Madrid Culinary Adventures – Casa Labra

In addition to seeing the sites while I’m living in Madrid, I also hope to soak up Spanish culture through my stomach. I guess you could call it learning through digestion.   I’ve decided to write a series of blog entries on the Madrid food scene.  These will range from street food to five star restaurants and everything in between.  As an American I’m sure some of these “adventures” will push me far beyond my comfort zone, but that’s the point.  If you are really trying to understand a foreign culture, you don’t eat at McDonald’s and stick to the areas where they only speak English.

            Unlike many other foreign capitals, Madrid has not developed a reputation for its own unique style of cuisine.  Instead, Madrid is a melting pot of all the different regions that make up the country we know as Spain today.  These regional cuisines are as vastly different as the regions in which they come from.  In Mediterranean towns like Valencia paella and fresh seafood are staples, Andalusia features fried fish and Iberian ham, and in Castilla La Mancha, central Spain, they are experts at roast lamb, rabbit, and Manchego Cheese.   

            The beauty of this diversity is that all of these cuisines are reflected in the capital.  Walking down one of the city’s “eat streets” you choose from any one of these culinary traditions.  For my first foray into Spain’s underrated cuisine, I chose to indulge in bacalao (salt cod) at Casa Labra.

            

            Casa Labra is a small old style bar and restaurant located just off of Spain’s beating heart, Plaza de la Puerta del Sol.  Sol is the closest Madrid comes to a Times Square.  It is the location of the annual New Year’s Eve celebrations, and is always awash in people.  Surrounding the plaza are a number of pedestrian only streets lined with shops of all sorts.  It’s a great shopping area and a frequent meeting spot for tourists and locals alike.  Located on one of these pedestrian streets is Casa Labra. 

            In addition to being known locally as one of the best spots for bacalao, Casa Labra also holds an important place in the history of the city.  It was at Casa Labra on May 2, 1879 that the Partido Socialista Obrero Español (Social Democratic Political Party) was formed.  Ideaologically the party emphasized labor reform and representation of the working class.  Like many of the labor movements of the nineteenth century the Spanish Socialists were strongly influenced by the writings of Karl Marx.

 Initially led by Spanish labor leader Pablo Iglesias, the movement remained relatively small through the end of the nineteenth century although they did participate in strikes from 1899-1902.  As the new century dawned, the party gained power until the Spanish Civil War of 1936-1939.  After the war the party fractured and was eventually banned by Dictator Francisco Franco.  Throughout Franco’s reign, the party members remained either exiled or persecuted.  This changed though in 1974 when the party’s emphasis shifted from the exiles to the younger generation that had not fought the Civil War.

 In 1979, after Franco’s death, the party was legalized and reformed.  That same year the party renounced their Marxist approach becoming a Social-Democratic party.  Their politics also moved away from the far left, to the center, supporting a free-market economy.  In 2004 and 2008 the Spanish Social Democratic Party won the majority of seats in the general election and named José Luis Rodríguez Zapatero Spanish Prime Minister.   Today the Spanish Social Democratic Party remains in power.

            Despite its rich political history, Casa Labra remains a popular and inviting destination in Madrid.  Founded in 1860, much of the interior remains unchanged.  It features dark paneled woodwork, a small bar, and shelves or counters lining the walls where patrons can set down their small plates chock full of fried bacalao and bacalao croquets.  On weekdays lines form early at lunchtime,  from approximately 1pm to 3pm. 

            Walking up to the front of the pub, you join the queue on the right side of the entrance.  Many days this line snakes its way through the outdoor tables that spill outside into the Calle Tetuàn where the bar is located.  When the time comes for you to order, you find yourself in front of a cash register and two enormous platters.  One of these is piled high with fried cod fillets and the other with cod croquets.  The Tajada de Bacalao or cod fillets are 1.25 euros each and the Croquetas de Bacalao are .80 euros each.  With a combination of the two, you can easily make a meal for about 6 to 8 euros. 

            After you pay for your food, you are handed a small plate, or two, with your order and you head over to the bar.  The bar, which sits adjacent to the cash register, features a full selection of drinks, soft drinks, and alcohol.  The most popular order though is a caña of beer.  A caña is a small glass of only six ounces or so.  Once you have your beer and your fish, you look for a counter to set your plates down and dig in. 

