Fiesta Nights

I wasn’t sure if I could handle another Spanish fiesta—they start so late and last so long—but my husband’s cousin Mari-Carmen really wanted us to go, so we all took naps and headed over to her house to follow the little bus she and her friends had rented for the night.  We took a terrifying shortcut (“remember to bear left around the church—no, right--we’ll be going in the other direction and left on the road with the sign to Parexes—don’t forget the barn”) and then we were there, in Crecente, where an enormous tent had been set up in a cow field a little ways from a cemetery with towering monuments and a high, gated wall around it.

It was just dusk and long, long rows of tables had been set inside of a big white tent.  We heard the bleat of a young goat as we walked through the cars.  We were the last to arrive and everyone was already seated. They applauded as we arrived, calling out, “Los Austurianos!” 

Crecente is near the border of Asturias and Galicia (as is Taramundi), but it’s on the Galician side, so whether you’re Asturiano or Galician is a matter of happenstance.  Everyone, however, speaks Gallego.  Gallego is a distinct dialect that’s a mishmash of Spanish and the ancient Gaelic the lost Celtic tribe spoke who settled here hundreds of years ago.  Up in these mountains, that so resemble those of Scotland or the Blue Ridge Mountains back home, bagpipes are played, Celtic runes abound, and at the fiesta, a sort of two-step was danced that reminded me of the way people used to dance to country music that predated rock and roll.

 

We passed a huge open, wood fire where racks and racks of ribs were being grilled. Next to it was what looked like an enormous, round cast-iron griddle above a ring of blue propane fire; wide, paper-thin sheets of pork belly were being sizzled like bacon upon it. After we sat down and helped ourselves to the unlabeled bottles of very young, red wine, everyone began eating empanadas already at each place (were they waiting for us?). Some people mixed their wine with a Spanish version of 7-Up and others with a little water, but most of us drank it fruity and strong, like a drinking a glass of an older, more sophisticated sibling to grape juice. One sort of empanada on my plate was the usual kind, very good but a little boring with just tuna and tomatoes. The second, however, was filled with a thin layer of potatoes that had been cooked slowly in olive oil with onions and bits of chorizo and tasted unexpectedly like a narrow sliver of tortilla between two layers of pastry. 

 

Once the empanadas were gone, big platters filled with ribs, thick slices of grilled chorizo, and the smoky pieces of pork belly that melt so effortlessly in your mouth, came out, and I have to confess, I was very disappointed at how restrained the eating was at our table. I don’t know how many ribs I normally eat, but it’s definitely more than the four I felt compelled to restrict myself to, once I noticed that three ribs were the most anybody around me had eaten. Those ribs, just pork and salt and smoke from the fire, were tender and deeply flavorful despite their simplicity; it took every bit of self-control I had not to wipe out the platter in front of me. I tried to console myself with the big hunk of country bread next to my plate and another glass of wine, but even with that, I had to watch my consumption carefully, because although I wasn’t driving, I knew we had to find our way home eventually.

 

To Be Continued . . .

Comments

[veron]

Oh my goodness Brandon! Those ribs, those glorious ribs roasting over that charcoal! I am fainting with envy!

[Dr. Biggles]

KEERIPES !!!!! Now that's a load of ribs and one heck of a way to get it done! I am impressed.

Biggles

[Vicki]

Wow! Your pictures and story take me back to the month I spent with my mother's family in Zaragoza after college(complete with a cousin named Mari Carmen!). Sadly, being in the working world doesn't offer me those liberties much anymore. Thanks for sharing the real Spain with Richmond!