Paella and other regional specialities

If I wanted to taste every specialty of Valencia in the month that I was here, I would literally have to eat and drink non-stop from morning to night, every single day. Don’t think I’m not trying — but the task begins to feel insurmountable!
Of Spain as a country, most of us are familiar with tapas. Sangria likewise and probably chorizo, pronounced with some Spanish ‘th’ flair. But the diversity of regional food here is remarkable. Every time I go into a restaurant, they feature a range of dishes that are típico of Valencia. On Friday night, we ate a pannacotta-like dessert called a farineta, which is typical not just of Valenica, the waitress informed us, but specifically of our suburb, El Cabanyal.
The tradition extends to beverages too. New local favourites include a giant cocktail made with sparkling wine, fresh orange juice and assorted spirits called agua de Valencia; a coffee called café bombón, which is an espresso shot layered on a shot of condensed milk; and a cold drink called horchata that I am yet to try, which looks like milk but is apparently made of ground nuts and served with sweet pastries called fartons. All these drinks originate within a 10km radius.
And today, Valencia’s crowning glory was offered to us by our Airbnb hosts: a home-cooked paella. Served in its traditional broad-based black pan, this rice, meat and seafood dish is arguably the city’s greatest export and although you can find it in many a restaurant, the chance for a visitor to eat one on a peaceful terrace as guests at a Sunday family lunch is pretty lucky.
Spanish guitar in the streets — 08/25
Some nights, seeking a cool ocean breeze, I step out onto the balcony of our 19th century apartment here in this small Spanish fishing suburb dating back to the 1300s. I close my eyes, listen to strains of flamenco guitar floating up from the street, and wonder if I’ve accidentally stepped into a parody of Spain.
The music will be punctuated by exuberant cries and energetic claps. If it is live, there will be a group of men sitting on the corner, passing time with a fairly haphazard approach to orchestration. Sometimes though, it is our neighbours listening to a recording instead. Then the songs will be rich, soaring and passionate. An intricate pattern of male soloists, a female chorus and frenetic guitar tumble down into our kitchen from the apartment above. Interrupted in this case only by the mother calling her four-year old daughter to dinner. It is 10pm.
Spending all day sitting in a chair — 08/23

Another thing it would be impossible to come to Spain without noticing is the unemployment. Anyone who has a job expresses their good fortune. I go for a manicure and the young girl doing my nails, who finished her training course only in June, describes herself as “incredibly lucky” to be employed. The news might say things are improving, she comments, but they aren’t.
As a consequence, there are a lot of idle hands. Day after day, huge groups of people sit outside their houses in folding chairs doing nothing. Our street, which is not in an illustrious part of town, probably provides an extreme example, but everywhere you see the same. The fact it’s also August may make a difference — it’s hot and lots of things close for the month — although I’m not so sure.
The seats come out from around 10am. Today, Ian and I greet a gentleman in his late forties as we head to gym in the morning. When we return, he is still there. When I walk down to lunch a few hours later, he remains, and when we cycle home after a cocktail on the beach this evening, he is still there, wishing us buenas tardes. With the exception of a few toilet breaks and perhaps a siesta, he has sat there the whole day. His company has rotated a bit; early on it was his wife, later his son and just now a friend. I can’t help but imagine what conversation, if any, takes place each day. Do they say “okay, shall we set the chairs up”? Do these things still need saying, or does it just become a pattern? They change positions during the day too, presumably to catch the best breeze and avoid the hottest sun. Is this discussed or simply executed? I am so curious …
The bar at the end of the beach — 08/20

After a stiflingly hot week, fresh air and some rain this morning. Clouds came over around 11 and, as we cycled along the beachfront, we felt a few drops. A couple of kilometres further and we rode over damp pavement: here the rain had already fallen. Not much of course, but a light touch to take the edge off the heat.
We took our bikes all the way to the end of the esplanade. A lovely little bar rewarded us, cuter than all the other beach establishments. Its décor done in a picturesque, beach-shack style, with thatched umbrellas and wooden furniture, instead of the plastic chairs you see down our end. Fine, a little touristy, but I liked they’d made the effort to create a nice space.
After a quick dip, we walk twenty metres across the sand to park ourselves at a small table and order an espresso and an açai pot. An old lady sits in her bikini, a middle-aged couple watch some sport on his phone over breakfast, and two friends take snaps of each other sipping fresh juices with the ocean backdrop behind them.
In the town centre — 08/18

