What’s For Lunch?
Welcome to my random musings about the world, on a weekly-to-occasional basis.
Where we are: We’re in Doha, Qatar, for a few days, soaking up sunshine after the grey drear of Germany in winter. It’s a bit of a head-spinning pivot; everything looks different, from the clothes to the food to the architecture to the scenery. I love these dramatic moves—they keep me on my toes, and remind me of the world’s infinite variety. How dull would it be if everything and everyone looked the same??
What’s For Lunch?
I’m usually pretty clear on what’s for lunch: eat the local specialty, unless it’s something I have zero interest in (for instance, sausages).
Spanish food is fabulous—world-famous, in fact. Lots of the world’s most famous chefs are Spanish. Molecular gastronomy came from Spain. Gazpacho is Spanish. You get my point. Spain has a distinct food culture, and as tourists, we want to experience the ‘authentic’ local culture. Especially if it’s tasty.
But in Andalusia—the south—there’s a lot of Arabic and North African influence in the food.
Which, to be clear, I also love. A beautiful vegetable tagine, over couscous with dried apricots and pine nuts and saffron? Yum. But also … not what I was planning to eat in Spain. Before our arrival, I was fantasizing about paella and jamon and patatas bravas. Not couscous.
The other day I saw (and promptly purchased) some mamoul, which are a shortbready cookie stuffed with ground dates. I always seek them out in North Africa and the Middle East—a fresh mamoul is a real treat (which I’ve been known to eat for breakfast).
But they don’t feel Spanish.
Or do they? The big attraction in Cordoba is the Mezquita, which is a massive mosque that was in operation for hundreds of years, until the Catholics booted out the Muslims and plopped a cathedral on top. It’s stunningly beautiful, and the cultural/architectural mish-mash is special in a way that makes all those ‘superlative’ Northern European churches and cathedrals blur together in one well-buttressed wall of cold grey stone. The Mezquita is truly unique.
Nowadays in Cordoba, there’s Serrano ham on every breakfast buffet. I’m not sure that’s any more or less authentically Spanish than the Arabic horseshoe arches that hold up the Mezquita.
Last night we went to a flamenco performance, and afterward I told Lee that I thought the singing was somewhere between improvisational jazz and the call to prayer. That’s my feeling about this part of Spain—it’s between. Between Northern Europe and North Africa; between Catholicism and Islam; between east and west. In this between place, all I can do is embrace the beautiful—and the delicious.
I mean, what does authentic really mean, anyway?
From my writer’s notebook:
A painting was recently returned to a state museum in Munich, from the Chicago family that has held it for the last eighty years. It was stolen by an American soldier during the Second World War; about a year ago, a family member reported that an uncle had returned from service with a “stolen or looted painting.” Art Recovery International, to whom the tip was submitted, researched the painting, figured out where it had come from, and ultimately facilitated its return.
I wish I knew what that soldier was thinking when he decided it was a good idea to bring home a painting. Where did he stumble across it? Was it in storage, having been hidden at the outbreak of war? Was it piled up with the rest of the museum’s collection somewhere in the countryside? Did it somehow come to be in one of the collection depots where so much of the Nazi-looted art was gathered? Did he find it at a flea market, or hanging on the wall of a house he cleared? I have so many questions. I can see buying a few souvenirs for the wife and kids back home, but what were the circumstances that made taking a painting seem like a good idea? I wonder.
Take care,
Lisa
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