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It was a sore-mouth, déjà vu experience. To me, a rustic ham sandwich in Spain is one of the edible icons of Europe. It’s that simple marriage of crusty fresh bread and lovingly sliced ham, cut with care from the ham hock that fills a vise mounted in any bar or restaurant. Now I eat these simple sandwiches to celebrate being in Spain, but the raw roof of my mouth took me back to my student trips here, when I ate my jamón bocadillo because it was all I could afford.
Pressing that hard crust against the tender ceiling of my mouth on my last day before flying home, I reviewed the many delights of my latest trip through Spain.
A year ago I had discovered a new favorite restaurant in Córdoba — Bodegas Campos. I came back twice and basically ate my way through their tapas menu. After my second visit, I knew I’d be back this year with the TV crew.
Now I was working with Isabel, a charming local guide who talks about food with the passion of a mother talking about her children. Her love and enthusiasm for Spanish cuisine translated well on TV. And it was a festival night, so the restaurant was packed with well-dressed Córdobans. One difficulty of filming in a restaurant is that we need lots of light, and this can ruin the ambience (and wear out our welcome in a hurry). Our cameraman’s new electric light comes with a slider, so we can let the brightness creep up — and no one notices (we hope).
Every plate seemed to glisten. The meal was made to order for TV: a montage of Spanish delights from the roasted almonds and spicy green olives that hit the table automatically, to the local salmorejo (like a super thick, bright orange gazpacho), boquerones (anchovies), fried eggplant, and “Arab Salad” with cod and delicate orange sections. Spaniards love their croquetas, which seem like glorified Tater Tots to me. Isabel was enthusiastic about the croquetas, so I figured, if ever I’d appreciate croquetas, it would be in a fine place like Bodegas Campos. Nope. Still just Tater Tots. The rabo de toro (bull-tail stew) was as dark as meat can be…almost inky in flavor. The jamón ibérico — a gift from the restaurant — was the best ham in Spain and very expensive. With its fat not lining the meat but mixed in, it was glistening with taste — eating it was the culinary equivalent of pinning a boutonniere onto a tux. The wine was the kind they bring out special glasses for.
Feeling underdressed for the filming, I zipped back to the hotel in a taxi between courses to get my sweater. On the way there, we passed a square thriving with people partying. On the way back, the same street was blocked by a religious procession. I had to get out and walk. One minute I was thrilled to be in the restaurant filming all that wonderful food; the next I was amazed we were missing parties in the squares and an exotic religious procession in the streets.
Excited, I called Isabel and asked her to get the crew out in the streets to film the procession. Seeing alcohol-fueled partying around a towering red cross and then a somber procession was poignant. In AndalucÃa, revelry and religiosity seem to go hand in hand: The same passion and energy dedicated to partying is put into long, sober, religious processions which clog the city’s narrow streets. Trumpets blare a fanfare, children practice long and hard to win the honor of carrying the float, candles jostle in unison as they glide in the dark of the night, and everyone runs to the streets to be a part of the procession.
Travel in Andalucía is like this. There’s always something going on. We were in Córdoba for the Festival of the Crosses, where each neighborhood parties around its own towering cross made of red carnations. Church bells ring not only a call to prayer, but a call to fiesta. And locals enthusiastically use a special day in the church calendar as a springboard for a community party.
Our filming took until midnight. We finished with the on-camera close of the show where, presiding over a table of local delights, I looked to the camera and said, “You want a recipe for a great trip? Blend history, culture, local friends, and great food. I hope you enjoyed our look at some of the highlights of Southern Spain. I’m Rick Steves. Until next time, keep on travelin’. Adiós.”
Then we packed up the gear, said goodnight to Isabel, and caught a taxi home. We passed that romantically lit square — still thriving and hauntingly beautiful to me — with four people dancing flamenco on an elevated stage in the middle of a Renoir crowd. I desperately wanted to stop, but I knew it was too late to film — we were all just wasted. For the rest of my life, I’ll remember that image of the magic flamenco party that we didn’t film.
The next day, the barrio parties were basically over. We looked and looked and finally found one square that was lively. It was their first year entering the contest, their cross won first prize yesterday, and it seemed they’d been celebrating ever since. It was a scene of exhausted, hung-over happiness — like they had been eating and drinking and dancing for 24 hours (which they probably had). Now the cross was abandoned — missing carnations like a bum misses teeth, and the dancing was over. The last of the revelers gathered around the makeshift bar which seemed to provide physical support for those determined to carry on. I needed dancing around the cross for our TV show. Our guide said they were finished dancing. But with a simple suggestion, I was able to rouse the gang, and the yard was once again thriving with slinky flamenco.
We’ve been in Andalucía for a week filming our show, and it’s a hair-trigger flamenco society. I like hair-trigger cultures. Just as Austria is a hair-trigger waltzing society, AndalucÃa is just waiting for the simplest excuse to put castanets into motion and dance. (This flamenco party on-demand reminded me of a filming experience on a Danube cruise. Every boat I’d been on played Strauss waltzes for crowds to dance on the deck. Sure enough, I came with my crew to film — and our boat had no music system. It didn’t matter. I cajoled 30 retired Austrians and Germans out of their chairs, away from their white wines, and onto the deck. Singing a Strauss waltz and waving my arms dramatically, I struck up an imaginary orchestra, and the entire gang effortlessly broke into a glorious waltz. Coursing down the mighty Danube, we filmed as they danced a particularly smiley waltz. Later, back in our editing studio, we laid in some actual Strauss music to the same beat I provided on the Danube that day. And, as far as TV was concerned, the Blue Danube cruise came with music.)
On that little plaza in Córdoba, I exhorted the exhausted gang to dance around their tired carnation cross. Within seconds the energy and magic of the previous night’s party had recombusted. Sinuous arms, toned and leggy legs, heels with attitude, flowing hair…everything churned with a silky Andalusian soul. Like I imagine crickets rattle their tails for sex, Andalusian women dressed in their peacock finery click their castanets. And the starlight was brought to us all by alcohol.
With enough dancing filmed, I let the fake party die, and everyone resumed their positions — propped up by the bar. They filled a bottle cap with a ritual shot of firewater and gave it to me. As two dozen onlookers watched, I downed it. With my head thrown back, knowing the camera was rolling and all Andalusian eyes were on me, I was plunged into what seemed like a long silence. I wanted to say something really clever or meaningful. But I could only come up with a cliché — “Olé!” No problem. Everyone cheered.