Croquetas de Bacalao

Trying the croquetas first, they literally melt in your mouth.  Spanish croquets, like much Spanish cuisine, are delightfully simple yet cooked to perfection.  The croquetas are made of olive oil, butter, flour, milk, salt, eggs, bread crumbs, and whatever the featured ingredient is.  At Casa Labra the croquetas feature salt cod (bacalao).  Bacalao is a cod fillet that has been packed in salt and dehydrated to preserve it.  When you are ready to cook with it, the fish must be soaked in water for a minimum of 24 hours to rehydrate it.  Casa Labra’s croquets are known throughout the city and for good reason. 

Tajadas de Bacalao

            In addition to the croquets, I ordered several pieces of Tajada de Bacalao or fried salt cod.  These came cooked to a perfect golden brown, with an amazing salty fishy richness.  Think Long John Silver fish fillets only ten times more flavorful.       

            Finishing my meal, I understood why generations of Madrileños continue to bring their children and grandchildren to Casa Labra.  Personally, their fish could be the best I’ve ever eaten.  It is a definite must stop if you travel to Madrid.

Chasing the Dream – The 115th Boston Marathon

            Almost everyone who runs the Boston Marathon has a good story.  I’m not about to claim that mine is any more inspirational than the 26,999 others that ran the race, but in the end it’s the only one that I have.  When it is all said and done, as we lounge in a easy chair and bounce our grandkids on our knee, I guess that’s all we really have is our own stories.  What follows is the story of how I found myself standing at the start line of the 115^th running of the Boston Marathon.

            Eleven years ago I wasn’t a runner.  In fact, as a high school and college football player, I hated to run.  In those days anything over 100 yards was serious work better left to the skinny guys with the short shorts.  With this mindset, everything moved along well as long as I continued to play football, lift weights, and do the occasional running workout.  This usually consisted of wind sprints or maybe a mile jogged at the local track.  Problem was, after my sophomore year of college, I was no longer an athlete.  Those lifting sessions and wind sprints became keg parties and midnight trips to Taco Bell.  For obvious reasons these pursuits don’t have near the fat burning potential as playing college football. 

            In the spring of 1999 I graduated from Hiram College and weighed in at 215 pounds.  This was a whopping 30 pounds over my playing weight and probably 40 pounds heavier than a healthy weight for a man my size.  Over the course of my first half year out of college, I dropped a little weight, but still remained about 205 pounds as 1999 bled into 2000.  That was when I decided to make a change.  Following a longstanding family tradition of starvation diets, I proceeded to drop 40 pounds over the next three months.  How did I do it? My approach was not a healthy one and not one I would encourage anyone to copy.  I made meals of plain white rice, a can of vegetables, or anything else lacking any real sustenance or nutrition. 

            There was one major problem with this approach though.  I knew that as soon as I went back to any sort of normal diet, the pounds would seek me out and resume their position on my midsection.  The way I was able to keep the weight off, and I have for 10 years now, was running. 

            On my first run, I left my Brunswick apartment in the suburbs of Cleveland and managed a half a mile before I had to stop.  Subsequent workouts raised that total to a mile, and within six months I was able to put in 2 or three miles several times a week.  The running worked and the pounds stayed away.  More important than the weight was my budding love affair with the sport. 

            Over time I grew to look forward to those lonely miles on the trail and began to experiment with going longer and longer distances.  As the natural progression continued, I entered my first 5k, then my second, and before I knew it I was racing half a dozen times a year.  This trend then led me to the half marathon and beyond with my first full marathon coming in 2005.  Like all runners, especially those new to marathoning, I obsessed over splits, missed workouts, and nutrition.  I also began to dream about the chance at running the world’s most prestigious marathon.  I began to dream of what it would be like to toe the line at Boston.

            Fast forward to May of 2010.  At thirty three years old, I was preparing for my shot at qualifying for the Boston Marathon in the fall.  For those who don’t know, in order to run Boston, you have to achieve a qualifying time.  These qualifying times are challenging for some and nearly impossible for most.  Coming into the Cleveland Marathon that May, I had only hoped to run a good time before making a real run at a Boston qualifying time in the fall.  That fall I would be able to qualify as a 35 year old for the 2012 race.  At thirty-five I would pick up five extra minutes on my qualifying time, which I hoped would put me over the top.

