Lunch that Works

I remember the days when I’d be pleased to escape the office and eat a sandwich over a plate rather than the keyboard.  Thirty glorious minutes, sometimes even a luxurious 45! Things have changed for me because – as has been trumpeted by the siesta stereotype – Spain’s lunch window is traditionally from 2-4pm.  Yes, that’s right: two hours in the “afternoon” when the rest of the world is considering a snack.

It’s not that all Spanish workers rise from their desks and go eat somewhere for two hours, but this time in the day is generally respected, much the way Americans honor dinner hour.  No meetings are scheduled (well, lunch meetings), no emails sent nor phone calls made.

The Spanish lunch is, ironically, very good for productivity. Many people, I suspect, use (part of) the time to work uninterrupted. Maybe we are all at our desks working away and taking advantage of everyone else being at lunch.  These two hours might surely please Jason Fried, coauthor of the book “Rework,” who thinks that the constant commotion of the modern office ruins everything.

It is also good for living.

One day, my colleague suggested we eat at a cafeteria he’d just discovered that serves great paella.  The only thing, he said, is that it is about 15-20 minutes’ walk from the office.

I balked.  Couldn’t we just go down the block and grab a salad to go?

But he looked so excited that I agreed.  Partly because he is nice but also because living in Spain has helped me notice that sometimes I act like I have no time for anything.  (We Americans do busy quite well).  And in reality, there is always time to be had.  It’s just that we choose, even if by plain acquiescence, a self-imposed busyness.

So my colleague and I head out the door.  It’s 2:15pm.  The sun is shining and the air is crisp because the Madrid winter is clinging to April.  The twenty minute walk flies by.  And when we arrive, I see that my colleague’s new spot is the cafeteria at the bottom of the Fundación Juan March (calle de Castelló 77) – the very location that is hosting a Paul Klee exhibit (for free) which I’d been hoping to see.

Of course, some habits stick around...  I always seem to get the keyboards that have a taste for sandwiches.

Berry Panic

The difference between the pace of Spain and the pace of, say, New York, is always surprising. You’d think that after a couple years living in Madrid, the glorious pace of Spanish life would be old hat, but certain habits die hard. Habits such as, walking fast not because there is a rush but simply because you’ll get there earlier, ordering the check in the same breath as the coffee, and heading for the door as soon as the first goodbye is uttered. And so, with a checklist of to-dos ticking in my head one day after work, I began the dash home. The urgency was to get to the store around the corner from my apartment to buy a baking pan before the store’s 8pm close. (Note here for those in the US: Spanish working hours are a bit different than the American 5/6pm punch-out.)

It was a worried rush – those berries had been sitting in the fridge for days and they needed to be baked into a pie… or else. Berry panic, I tell you.

Hurrying up the street, careening around the corner, smack into the store where… yup, everything was calm. It was 8:10pm. There were plenty of people browsing kitchenware. (You know this type of store, the kind that whispers in your ear that you need a crazy egg cooker or specialty garlic peeler.) Old jazz was playing, three salespeople on the ready.

I have been to stores where they turn you away ten minutes before closing time unless you plead your case and promise to be out on the dot.

I head directly to the baking area. To my right is a couple looking at wine glasses. Stems or no? White or red? This or that? Taking their time. And finally I look up and take a breath. There was absolutely no need for a rush. The store door was wide open, the staff calm, there were plenty of other shoppers who would surely take longer with a purchase. So I grabbed a baking dish and then, rather than head to the counter to pay, I begin to browse.

I walked out of that store at 8:30pm, and much calmer than when I entered. Allow me to repeat… 30 minutes after closing time and there were still people wandering around the store. I also walked out with much more than a baking dish. Literally. Though, no egg cooker was purchased – some things can be learned in due time.

It Comes Around

Recently, I found myself in Paris on a Friday night with no plans. One thing was certain, though – a proper French dinner was on the agenda, and being alone was not going to stop me. And so, full of determination, I set out into the Le Marais area at about 8pm to check out the restaurants for a suitable place to dine solo. Eating alone is all fine and good when it’s breakfast or lunch, but dinner on Friday night tends to exist in pairs and parties. So, as I made my way through the 4th arrondissement, I admit that while my hunger grew, my courage waned.

When I was about to give in to street food or, worse yet, the mini-bar, I remembered something a friend had told me. (Funny thing about friends.) She had once been inspired (somehow, by me) to book a table at a swanky restaurant when visiting friends on the west coast… and to go there alone. She admitted to being nervous and self conscious, but she still did it. And you don’t have to guess that it was a good experience.

Shame can work in our favor sometimes. There is no way I could get around that compliment of compliments and so I forged ahead and went into the next place I saw. (No, it was not McDonald’s.) And let’s face it. We are talking about dinner in Paris. We are not talking about jumping out of a plane or a relationship, or giving a speech to an audience of five hundred.

Turns out the patrons of Cafe Le Bouledogue Brasserie are locals, the staff is attentive (funny thing about a woman dining alone) and the food comes to the table at just the perfect pace. And, in addition to the fact that I learned that leeks can be the most delicious of vegetables, I also learned that it is possible to be inspired by the people whom we have at one time inspired.

