Written as a response to…
The Hunt for The Perfect Pincho
It’s the metaphor for my new life in Barcelona.
I traded my life in one of the most cosmopolitan cities on earth, London that is, for a more laid-back lifestyle in Barcelona. I’ve lived here 3 months without a legal NIE or residence document and one chunk of my brain hurls at the prospect of leaping from one bureacratic machine to another. And yet another realm of my brain is ever so tranquil.
So calm in fact that ‘Old Kristina’ would’ve been deathly suspicious. But ‘New Kristina’…Well, that cool chick who has experienced genuine sunshine immersing her smiley face; she who holds in her hand a brand spanking new and shiny unstamped British Passport (which took 7 years and £16,800+ in UK visa fees to earn), THAT New Kristina drowns all sorrows and exasperations in a pintxo. Or Two. Or Three.
No two pinchos are alike, obviously. They’re snowflakes-ish morsels of yumminess which could potentially represent some Cuisine-schooled Chef creation; or they could be tiny pinches of leftovers unceremoniously dumped on day-old stale bread.
And so The Hunt.
The “Hedging Bets” Pincho Pair…
Pinchos to the untrained eye is nothing more than a tapa, stabbed with a stick that indicates its price: €1 for a plain one, €1.50 or more for that which has an indelible red dot at the end of said stick.
I remember these particular two fondly. Paired with a mojito they were little celebratory pinchos served by a lady with smiling eyes in Atelier Blais, Poble Sec. Awesome vibe, Awesome morsels.
My husband and I put a reserve on a house we wanted to buy that very afternoon, and we couldn’t be assed to cook dinner. I wanted something seafood-ish and thus the salmon on the left, shrimp tempura on the right.
The duality seemed sensible. But man, what a day…
The thing about living in Barcelona is that the paperwork will drown you.
You always need one more copy of one more document, no matter how inane. My 3 kids for instance each hold 2 passports: first is New Zealand, second is Philippine. The former is awesome for traveling; yet the latter which is known to be quite a pariah passport necessitating Schengen Visas and delayed entry into just about any country in the world but Brazil and Cambodia…That semi-useless passport allows them a Spanish Passport after just 2 years of residing in Spain. 2 years, can you imagine? Refugees need 5 and all others need 10 years’ residence to qualify for a Spanish Passport.
…Thank you 300 years of Philippine colonization by the Spanish. Holding onto the passports for nearly 2 decades has been well worth it.
BUT, I actually have to find a way to get their original Birth Certificates from the Philippines where none of us have been in about 15 years, and nothing is computerised. The certificates have to be stamped to prove that, well, they were born.
That would probably require £1900 for a plane ticket for me to go there and extract it from a bureaucratic blackhole. Chomp chomp. Yummy pinchos. Mmmmm.
Sobresada is spreadable sausage with a slew of ‘sabroso’ (delicious) foodie applications.
Yes. Spreadable sausage stuck lithely under a jamon serrano shaped like a rose. Why the Americans haven’t found the equivalent of sobresada to make spreadable bacon is beyond me.
This particular pintxo kicks ass on others I’ve chomped before it. The filo pastry beneath the spreadable sausage is filled with two cheeses and sits on a sea of fresh honey and chillies.
Amazing.
I was crying the day I ate this pincho. Yes, perhaps all the dramatic emotions that come with picking up 7 years of life and moving it all in teeny tiny boxes; and quitting your London job to boot may have something to do with it…but I think that day the tears were about the kids.
After years of 2-jobs-at-a-time sacrifices while living with them across three continents; and after finally sharing the city I’ve long spoken of as Home and the object of a tearful “Mi corazon es en Barcelona”…they long to return to London.
Yes, London. You know: fish, chips, cup ‘o tea, bad food, worse weather, Mary fucking Poppins…LONDON.
Gulp. A delicious mind-boggling pintxo this pretty stops all tears.
Beware The Pintxo that wants to be A Real Pincho when it Grows Up…
Calle Blais in Poble Sec is lined with one pincho place after another — each establishment displaying their yummy creations on pedestals, on square and artsy-fartsy decagon plates and various trays. Some even project it onto 60-inch LED screens; they are THAT proud of them.
This particular poor excuse for a pincho was a mistake.
Not quite a mouthful of savoury flavours, it was an afterthought. Served in an attempt to compete with the restaurants that engulfed this poorly lit bar on all sides. Its ‘€1 beer + pintxo offer’ was just not good enough to get bums in seats. They thus created creative bullshit peddling as pinchos.
Hunger stavers, nonetheless.
How very much like the small jobs I’ve picked up to sustain the In-Between Days of once upon a time working for corporates in the Land of The Freeze (aka. London); and now working 3 small jobs to match that one huge paycheque….and it’s ok. You know?
Life in a new country — even if it IS in the city you’ve longed for, dreamed of and one you’ve put smack in the centre of an ecosystem of goals and master checklists referencing mini-checklists — is not at all a bed of sobresada-laden roses. You know this, I know this, perpetual expat that I am. But you keep on chomping away. Knowing you’re, well, home.
And The Hunt continues. Naturally.