            With this as my “plan”, I went out fairly hard at Cleveland.  I felt especially good that morning and my mile splits quickly reflected this.  At the halfway point of the marathon I began to realize that I was on the pace I needed to qualify for the race as a thirty-four year old in 2011, not the 2012 race that I was originally shooting for.  I also was aware that if I wasn’t able to keep the pace, that I would probably crash and burn.  This is the dreaded “hitting the wall” that runners whisper about.  It’s when a runner has pushed his body farther than he should.  Thus the runner usually feels like he has encountered an insurmountable brick wall right in the middle of the course.  Most runners who encounter this wall end up either shuffling or walking the rest of the race with their heads down and an overwhelming sense of failure.  Needless to say, it isn’t a pleasurable way to enjoy a race.

            So I found myself there, halfway through the 2010 Cleveland Marathon either destined to run my fastest time ever, or to hit the wall and walk, embarrassed in front of several thousand fans at the finish line.  Luckily for me, the wall never materialized and I crossed the finish line in three hours and nine minutes, finishing about a minute and a half ahead of the necessary qualifying time.  In that particular race, I remember not letting myself believe that it was going to happen for me until the final two tenths of a mile.  Up until that point, I was still prepared for the worst.  I waited for the side cramp that never came. 

            Encouraged by the strong finish at Cleveland, and without any pressure to qualify, I ran an even faster marathon at Akron in the fall.  This time I clocked a 3:08 and change just three weeks before registration opened for Boston. 

            The morning that registration opened, I was on the computer beginning about ten a.m.  The reason I mention this is that many people weren’t as lucky.  Every year, nearly 75,000 people run a time that will qualify them for Boston.  Of these, only about one third are able to get in.  Obviously not everyone that qualifies is interested in running the race on a given year, but for the 2011, it appears that quite a few were.  In only eight hours and three minutes, the registration closed leaving many talented runners out.  This mad rush has since prompted the Boston Athletic Association to lower qualifying times and stagger registration so that the fastest runners get to register first.  Although I understand their logic in this situation, I do find it disheartening that many talented runners will now be kept out of the sport’s greatest spectacle.  In fact, many of the guys that I know were on the cusp of qualifying, only to have the proverbial football yanked away by Lucy, leaving them kicking at air.   But this isn’t an article about the sins of the BAA, so I’ll refrain from any more discussion of the qualifying standards.      

Entrance to the race expo at the Hynes Convention Center

            On April 18^th, my day finally came.  After training all spring for the marathon, in the midst of moving to Spain, and finishing my new football book, I travelled to Boston to run the world’s most famous foot race.  For the weekend I was accompanied by my father who was there to act as my support crew for the weekend.  We arrived on Saturday to take in a game at Fenway on a chilly 45 degree day.  The game was great and the stadium one of those not to miss experiences for all true sports fans.  On Sunday we took the sightseeing trolley and walked to the finish line before heading out for the traditional pre-race meal of pasta and meatballs.  

Boston's Fenway Park

            Monday morning, Patriot’s Day in the state of Massachusetts, dawned perfect for running a marathon.  The sky was clear and temperatures were slated to be in the mid to upper 40’s at the start and just shy of 60 at the finish.  My day began about 4 a.m.  As with most nights before a marathon, sleep was elusive.  At 6 a.m., I gathered my things and headed down to catch the train to Boston Commons.  Once at Boston Commons, I would board a bus for the forty-five minute ride out to the small town of Hopkinton.  Unlike most marathons, Boston is a point to point course.  This means that it literally starts 26 miles outside the city, with only about the last two or three miles actually inside the city limits.  Along the route, the marathon passes through sleepy little New England towns and hamlets each of which come out to stage their own celebrations and cheer on the runners.

            After exiting the subway at Park Street, I climbed the stairs into a sea of people.  I would spend the next hour or so waiting to get on a bus.  Despite all its pomp and circumstance, Boston is not without its challenges.  As a friend of mine once put it, “There are a lot of hassles that go along with running Boston, but people put up with it…..because it’s Boston.”  So after an hour of standing in the cold at Boston Common I boarded a yellow school bus.  The experience was strangely reminiscent of travelling to a high school track meet.

            After hitting traffic, we arrived in Hopkinton at the High School/Middle School at about 8:45 am.  The area is referred to as athlete’s village in an obvious nod to the Olympics, but it more closely resembles a county fairgrounds on the fourth of July.  There are tents and people sprawled everywhere.  Most are attempting to stay off their feet, while avoiding the mud that always seems to accompany large crowds congregating on grass.  At about 9:15 a.m. the announcements began asking those in the various waves to begin moving towards the start line.  As a qualifier in wave one, of three, I checked my gear bag and headed to the start line about 9:25.

