El Cremat

I'm loath to stop talking about the sea. Salt slicked as I was for most of last week, I think maybe the sea marinated me in its briny waters a little. I walked away shot through with its peculiar taste.

It's a taste that, on the Costa Brava at least, mingles easily with that of rum, the kind that Catalan sailors would once bring back from Cuba. At night, by the sea, the sailors would sing songs about the loves they left behind in Havana and drink a flaming beverage called the Cremat. Even though the sheen has worn well off the sailors and Spain's colonial empire, the Cremat is still all good. So are the songs (Havaneres), which have become a popular part of Catalan tradition.

We tried the Cremat on the terrace of Can Gelpí with our friend Guillermo, the waves crashing around us, just as it was meant to be tasted.

At Can Gelpí, which is famed for its Cremat, no part of the experience was a disappointment. The Cremat arrived on our table in a large clay bowl engulfed in bluish flame. It was set down with a single cup of cafe solo (espresso), three espresso cups and a ladle. We were then left to our own devices. We waited and waited for the flames to abate, but they burned on. The minutes passed and the flames soared. We were aware of the alcohol, of course, and reluctant to lose all of its bite. Eventually, thinking that the spectacle had gone on for far too long, Felipe blew out the flame. I think we were just shy of the 10 minutes that the Cremat is supposed to burn. Little did we know. We shared the coffee between the three cups and ladled out the alcohol. We were completely wrong about the procedures that accompany the Cremat, needless to say, but the result was not at all unpleasant. Quite pleasant it was. Indeed, indeed.

I've since learned the ways of the Cremat and cobbled together a recipe from our boisterous night at Can Gelpí and the few internet recipes that I've seen (virtually all in Catalan). Please forgive any imperfections.

Recipe for 6 generous servings of Cremat:

1/2 a bottle (325 mls) of dark Cuban rum
1/2 a bottle (325 mls) of aguardiente de caña (replace it with an equal amount of rum in a pinch)
A cup of cognac or two (optional)
About 75-100 grams of sugar (feel free to add more or less to taste)
The peel of one or two lemons (in long, elegant strips)
One or two sticks of cinnamon (absolutely no powder)
5 or 6 coffee beans (optional)
About 1/2 cup of brewed espresso coffee

Allow night to fall. This is not a daytime drink. Then, in a heatproof earthenware bowl, mix everything but the cup of coffee and set aflame. Let it burn. And, oh, it will burn. For a very long time. You will begin to think, "Should it really be burning this long?" It should. About 10 minutes they say, until the flavours are well blended. Don't worry, let it sit burning on the table to impress your friends.

When you think it's ready, or when there is sufficient general panic that all the alcohol has been consumed by flame (as in our case), pour in the espresso and cover with a lid to extinguish (or just blow on it as Felipe did). Spoon into espresso cups with a ladle and break into song about your lost Cuban love. You might even shed a tear. Who knows. The ways of the Cremat are a little unpredictable.

Port in Porto

There are many lovely things about Portugal. The ubiquity of port wine is one and the fact that many bodegas in Porto will give you a free tasting (Croft and Noval among them) is another.

A type of port that is rarely available in Canada and that I first came to try at Noval in Porto is a white. Unlike ruby or tawny ports, which are typically served as digestifs (though tawny, technically, can be served as an aperitif as well), white port is usually served chilled as a delicious and relatively inexpensive aperitif. It varies in sweetness: a regular white is the driest, a fine white is sweet, and a lagrima is sweeter still. The LCBO in Ontario appears to stock a few brands of fine white, though I expect that you might have to hunt for them.

When we checked into the stately Pestana Palace Hotel, overlooking the Duoro River in Porto, the staff served us a fantastically refreshing mixture of white port (approx. 1 part) and tonic (approx. 2 to 3 parts)--over ice and garnished with a lemon slice. Search the LCBOs, find the white port and make this your new summer drink.

More Cures

Last night I was holed up at home with my orange juice and a half eaten baguette when I got an email from my friend David offering to bring me soup--for the plague, you understand. Where are you going to get soup, I asked. Leave it to me, he said. I know a guy. I'll be over at 930.