The architecture is classic and grandiose, like so many European cities. A gothic cathedral and a few towers from the 1300s, wedged in among apartment buildings from around the early 1800s I guess. A couple of spacious plazas with fountains, surrounded by overpriced cafes. It is a world away from our beachside El Cabanyal. Ian calls it “tropical Paris”, which captures the aesthetic.
The town centre itself is more like what we experienced in Seville: large tour groups, lots of trinket shops, buskers, restaurant touts and not much chance to practice rudimentary Spanish. Still, it all takes place in a laidback, friendly kind of way and the setting is beautiful. I feel, as I often do in these places, that there’s another layer to the city, waiting to be discovered. If only you had a lifetime to spend or perhaps some local friends to help you explore it.
We head home around 10:30pm, which is right when everything is just getting started to be honest. I glimpse intriguing-looking laneway bars — long, slender establishments, where dried jamóns hang from the ceiling and a handful of patrons sip golden spirits in bell-shaped glasses. There seem to be unwritten rules about the right time to visit and the right things to order.
A Spanish mouse — 08/17
We have a small mouse in our kitchen and, ridiculous though it sounds, it kind of terrifies me. The thought of it creeping out from beneath the fridge and running over my foot … ugh.
Our hosts have done their best to assist with some poison and traps (bated with Spanish jamón for Spanish mice, I am informed), but it cleverly evades us. Yet I’ve seen it twice scurrying into a dark corner when I come downstairs at night and turn on a light.
It makes me reflect on how disconnected we manage to be from ‘outside life’ in our new modern houses. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not harbouring any romantic sentiment; I’m a big advocate of contemporary, vermin-free living. But I am forced to acknowledge that this separation from the realities of nature has diminished certain survival skills.
La coca en llanda — 08/16
A lovely gift dropped off at our apartment this evening from our Airbnb hosts. The coca en llanda is a cake typical of the Valencian region, we are informed. A simple but perfectly springy sponge, with a delicious cinnamon scent. Best enjoyed after dinner with some slices of fresh, cool fruit and a cheeky whisky. (Well, I’m not sure how authentic the serving suggestion is, but it was delightfully enjoyable!)
Evening sky inky blue — 08/15