            Earlier I mentioned the hassles that usually accompany a large marathon.  One of these was the walk to the start line.  Now I know what you are thinking.  He runs marathons, why would he complain about a ¾ of a mile walk.  It’s not the distance, it’s the timing.  The last thing you want to do before tackling one of toughest marathon course is to stand in line for an hour and walk ¾ of a mile.  Again though, this is Boston.  You do whatever is necessary to stand at that start line and have your go at it.

            At exactly 10 a.m., the gun went off and our nervous feet began to carry us forward.  Like all large marathons, you don’t immediately cross the start line.  This is because the sheer number of people.  Even though I was in the first wave of runners, and starting in the fourth of nine waves, it took me roughly a minute and a half to two minutes to cross the start line.  This is nothing compared to the horror stories you hear about the Chicago Marathon.  At Chicago, they have one start with no waves, and those at the back of the crowd of 45,000 can take up to a half an hour just to cross the start line.  As a quick note here, your official time is not started until you cross the start line.  All runners carry a microchip either laced into their shoes or attached to their race bib.  The chip starts a runner’s time when they cross the start, and stops when they cross the finish.  In addition, most races also have mats you run over that provide timing splits at various points on the course.

            Crossing the start line, the course immediately dips downhill.  One of the challenges of the Boston Marathon course is that nearly the entire first half of the course is downhill.  While this may sound appealing when you are set to run 26 miles, the reality is somewhat different.  When you run downhill your legs are forced to almost constantly apply the “brakes”.  As you do this it puts a great deal of pressure on your quadriceps.  Over time your quads fatigue and begin to tighten up.  This is especially troublesome when the course decides to throw in four miles worth of hills between mile 17 and 21.

            During these first challenging downhill miles, many runners are prone to going out too fast.  Unfortunately, this is what I did as well.  After the first two miles I was right around 7:05 per mile which is nearly ten seconds per mile faster than my all-time best marathon pace.  Starting at mile three I concentrated on slowing down, but with the downhills and the crowds carrying you along, it was difficult.  At the halfway point (13.1 miles) the clock read, 1:34:24, right on pace for a personal record (PR).  The problem was that at 13.1 miles in, with a half marathon to go, I already felt as though my legs were done.  The brutal downhills of Boston had managed to shread my quads.  I knew that the next 13 miles would be rough, but this was Boston.  If getting here were easy it wouldn’t have taken me five years and twelve marathons to reach the start line.

            The second half from my perspective was to simply get to the next mental landmark.  After the halfway point, I looked forward to the Newton hills.  The Newton hills are the four legendary inclines in the small berg of Newton where many a Boston Marathon had been won or lost.  The hills are famous not because they incredibly steep or endlessly long.  They are famous because of where they come on the course and what you’ve already been through when you get to them.  In my case, I was actually looking forward to the hills.

            Throughout my training in Madrid, I made a constant effort to run hills and prepare for this stretch.   Although my splits weren’t lightning fast during this section, I did find myself consistently passing other runners for the first time in the race.  By now most of my miles were in the 7:40-7:50 per mile pace.  Well off my PR pace but still consistent, I was content to keep this up through the finish.

            At about 20.25 miles, you hit the most famous (and the last) of the hills.  Heartbreak hill stretches out in front of you like a serpent, slithering itself up a nearly ¾ mile incline.  Although not incredibly steep, the hill seems to go on forever.  As I climbed Heartbreak Hill, I kept my head down and focused on the task ahead.  My legs were shot and I had a little over five miles yet to cover.  On the plus side, my energy was still good and I knew I had the legendary crowd support of Boston to carry me to the finish.  Cresting the hill, I was greeted by another downhill as the final push to the finish began.  Mile 22 was my last fast mile.  Because the terrain was relatively flat, I was able to run a 7:30 mile here.  As I said though, this was my last.  The next four miles reminded me of just how difficult a marathon could be.

            The last four miles I averaged right around 8 to 8:10 per mile.  It has been awhile since I’ve really struggled in a race, but in a way this was fitting.  With all it took to get here in the first place, in hindsight I think it would’ve been anti-climactic had I just coasted in.  Instead I put my head down and focused on putting one foot in front of the other. 