He called at 1000. There were some problems, but the guys are working it out. The guys? The guys at the restaurant. Working what out? It's a little complicated. OK. Don't worry. I'm not worried. We're coming. Who's we? Me and the soup. OK. You'll love it. OK.

A little after 1030, my doorbell rang. It was David and the soup: a seafood stew hailing from a Galician* restaurant called Medulio in Gracia (Avda. Principe de Asturias 6, tel. 93 217 3868). Medulio doesn't typically do takeout, but they obliged David. It's hard to say no to the guy. He has a way.

They gave him enough soup for approximately 12 people, all of it poured into an industrially sized container, which was likely the only thing in their possession resembling takeout ware. For a negotiated price, they also threw in a little something extra, which was to be revealed post-soup.

The soup came with instructions. Under no circumstances was it to be reheated in the microwave. Any application of heat was to occur on the stove top and nowhere else. At David's insistence, we dumped the soup into a pot and heated it to steaming for maximum healing efficacy.

The soup was amazing, a rich garlicky fish stock with mussels the size of my palms, baby clams and what I believe to be haddock, but identifying fish in stews isn't one of my strengths so it could have been just about anything. Small mysteries of content aside, it was delicous.

The soup was followed by the revelation of a bright yellow liquor sent to us by Medulio in a plastic cup. This, I learned, was Licor de Hierbas de Galicia or Galician Herb Liquor, which is a little bit like Jagermeister, but more tasty...and Galician. David insisted that the liquor was purely medicinal in purpose before we proceeded to polish it off--him with a presumably preventative intent.

The next morning, I felt like a new woman. I stopped myself from eating the rest of the soup for breakfast with a well deployed chocolate croissant. By the time lunch rolled around, I no longer felt the need to make such heroic efforts.

The rest of the soup is now contributing to my miraculous recovery. I have Medulio and David to thank for their ministrations on my behalf.

(* Galicia is a region in northern Spain known for its excellent seafood.)

A Cure for the Plague

I'm sick. It's not an excuse. I promise. I've been sick for the past week. I think it's the flu. Or pneumonia. Or the plague. Something serious, in any event.

Luckily, the plague hasn't prevented me from venturing out in order to randomly spray the air with plague particles (by way of grow-your-own presents for hapless passers-by) and to purchase the best plague cure known to man: freshly squeezed orange juice. It's so good and so available that it hasn't occurred to me to purchase oranges here to squeeze myself. (Actually, that's never occurred to me.) The exertion is completely unnecessary. Nearly every cafe and bar has a juicer at the counter and most will only charge a euro or two for a glass of juice. You can watch them squeeze you a litre at the market for 4 or 5 euros; and they'll even let you take it home.

So, little by little, the plague is abating, which is for the best; so much phlegm does not become a food girl.

The Perfect Mojito

In order to make the perfect mojito, you first need to spend a lifetime developing a career as a star of stage and screen. In Cuba, of course. Nowhere else. You might end up an actress when you're done. Or you may develop a strong singing voice. Either way, you'll have a presence and a little bit of seed money.

Next, you'll need to take the seed money overseas. Set up a little bar off the beaten path. Don't worry if you don't get much traffic at first. They will come.

Hire a hot bartender half your age (by now you'll be in your sixties). Teach him the ways of Cuba and the world. Make him wear a pony tail and a well tailored shirt.

When you've built up a good clientele--preferably of young Spaniards, who are scantily dressed and just a little sweaty because your bar doesn't have air-conditioning--you'll need to set up an assembly line.

Line up eight tumblers. (You can't truly enjoy a mojito on your own.) Put several sprigs of fresh mint in each. Then, a table spoon of sugar. Add an ounce of lemon syrup and mash with a pestle. Get the eager young bartender to help. Tell him to put a little muscle into it. Once the mashing is done, fill the glasses to the top with crushed ice. Top with three different types of rum (in equal parts); start with a young rum and work your way up to one that's quite mature. Make sure the glasses are full by the time you've added the third rum. Swirl a little grenadine on top with a sexy flourish. Stir. Serve. Drink. Sing along to the Cuban rythms filling your bar. Enjoy life. Repeat.

For further instruction in mojito making and life, proceed to Elsa Bar along C/ Del Torrent L'Olla in Gracia.