The light lasts a long time down here but, when it fades, the sky changes quickly. A dinner reservation will be for 8:30, at the earliest. When you arrive, the sky will still be bright and clear. You’ll drink your first glass of tempranillo and nibble on your fresh bread with eggplant dip while the final vestiges of sun fade. The colour around you deepens, but you won’t notice until, around quarter past nine, the street lamps switch on. An amber glow bathes the diners and casts the passersby in shadow.
Look up now and you will see the most incredible blue — a rich inky velvet rapidly seeping from the sea across the arc of the sky. If colours had texture, this would be Nutella, smooth, luxurious and delicious. A colour for longing, deep desire and possibilities yet to unfold in the night.
Staying in a non-touristy area — 08/14
Living ‘like a local’ is a worthy travel goal, but the reality can be challenging for both you and the locals. El Cabanyal, the suburb where we stay, is a terrific place to try. It’s one of the few spots I’ve been to in Europe where they don’t default to English as soon as you falter with a few foreign words.
Then again, as a chef I meet at a restaurant one night says, “El Cabanyal y Valencia … independientemente!”. So even within its own city I think this little haven is an oddity. It feels not only like changing cultures, but like stepping back to a simpler time. So much so that I find myself taking pleasure in mundane housekeeping like sweeping the floor or hanging washing over the clothes line on my balcony, purely because the sense of tradition is so strong.
For all that, staying in a non-touristy area is not always the romantic picnic you might imagine. Films like A Good Year and Under the Tuscan Sun portray these tiny continental towns as sanctuaries full of friendly locals who just can’t wait to embrace the interesting foreigner. However, day-to-day, most residents in my experience are just trying to get on with their lives. You may be a curiosity, but if you want to get more out of the experience you’ll have to be pretty proactive.
Today, I tried visiting a bodega around the corner for lunch. Come two o’clock the restaurant was packed with tables of noisy patrons, all shouting and greeting each other jubilantly. I landed a quiet spot by the window and watched the solo waiter run round in circles for a good fifteen minutes seating people and dropping off baskets of bread and empty wine glasses.
Finally he rushed up to me. “Dime,” he said, polite but hasty — “tell me, what would you like?” I looked at him and froze. No-one in that place had a menu — there were no menus — and no-one seemed bothered. The waiter looked at me expectantly. I stammered out a “lo siento, no conozco …” (essentially, “I’m sorry, I don’t know …”), followed by a vague wave around the premises. Exasperated, he ran through the menu orally in about three seconds flat. The best I could summon was a “Qué recomiendas?” — to which, of course, I was going to have to accept whatever he recommended!
An hour later, after a three-course meal of fresh salad, grilled fish and veggie ragout, and a chocolate mousse dessert, I felt pretty good about his suggestions. Yet as I looked around me I couldn’t help wonder — are we just in the way when we try to travel out of our comfort zone?
The little boy and the beach towel — 08/13
A tiny moment of a memory, insignificant but lovely. I head to the beach for an early swim one morning. The ocean front is already filling up with umbrellas and bodies. I have been in the water and am now lying on my towel, drying off fast in the hot sun and the breeze.
To my left, a father and his little son, who is no more than three, arrive. The father unfurls a large beach towel and hands one end to the boy. It billows upward as the wind catches it from underneath and the boy thinks it is a great game. The father is focused on getting the towel flat.
Uno, dos, tres … he tries a countdown to engage his son in the process of placing the fabric onto the sand. Right at the last minute, the boy lets go, giggling delightfully as the towel flies into the air. The father can’t help smiling too. No, no, he shakes his head, you have to hold onto it.
He carefully puts a corner of material in each of his son’s chubby little hands. The boy has dropped one side before he even gets back into position. The father tries again; again at the last minute the towel is tossed into the air with reckless abandon. It twists around itself in a colourful swirl and the boy’s laughter is carried away on the gust of wind.
Gazpacho … now I get it — 08/11

Today, I sat with the sun on my shoulders on the terrace of a white stone restaurant two blocks from my apartment with a giant lemon tree in its garden and ate the most amazing gazpacho I’ve ever eaten. Cool, ever-so-slightly creamy, frothy and flavoured with garlic, a few sprinkles of cheese and a crisp sliver of jamón.
All of a sudden, people’s passion for cold tomato soup makes sense. I’ve never minded it, but I realised today I’ve never really had it before. I should have taken a photo first, but when it was put down in front of me all I could think about was tasting it immediately.
The restaurant, which is called Mar D’Amura if you want to make a note for any future trip to Valencia, is a peaceful, friendly place whose humble location and ugly Coca-Cola chalkboard outside belie a fantastically fresh menú del día. It offers three courses and a glass of wine or beer for nine euros, and diners can choose between two options for each course. All the food is prepared every morning and the menu changes daily. The set-up is low-key — the menu is scribbled on a scrap of paper in the waitress’s notepad — but the setting is elegant, with fine stemmed wine glasses and grey slate plates.
Locals gather from around two for the lunch serving (when I try to order food at 1:30 the woman looks alarmed and informs me they need another ten minutes at least!) and spend a couple of hours. It’s a habit I could happily fall into.
Learning how to live in the heat again — 08/10
Bugs, mosquitoes, overripe fruit, sweat down your spine, sticky skin, sunscreen grease, sunburn, frizzy hair and general lethargy … certain elements of living in the heat you push to the back of your mind when you bemoan the weather in London.