            With a little over a mile to go, you hear the crowds.  The last mile to mile and a half is lined shoulder to shoulder with screaming spectators.  They pack the area four or five deep and encourage all the runners.  After a right on Hereford Street and a left on Boylston, the finish line appears in the distance like an oasis in the middle of the dessert.  Here the crowds are at their loudest and the energy the most electric.  Crossing the finish line in 3:15:47 I felt a mix of exhilaration and relief, exhilaration at finishing what I began when I started running nearly ten years earlier and relief in knowing that I had not squandered my opportunity.  Whether I ever run at Boston again or not, time will tell.  Either way, I’ve accomplished what I set out to do and completed the journey I began as an overweight 23 year old over ten years earlier.   

            While it was not the religious experience for me that other runners claim they feel at Boston, the race did have the best energy I’ve ever experienced in a marathon.  The crowds were great, the support good, and the runners serious.  For the rest of my life I will carry with me this experience the same way I carry other accomplishments in my life.  Like graduations, weddings, children, and other milestones in our lives, these moments are what we come to define ourselves by.  Although life is full of filler, these moments make it all worthwhile and provide us the memories we carry with us the rest of our lives.  The 115^th Boston Marathon will be a memory I carry and a sense of pride I feel for the rest of my days.  The journey was not an easy one, but was well worth it.

           

Unraveling the Mystery of Spanish Tapas

Interior of restaurant Sagaretxe with tapas on the display on the counter

Last night I posted a status update on Facebook about going out for tapas here in Madrid.  One response from a friend and neighbor made me think a little.  Her comment reminded me that I need to explain myself a little more at times.  How many people in the U.S. even know what tapas are?  I’ll freely admit that 12 months ago I didn’t know.  It’s not like Spanish restaurants in the U.S. are a dime a dozen.  Personally I can only think of two in the Cleveland area.  With this in mind, I’ve decided to dedicate the blog that follows to unraveling the mystery of Spanish tapas.

                For those of you who don’t know, tapas are a one or two bite snack that Spaniards enjoy on a regular basis.  Going out you can enjoy an appetizer or snack or you can order several and make a meal.  Most tapas bars in the city actually have all their offerings arranged, under glass, on the counter and you simply walk up and point to what you want.  As far as types of food, tapas can be anything from thinly sliced cured ham, fresh bread topped with cheese or a seafood salad, or even a slice of Spanish tortilla. 

                Another quick note here, Spanish tortilla is nothing like the Mexican variety.  The tortilla in Spain is a potato omelet.  Imagine taking cooked sliced potatoes, putting them in a round baking dish and adding scrambled eggs.  After baking it, what you end up with is a giant round egg and potato cake that is about an inch thick.  The cake is then cut into slices and served, like pie, usually cold or at room temperature.  While the idea of cold eggs to most Americans may sound un-appetizing, I assure you that it is really delicious.  At some sandwich shops you can even get a bocadillo de tortilla española (Spanish tortilla sandwich).

Pictured is a typical Spanish Tortilla

                According to the book Hidden Madrid by Mark and Peter Besas, the origin of Spanish tapas goes all the way back to the 13^th century.  According to legend, the king at the time Alfonso X came down with an illness and was advised by his doctors to indulge in small sips of wine while he ate small portions of food between meals.  The King soon recovered and decided that this custom would improve the health of his entire kingdom.  To accomplish this he passed a law requiring all the taverns in Castille to provide a small portion of food gratis or free whenever someone ordered a glass of wine or beer.

                The law also made sense for the working classes of the region.  In those days it was custom for working class men to take a mid-day break or siesta to avoid the hottest portion of the day.  Contrary to what most Americans believe, they didn’t all go home and sleep.  Instead many of these men headed to the tavern to knock back a drink or two before going back to work.  The problem was that most of these men lacked sufficient funds to purchase food along with their alcohol.  So they would drink on an empty stomach and go back to work tipsy.  By requiring the tavern owners to provide a small portion of food with all alcoholic drinks, the hope was that the men would stay a little more sober and return to work more productive.

                The result of this rule is that anywhere you go today, if you order an alcoholic drink you will be served a small portion of something to accompany it.  This could be a small basket potato chips, a slice of tortilla española, or even a slice of cured ham.  Speaking of cured ham, it is thanks to a slice of ham that the Spaniards have the name “tapas” which translates to cover or lid.  The term tapa goes back to the early 20^th century and a waiter at a little tavern in Càdiz.  Legend has it that King Alfonso XIII was travelling along the beach when he and his entourage decided to stop for a drink at a tavern called, El Ventorillo del Chato.  The King ordered a glass of sherry, and just as he was about to take a drink the wind kicked up blowing sand into the tavern.  The waiter, who was thinking fast, used a nearby slice of cured ham to cover the glass and prevent the sand from getting into the King’s sherry.  When the king asked what the waiter was doing, the waiter replied that the ham was a “tapa” or cover for the drink.  Amused by the idea the King requested another tapa with his next glass of sherry and soon the entire entourage was requesting tapas with their drinks.

