Jack Kerouac wrote "On the Road" in three weeks, prompting Truman Capote to quip, "That isn't writing, it's typing." In the same vein, I sometimes think that what I do isn't traveling, it's driving. I pass swiftly on modern tarmac roads through vast stretches of territory, home to peoples whose ancestors fought and died for the right to inhabit a particular valley or cultivate a certain patch of land. My eyes and mind are on the vegetation and I give scarcely a thought to the human beings toiling in the fields and eking a living from the often marginal land where wild plants have so far survived the encroaching tide of civilisation.
The industry that has sprung up in the last thirty years to exploit tourists makes it much easier to visit a foreign country without experiencing anything in the least discomfiting. I remember a former customer relating incredulously the story of his honeymoon in Thailand. On being shown to their suite, this couple's first instinct was not to strip bollock naked and fuck, but instead to turn on the TV. A search ensued and, behold, there was no TV!!! My customer advised me to stay away from Thailand.
It is easy to take the infrastructure of tourism fro granted. Going out of season, as I often do, to regions that have no industry other than tourism and agriculture is a pain in the ass, because the hotels and restaurants are generally closed. Why would they open when there are no customers? I spent a week in the Picos de Europa in late March and was greeted with incredulity at most of the hotels at which I stayed. On the first evening I was presented with a long and implausible menu, featuring creatures from most of the extant Phyla on earth. I ordered goat, reasoning that you can't really go wrong with a goat stew. Bad choice. By the time I admitted defeat I had christened my dinner 'Goat Extra-Matura' in honour of its origin in the previous season, if not the Burgess Shales. The Rioja was passable.
A few days later, driving east through the southern approaches to the Picos, I felt a familiar sensation in the pit of my stomach. Lunchtime approached. I passed village after village with no sign of an open restaurant or cafe and I resigned myself to making do with a picnic comprising an emergency stick of salami and half a bottle of Rioja. While looking for somewhere to stop, I passed an unprepossessing building that appeared to be a restaurant. Dozens of cars were parked on the nearby verges. I drove a few hundred meters down the road before reversing course and finding a place to stop.
I wish I could say that the welcome I received, as I walked into the dimly lit basement of the restaurant was warm. In fact it was curt. Then again, I speak no Spanish and it was clear that every other person in the place was a Spaniard. I managed to indicate that I'd like to eat lunch. The waiter shrugged and pointed to the absolutely full restaurant, implying that there was no room. "Might I eat outside?" I asked, in sign language. Another shrug, which I took as a yes. I took a seat at a table outside and opened the book I had brought with me from the car. A good book is an essential tool in the armoury of the solitary diner. Eventually a waitress appeared. She recited a list of the things I might eat and, negligible though my command of Spanish is, I understood. I would like asparagus, followed by hake and I would decide about dessert later. Also red wine and water, please. The red wine and water arrived by return, the former chilled, unlabelled and utterly delicious. With it came a basket of bread.
For a few minutes my book lay ignored as I soaked up the sunshine, drinking cold red wine and eating bread that can't have been more than two hours out of the oven in which it was baked. The waitress reappeared with a plate bearing five fat spears of white asparagus, skillfully peeled, a blob of oily mayonnaise the only accompaniment. The asparagus melted on my tongue and slipped sensually down my throat. After a long, welcome pause the hake arrived, pan fried to perfection. There may have been a salad as well. I don't remember for sure. Each flake of fish parted effortlessly from the last and went into my mouth with a squeeze of lemon juice and a sigh of pleasure. The faintest hint of iodine was the only indication that the hake hadn't died the day I ate it. These two courses epitomise everything I love about cooking and eating. The ingredients were simple and few, their quality unimpeachable and they were cooked with great skill and masterful restraint.
I had no room for dessert but finished with an espresso, also perfectly made. The bill came to eight Euros. I left a tip.
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