In Valencia, they come flooding back. A big yellow can of insect spray is a welcome gift from our Airbnb host. It stirs Queensland memories sunk deep within my psyche. Our first day here the temperature was mid-30s and no hint of a breeze.
I’d forgotten what it’s like to be so hot you can’t even contemplate wearing a t-shirt; only a singlet will do. Nor did I remember the sensation of waking up with damp hair stuck to my pillow. And it’s been a long since time since I was repulsed at the thought of a hot shower. Readjustment has necessarily been hasty.
Most of all, I’d forgotten that feeling of floating on the very edge of sanity: a unique mental state that only truly intense heat can bring. Buddhism may teach the four stages of enlightenment, but surviving (and thriving!) in this weather is another level altogether. You can try to hold back, but it is as useless as trying to stay standing in the path of an enormous wave. Soon or later, you’ll be swept away. The best thing you can do is to simply give in to it.
Las señoritas de la playa — 08/09

Down on the playa in Valencia, ladies have the run of place. Pedestrian lights lead the way displaying little symbols in dresses, and the locals do the rest. Women of all ages, shapes and sizes are bold with their bodies in a manner that anglo women just don’t seem to have the knack for.
I’ve been on the beach about thirty seconds before I have to leap out of the way of a trio of Spanish girls, in their early 20s, who are striding confidently along the shoreline. They wear their long, dark hair loose; their skin is tanned; and their bikini bottoms are little. Their breasts — a mix of round, flat and cone-shaped between them — are bare and bear no tan lines. They’re engrossed in conversation, with little care for the world around them and absolutely no self-consciousness.
Easy enough when you’re young and beautiful, I suppose. But actually, that’s not the barometer here. A mother in her 40s sits topless in a folding chair, her breasts sagging over the folds of her stomach, casually playing cards with her son and husband. Two grandmothers expose their weathered torsos a little further on, eyes closed and soaking up the sunshine. Walking at the edge of the waves, I dodge another woman in her 30s, her naked back turning a beautiful, even brown as she plays tennis with her boyfriend.
Settling in to the neighbourhood — 08/08
The streets are tiny, one-way, dusty alleys, laid out in grid formation, but with major works blocking every second pathway along the east-west route. Accordingly, the taxi won’t take me to my door, but instead deposits me in the middle of the road two blocks away, unceremoniously unloading my bags. Ian is stuck in London still (a whole other story!), so I am left to deal with our three suitcases, a large camera bag and a shoulder sack.
A sturdy Spanish woman in her 60s, about to enter her apartment, sees me and marches across. My Spanish is not up to much, but I can tell she is berating the cabbie. He shrugs, gets in his car and drives away. She strides back and — with barely an hola and adónde vas? — briskly wheels one of my suitcases off into the distance. I can’t even think of the word for ‘kind’, so I settle for muchas gracias, basically shouting it after her as she disappears around the corner. First impressions count, so they say; I think I fall in love with El Cabanyal at that moment.
Today has been about settling in. I’m not ready to do justice to the neighbourhood with opinion, but observations include:

- A mix of derelict ruins and renovated apartments. Some exquisite exteriors with intricately-patterned tiles, colourful walls and balconies adorned with flowers — brushing up against abandoned façades
- Locals spilling out onto the streets to escape the heat of their homes. Plastic chairs parked outside every second door: men in one group drinking stubbies, women gossiping in another, children running naked between the two
- El Mercat Municipal de Cabanyal a stone’s throw from our apartment. A market running in Valencia since the 1850s, open every day and full of fresh fruit, veggies, fish, meat and an egg lady with about twenty different kinds of huevos
- Ten minutes’ walk to the playa. A totally packed, but nonetheless entertaining, European-style strip of beach, kitted out with bars, beach lounges, umbrellas, volleyball nets and a lot of topless women
- Come evening, the scent of charcoal as carts set up selling corn on the cob, salted nuts and other snacks. Siesta is ending and the streets awaken. Slowly, life returns. People sing out in greeting, children run around splashing water and glass clinks ¡salud! … estamos en España!!