                In Madrid today the tradition of the tapa has been elevated to an art form.  You still have the traditional small bowl of chips etc… but you also can enjoy establishments that only serve tapas.  In this case they are usually elaborate and you do not receive them free.  Usually you pay by the piece and all the available tapas the tavern or restaurant has to offer are either displayed on the bar or they have an actual tapas menu.

                The restaurant I enjoyed tapas at last evening was named Sagaretxe and featured Basque style tapas.  This meant that all the tapas they served were set atop a slice of fresh baguette (bread).  Because the Basque region of Spain is on the Atlantic, the majority of their tapas or pinxtos as they are called in the Basque country have a seafood element.  Pinxtos are pronounced like “pinchos” in English.  As you order your server or bartender keeps track of the number of pinxtos you order and you pay all at once.  The restaurant we went too had the option of ordering eight pinxtos for 12 Euro or twelve pixtos for 20 Euro.  We picked out twelve, which was enough to feed our family.

Basque Style Pinxtos or Tapas

                One nice thing about tapas bars, especially to Americans, is that they open earlier than most restaurants.  Spain, like many Mediterranean countries has a vastly different meal schedule than the United States.  In Spain they usually don’t have dinner until sometime after eight p.m. and even as late as 10 p.m.  Many restaurants close at 3 or 4 p.m. and don’t reopen until 8:30 p.m. Tapas are kind of like the bridge between a 2 p.m. lunch and a late dinner.  For a family from the States, with two small children, Tapas are nice because they allowed us to go downtown on a Wednesday night, have dinner (tapas) and still be home for the kids to go to bed at a decent hour.

                Our experience at Sagaretxe was excellent and I would recommend it to anyone visiting the city.  Far from intimidating, ordering Tapas is fun and the food was amazing.          

Searching for the Black Irish

      

      One of my favorite myths concerning the Irish, and there are many, is that of the Black Irish.  Over time the term has been used to describe people of Irish descent who exhibit dark features that are not otherwise seen on the island.  For years people have hypothesized that these people were the descendants of some invader to the island during its long history.  While the theory is most likely true to some extent, some of the stories that have been told as proof of the theory are about as likely as a leprechaun guarding a pot of gold.

            One form of the Black Irish legend says that invaders from Spain, known as Milesians, sailed to Ireland to invade the island in retaliation for the murder of their uncle ľth.  The eight nephews, or Míl Espáine, (Soldiers of España) invaded Ireland to face off with the three Irish kings.  After negotiating with the kings, the Soldiers of España agreed to sail nine waves from Ireland.  If when they had sailed the nine waves they were still able to land on the island, it would be theirs. The soldiers set sail, but they were tricked by the kings who used magic to whip up a storm.  During the storm, five of the soldiers were killed but the remaining three were able to land and thus take possession of Ireland.  These kings then brought their Mediterranean looks and traits to mix with the Irish. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Milesians_(Irish)

            One other explanation for the dark featured Irish is even more unlikely than the magical storm and three Soldiers of España.  Some argue that the black haired and brown eyed Irish men and women are actually descendants of Spanish traders or even survivors of the Spanish Armada. The theory involving the Armada is that a small number of survivors washed up on the western coast of Ireland after Spain’s mighty Navy was defeated by the English in 1588.  These survivors chose to make their home on the Emerald Isle, intermarrying and passing on their dominant dark features to future generations of Irish children.  While it’s a great story, some would even say something out of a romance novel, very little evidence exists to support the theory.   It is unlikely that a few lone soldiers were able to make a life in a war-torn foreign land, and have a significant genetic impact.  Most likely the evidence of dark features in Ireland is the result of the many invading groups and traders that visited, conquered, or settled on the island over many thousands of years. http://www.ireland-information.com/articles/blackirish.htm

            Of course, I could’ve said all this at the very beginning but what fun would that be.  Anyways, this brings me to the subject of this blog post.  On Thursday March 17^th, I travelled into Madrid in search of the Black Irish.  Not the mythical Milesians or the shipwrecked Armada, but something a little more modest.  I went in search of the Irish spirit in Madrid on that greatest of all Irish holidays.  What began as an epic quest nearly became an epic failure, but like those three surviving Soldiers of España I eventually came to my reward.  Mine though was not the entire island, just a pint of their finest brew.