It comes around.

Saturday Market

Wake up at noon, wander about the apartment and slowly (because you are asleep) realize there is no food. Grow hungrier until your roommate reminds (in English because she sees this is a time to be kind) that the market closes at 2pm on Saturdays. So, it’s brush teeth, brush hair, pull on jeans, grab bags, and go. This is not the best way to enter a Spanish market. First off, there will be no way to determine which stall to approach because you are starving and everything looks good. And upon making the slightest movement to one vendor over another – probably because you look dazed and not of these parts – a man will sidle up out of nowhere and offer help. This help is not so easily brushed aside. At this point something usually comes out of my mouth like… gracias, pero no sé lo que quiero. Estoy pensando. (thank you but I don’t know what I want. I’m thinking.)

Now, this does not make the man go away. It just means he stands silently by my side for a few minutes before he starts guessing my favorite fruit.

There is a clock in my head: 45 more minutes in the market, 30 more minutes in the market, choose your vegetables! choose your fruit! Don’t forget the cheese stalls! Twenty more minutes until they close! And here’s this man hustling around his stall, grabbing vegetables and putting them in my bags, ordering tranquila!

These markets are among the best things about Europe. One can spend hours in a place like this, comparing prices and quality and chatting with the sellers and customers alike (even me with my slim Spanish.)

Of course, there are some little ladies with very sharp elbows that should be given wide berth. But even they are a good time, because after shoving you aside for their apricots, they will point out that your wallet is easy pickings for thieves, the vendor two stalls over has the best lettuce, or simply insist that your jacket is from Argentina not India. (It’s best not to question.)

Madrid wins on the local side of the oh-so-American organic vs. local food debate. An argument I am forced to have with myself because, just try to talk about organic produce in Spain and you will be met with a blank stare. They don't care. The Spanish buy the food, it tastes good, they eat it.

Speaking of, my random purchases yesterday were: one cauliflower, one eggplant, one bit of ginger, two onions, five purple tomatoes, one bundle of strawberries, parsley, two lemons, and an avocado. I could have bought anything and it would have been a success.

Friends on Speed (There's No Such Thing as Standing Still)

Ever try speed dating?  I’m fascinated by it but will likely never do it.  (Although I  wholeheartedly support your decision to give it a go.)  In fact, I have a New York (female) friend or two who’ve found it thoroughly enjoyable. I bring up speed dating because that’s what it felt like being in Boston the other week.  I hadn’t been back in a while (I wait so long because it doesn’t feel so long until I land in Logan.)  I was speed dating my friends and former colleagues.  Many of my phone conversations/emails went like this: I have an hour here... do you have an hour here?  Luckily though, I didn’t need to do any thin slicing (Gladwell) since I adore these people, but packing them into two or three hour time slots is difficult. And exhausting. And not good enough.

It was a handful of days to see everyone I could (not a dent) while claiming to be more available in December (highly unlikely), and driving to favorite locations (ahem, being driven) to eat anything that wasn’t a tapa, and ordering all the holiday coffee drinks at starbucks.  Spain's starbucks does not believe – perhaps to their benefit – in pumpkin spice, peppermint mocha, or gingerbread lattes.  (I admit to drinking Starbucks in both America and Spain.  Kill me.)

And in the whirlwind, I noticed that my old haunt did not disappear while I had turned my back:

• The front yard of my condo still insists on re-blooming flowers in November.
• The weather is still cold and mists at you; umbrellas are useless.
• The sidewalks are still lethal with heels.
• Harvard Square’s Pho Pasteur still makes excellent tofu vegetable soup, just under a different name.
• Union Square's Bloc 11 still makes the best sandwiches and lets you swap or add any ingredient.  (Don’t try that in Spain.)
• Any coffee shop in Somerville or Cambridge still makes me feel at home.
• The girls at the table next to you are still beautiful and bookish and talking about bottom of the pyramid and microfinancing.  The boys are still reading Sartre.
• There still isn’t any real need to go across the river into Boston.

And all that is a relief because I still really like it there.

Of course, there were some developments (hello completed road construction on Somerville Ave).  In fact, being away for a year allowed me to see how much my friends have changed during that time.  Many of them will be surprised to read that sentence; they probably think they are just going along their life, one day after the next, going to work, going to dinner, going to sleep.  But the friend speeding made clear how different they all are from one another, how their paths have forked into unique lives.

In the past year, one or more of my friends has: gotten married, become a mother or a father (again), moved apartments, gone into therapy, found a new job, been promoted, become a vegetarian, fixed a relationship, ended a relationship, shown their work in a gallery, taken one step closer to knowing what they want.

Most of them look like the best version of themselves: shiny and sleek and happy.  And I wouldn’t have noticed that if I had spent the year with them.  Funny how that step back really helps things (like taking a long, non-America style vacation.)  So, I resolve to think of them – my “old” friends – if ever I feel that I’m just going through the motions.  Because things are happening even when we feel we are standing still (I dare you to quote Lennon) and we just need to be reminded to step back and take a good look.

And that’s what friends are for, isn’t it?