It was June…or maybe July…or it could’ve been August Summer 2004 and I had just arrived in Madrid, Spain. If you’ve ever been to Spain, then you know there are about two things you can eat there on the cheap: kabobs and jamon.
While the kabobs were delicious, there was something a little disheartening about watching a sweaty man shave meat off a huge chunk of beef or pork or who-knows-what spinning around on a spit. In light of that fact, we ended up eating a lot of jamon. Jamon for breakfast, jamon for snacks, jamon for lunch, jamon around siesta-time, jamon for dinner, you get the idea…
I’ve always thought of the pig as my friend. First of all, there’s bacon. And sausage. And various other forms of cured pork products like prosciutto and salami and pepperoni. After about four days of nothing but jamon sandwiches, though, I needed a change.
My travel companions and I headed to the local market in search of some nuevo comida de Espana [yay! for four years of high school Spanish!] For under $15 USD, we ended up with a loaf of bread, gouda cheese, strawberries, and green beans. It was easy to figure out the quantities of bread, fruit, and vegetables we would need. The gouda, however, was a little trickier. I remember standing at the cheese counter, confused by that damn metric system, trying to do the conversions, but to no avail. Finally, I had the cheese-monger cut me “about this much” off a wheel of gouda and we were on our way.
We took our treats to a local park and had a lovely picnic, where we felt quite quant and European [I’m so sure.] All was fine, except that I could. Not. Stop. Eating. Cheese. As much as I was FILLED TO THE BRIM and as much as I TRIED to stop eating, I just couldn’t do it.
After the park, we headed back to our hostel where – shocker – I proceeded to take a nap. [Hey, it was probably siesta, anyway.] I awoke a couple hours later feeling…not quite right…and spent the next couple hours in the bathroom, ejecting an enormous amount of cheese out my pie-hole.
Following that little layover in hell, I did what any self-respecting American would do: I walked down to my favorite Irish restaurant, McDonald’s, and got myself two hamburgers and a super-sized fry, after which, I felt AWESOME.
There’s really no point to this story – ah-ha! Would you look at that! It’s a long, pointless story! – except to say that if you’re planning a summer vacation in a European country, I would advise you to A) Learn the metric system, and/or B) Don’t eat so much cheese in one sitting, and/or C) Just eat at McDonald’s the entire time.
you are too funny!! thanks for the advise 🙂
haha, when my husband and I were in Paris (land of the "best food in the world") for our honeymoon, we had McDonalds two times. Yummmmm. I felt like such a damn self-involved American but it was so good and home-y.
Ah yes, your mom (my sister) Caren & dad & I remember well those goddamned bocadillos of jamon & queso–OMFG that was all we ate for a solid week throughout Spain in 1992–with the exception of the best chicken Caren & I ever ate in Madrid (ever!) & of course, the infamous egg dish of your father's–don't ask. Ah, go ahead…it's a GREAT story!
I think I just recently have been able to start eating ham and cheese sandwiches again…