            My quest to find the Black Irish began not on a ship, but on a Metro train.  I decided that my first destination, seeing as how it was 10am and too early to hit the pub, would be the Irish Embassy here in Madrid.  Now, I confess that I’ve never before gone looking for an embassy but in all honesty I expected a little more.  The Irish embassy is located just north of the Rueben Dario Metro stop on Paseo de la Castellana.  The building itself is fairly unremarkable and in truth, I’m not really sure whether the building contained more than one embassy or just the Irish contingent. 

 

            Pictured above is the embassy.  Note the complete and total lack of shamrocks, leprechauns, parades, and  greenery. There wasn’t even someone out front handing out green Mardi Gras beads with Guiness emblems.  In all seriousness, I at least would have expected some sort of recognition or sign.  Disappointed, I  headed back towards Madrid hoping to seek solace in a pint of Ireland’s finest.

            From the embassy, I meandered down Paseo de la Castellana to Calle de Alcalà and over from there towards Sol.  On the way I stopped by a Starbucks. (I know it’s not Irish, but at least they have a green awning)  After Starbucks I took my coffee and headed to the Plaza de Colon (pictured).  Here I relaxed for a few moments and planned the rest of my day.  Ever since my first visit here, this plaza has fascinated me.  In the United States we have essentially disowned Christobal Colon, but in Spain he is still celebrated, but seeing as how this is St. Patrick’s Day, and Columbus was not Irish but Italian, we’ll leave this to another time.

Plaza de Colon

            Just before getting to the Plaza de Puerta del Sol, I turned onto Calle Principe and my second destination, O’Neill’s Pub.  To my absolute shock and despair, it was closed.  It was now going on noon, and the pub was CLOSED.  What about the green eggs, Irish sausages, beer!  Hoping that it was soon to open, I hung around the area for a while and actually stumble upon some real gems.  Nearby I found myself in the Plaza de Santa Ana.  This is one of the most entertaining squares in the city and a great starting out point for many a Spanish night out on the town.  Tucked away into one of the corners of the square is a small bar called Cervecería Alemana.  Translating to German brewhouse, this bar was one of the favorite hangouts for Ernest Hemmingway when he was spending time in Spain. 

            After exploring the square for awhile, it was now a little after 12:30, I headed back down to O’Neill’s for that all important first pint.  Again I had no luck.  I was now getting dangerously close to an epic failure in my search for the Black Irish.  I should note here that my quest was a PG rated one.  There would be no late nights of flowing Guiness, Jameson, and dancing a jig.  Instead, I had to return to La Moraleja by 4pm to pick up two very active boys from schools.  With only two hours remaining until I needed to be back on the Metro, I headed to my last hope, the James Joyce Pub near Banco de España.

             Sitting on Calle Alcalà, the James Joyce is a delightful little pub with good Irish cheer, great food, and yes, good Irish Guiness.  Most importantly, the pub was open for business.  I headed in and found myself a seat near the bar.  Although my server lacked a good Irish brogue, she actually only spoke Spanish, she understood Guiness and finally I had my St. Patty’s day prize.  Hungry after my quest, I also requested a menu and was delighted to see such classics as banger’s and mash, beef slow roasted in a Guiness sauce, sheperd’s pie, and even lamb stew. I ordered the lamb stew and settled back with my pint in my own little corner of Ireland.

Lamb stew at the James Joyce Pub (Estofado de Cordero)

            In the end I made it back in time to get the boys, content with a belly full of Irish goodness, and I even got a tacky Guiness hat to pass onto the kids.  Thanks to the James Joyce, I was able to find a little bit of Irish cheer in Madrid.



El Museo de America

El Museo de America

On Friday, March 11th,  I made my first foray into Madrid since arriving a week ago.  While I would’ve like to make it in before now, instead I’ve spent the last week wandering the aisles of furniture stores, electronic stores, grocery stores, and an all-encompassing tienda (store) called El Corte Ingles.  While the idea of furnishing an entire house with new stuff may sound great, the reality is far different.

            With things settling down by Thursday, I started to explore the idea of going into the city for awhile on Friday.  With this first trip, I wanted to find a neighborhood on the northern side of the city that I hadn’t explored in my prior visit in August.  The area I chose was in the neighborhood of Gaztambide near the Plaza de la Moncloa. 

