then toured the baked goods section, and my friend introduced me to a custard that I would have to make with milk only, no less and no more than 6 teaspoons of sugar--the perfect amount to bring out the flavors-- and a sprinkle of cinnamon. We followed the sweet stuff with the savory--the meats counter. He sliced two kinds of salamis, both vibrantly red from the paprika, a preservative and spice in Spanish foods, as well as the wherefore of dried meats in the Spanish diet. To my basket of items, he added two small chorizo sausages that I am to butterfly and fry in a pan for one minute, after which I am to poor a red wine of my choosing into the pan and sautee it for a few more minutes. At the end of my visit, my friend persuaded me to buy cinnamon and chocolate powered cookies called pulvados (meaning "pulverized" or "powdered"). He also threw in his own recipe for roasting a turkey, which I am to poke, poke, poke, poke, poke before cooking and which I am to rinse with lemon and apple cider vinegar to prevent my eating the typical, American, smelly turkey. After thirty minutes of Spanish cooking lessons, I bid adieu to my new friend--but not after introducing myself and officially meeting Fernando.