My Favorite Meal

photo by sophie mcleod

my favorite meal 

fourth year shannon moran 

What is your favorite meal? Is it a meal that ties you to a person? To a place? 

Is it a takeout pizza? Your grandma’s recipe? A Michelin star dish? 

My favorite meal is tapas paired with wine and shared with friends. 

We raced through the bitter chill of January and into a dimly lit taberna. Old advertisements for vermouth and aging family photos clung to carved wooden shelves. Cigarette smoke wafted from the bar where seasoned patrons glared with suspicion. I stiffly reclined into a well-worn leather chair as a burly man barreled towards the table in search of our orders. Fumes of alcohol and cologne followed him like a smog. My eyes darted to the menu. Having only spoken Spanish within a classroom setting, I was unprepared for the lengthy list of food and drinks. I racked my brain for the restaurant vocabulary that I had learned in high school. But in the end, panic overcame me. "Just water, please," I stammered like a child, frantically employing Google Translate. Stale sweat streamed from my forehead. Without a word, the waiter fetched a pitcher of sangria from the bar. He urged us to relax and said that he would return with the finest tapas in Madrid. I frantically searched for the meaning of tapas, small plates ranging from a simple bowl of olives to a slow-cooked beef dish. We took a collective sigh of relief and began to relish in the ambiance. A woman nestled in the corner gingerly plucked the strings of a cherry-wood acoustic guitar, serenading the restaurant with her peaceful melody. 

Eventually, the waiter returned with a platter of ornate dishes. He described each tapa in detail, beginning with pimientos de padrón, fried green peppers drizzled with lemon juice and flecks of coarse sea salt. Most have a mild, slightly bitter taste but the occasional pepper boasts heat like a jalapeño, which quickly turns into a game of green pepper roulette. Croquetas de jamón, or ham croquettes, soothed our burning tongues with a bechamel filling. The tortilla española reminded me of an omelet from home, made with eggs, finely diced potatoes, oil, salt, and onion. Berenjenas con miel, fried eggplant with honey, was the perfect blend of savory and sweet. While indulging in the rich cuisine, we noticed the waiter slicing a monstrous piece of meat in the kitchen. He emerged with a plate of jamón ibérico, sliced pork leg that had been cured in the countryside for twelve months. He paired it with manchego cheese and a nutty Fino Sherry. What began as a nerve-wracking experience turned into a four-hour-long feast bursting with flavor. As we left the quaint restaurant with satisfied stomachs and a newfound appreciation for Spain, the waiter exclaimed, “Volver pronto,” meaning come back soon.