An International Feast

by Sarah Carson Creehan (United States of America)

Making a local connection Spain

David reached for his cold caña as I pulled another steaming croqueta from the plate. The subtle crunch of the fried coating melted away to reveal a gooey mixture of potato and ham that sizzled on my tongue. I winced and fanned my burning mouth. Sophia laughed at my charades while tearing at a chunk of salty Manchego cheese, tossing the rind back on the plate. Mihau picked at a few olives that swam in oil, while Julian slurped the last fragrant sardine. The street lamps flickered on, and an explosion of laughter sounded from inside the crowded bar. The summer air had warmed the outer walls. When I leaned back, I could still feel the spectacular Madrid sun baking the stone. El Capricho had been our go-to place since David, our professor, had led us through the winding streets of the city to this gaudy, local spot eight months earlier. The bar’s owner, a round Asturian man with a big Santa Claus beard, plopped a bottle of sidra on the table along with overflowing plates of Spanish delicacies. “Ok, chicos,” David crowed, with his usual, enthusiastic grin. “Who wants to pour this round?” His question, in Spanish, registered immediately in my brain without translation. He eyed each one of us, seeing who would be brave enough to pour Asturian cider the proper way: holding the bottle high above your head in one hand and the glass low in the other. It requires perfect aim, which becomes more difficult the more cider one consumes. “Vale, yo!” Sophia exclaimed, pushing her glasses onto her nose. Grasping the bottle and cup, she executed a perfect pour. Mihau gave his smirking half-smile, and Julian nodded, lips pursed, in his subtle approving way. Another eruption of cheers from the bar, this time over a goal scored in the fútbol game on TV. I thought about the cumulative hours I had spent with these four people. Days, weeks, months of my life poring over textbooks, analyzing Spanish grammar, studying, laughing…and, of course, eating. A new dish appeared: tender slices of ham, paper thin and glossy. We playfully slapped one another’s hands as we vied for each piece. My mind drifted to the studying that I needed to do for a national Spanish exam, only a week away. Had I still been in college, I would have excused myself early – or not gone to the bar at all – to tuck myself away and study. But here – at this bar – I was studying. I took another gulp of the crisp cider, turned to Sophia, and said in Spanish, “We’re going to pass!” It was true confidence talking, not the cider. “Sí, claro,” she nodded, her mouth full of tuna-stuffed empanada. I spun around to David, who was laughing with Mihau and Julian, mouth wide open. Grabbing his arm, I exclaimed, “Lo vamos a hacer muy bien!” “You will be great,” he encouraged in halting English. Spanish to his very core, dark-haired David had been teaching our eclectic group for almost a year. We each had our own reasons for attending the language school housed in one of the ornate buildings off of Puerta del Sol. Sophia and I, both Americans working in Spain, wanted to earn the official certification that would prove to the world – but mostly to ourselves – that we really knew Spanish. It could bring me one step closer to feeling fully at home in the country that had a tight grip on my heart. Julian, from the Philippines, was hoping a little practice would help with his MBA. And Mihau, from Poland, had already lived in Madrid many years with his wife and daughter. I think he liked the company more than anything else. Mihau rubbed his eyes and took the last swig of his now warm cider. The fútbol fans had dispersed into the inky darkness. David tried balancing his empty bottle on his head, squeezing my shoulder for stability. Sophia nestled her head into the crook of my neck. That full, cozy feeling filled me, and I closed my eyes, enjoying the sound of my not-so-traditional Spanish family speaking our common tongue.