            Gaztambide itself is not necessarily a tourist area, although it does draw a lot of foreigners due to the Cuidad Universitaria (City University of Madrid).  Outside of the students, most of the people you pass on the street are Madrileños, or locals.  The ages range from young to old and the businesses you pass are modern. These range from furniture stores (please no more) to banks and even car dealerships.  The car dealerships in particular provide a nice contrast to what people in the U.S. are accustomed to.   In the U.S. we have big, sprawling car lots with hundreds of cars.  In Madrid, a car dealership looks more like a Higbees window than a parking lot.  Only three or four models are on display and they are set in big picture windows.    I first noticed this while visiting South Kensington in London, U.K.  Near the Underground station was a Lamborghini dealership set in a storefront.  Talk about window shopping.

El Faro de Moncloa

            The Museo de America is very easy to find due to its location next to the Faro de Moncloa, a space needle of sorts that provides great views of the city.  At least I assume it provides great views, it was closed and fenced off when I visited.  Sitting next to the Faro de Moncloa is the Museo de America.  The reason I chose it was for the location, and also because there is a certain irony about an American, starting a Madrid Museum blog, focusing on Spanish colonial activities in the Americas. 

            The building that the museum is housed in is beautiful.  It was built between 1943 and 1954.  Its style is that of a colonial mansion or cloister with large tower providing the main entrance and a central courtyard complete with a fountain.  The construction is entirely of brick, even the vaulted ceilings.  This gives the place the feel of a church or a crypt, without all the sinister creepiness of the later.  They avoid too much of an underground feel with large windows in all the main halls.  These hallways then encircle the exhibition rooms that are lit with only spotlights.  The halls themselves are dark.  This is to help preserve the artifacts, many of which are well over 500 years old some extend back nearly two millennia.

            Entering through the main entrance, you are greeted by a visitor services representative who takes your three euro for admission.  One thing I’ve found in Madrid is that most museums are very inexpensive.  The three euro admission charge is about $4.25 in U.S. dollars.  After paying my admission, I was given two brochures.  One of these in Spanish and another in English, there was also a headphone system available, but the admissions person didn’t even offer it to me.  Either she sensed, from my butchered request for an adult admission, that I was unable to speak the language or none were available.

            The museum itself is divided into five themes.  These are “The Instruments of Knowledge”, “Reality of America”, “Bands, Tribes, Chiefdoms and States”, “Religion”, and “Communications”.  All of these areas are interesting. I personally enjoyed the area on religion.  I give the museum credit for acknowledging the independent traditions of the natives prior to European contact.   What really interests me are all the parallels one can draw from a comparison of the ancient civilizations of Central and South America to the Egyptians.  So much of the artwork, reverence for the dead, etc… is similar.

            The highlights of the museum were a nearly three foot tall Mayan funeral urn dating from A.D. 900-1000, a Kero (deity) in the form of a jaguar from the 15^th century, the many gold statues and ornamental items from 17^th century Peru, and the treasure trove of Mestizo paintings in the collection.  These paintings represent everyday life in the 18^th century as Natives, Europeans and Africans struggled to make a life in New Spain, intermarrying and defining their roles in society.

Cup made to look like a Jaguar

Peruvian Mummy

Kero in the form of a Jaguar (15th Century)

      

      Overall, the Museum was educational and enjoyable albeit a little “old school” as far as museum exhibits.  There were no hands on exhibits or interactive elements.  The museum did offer two areas where videos were shown, but as both were entirely in Spanish, I can’t comment on these. 

            One other element that is a bit bothersome for an American and especially an American historian is the overall nature of the collection.  While the Museum itself was founded in 1943, most of the items on display were collected many years before.  Many date to the Royal Cabinet of Natural History.  The Royal Cabinet collected items acquired during archaeological excavations, and scientific expeditions.  One is left to wonder at what cost some of these items came into their hands.  This is never really addressed.

 In their defense though, the current museum simply collects the items and has no direct guilt in how some early pieces were acquired.  Since its founding, the collection has only grown through donations and purchases.  Moving past the issue of acquisition, this Museum is important as evidence of the complex and sophisticated society that existed in the Americas prior to European conquest.  It’s definitely worth a visit.      

For all my friends at the J.E. Reeves Home and Museum.  These are figures from the Spanish Nacimiento or Nativity Scene.  Each figure is the size of a Barbie doll and they are onately painted.  The Nacimiento is a very common Christmas Tradition in Spain.