2 posts tagged “morocco”

Burger King in Spain

I have never eaten in a McDonald's, Burger King, or the like while visiting another country. Not even Canada. I simply refuse. As a former chef, it feels like my sworn duty to scoff at those 'other' travelers I see sitting at the familiar fast-food joints, eating burgers and fries mindlessly when they could be experiencing the very lifeblood of a culture and its history: the food. I have cursed the forces of greed that manifested a McDonald's directly across from the Pantheon in Rome, as well as everyone in it. I call the Puerta del Sol in Madrid "McDonalds-ville" because it is always swarmed with tourists and 95% of them are munching or sipping something with an "M" on it. I regard these people with an obsessive curiosity, wondering what brought them to this country in the first place. If you want to eat fast food you certainly don't have to fly across an ocean to do it.

It's not always easy for me to choose where to eat in a foreign city. I have been known to do a few subtle walk-bys to see how many people are inside, or to see if there is a place to sit, or to get a glimpse of the dishes to see if I recognize them. I practice my other-language greetings under my breath. I get ready for the stares of the locals as a 6-foot blonde of indeterminate ethnicity walks in the door. But I suck it up and get out there. I'm not just here for the museums.

My last trip was to Spain and Morocco with my cousin. We started in Madrid and after five straight days of walking, drinking, and eating pork, we were ready to move on to Seville. We were both still wrestling with jet lag, and we woke every night between 4 and 5 am to people singing at the tops of their lungs as they walked home from the bars. On our last night, we were tired and got into bed early with our books. Almost two hours later, at 12:30, I put down my book and said, "I am not even close to sleeping." My cousin said, "Neither am I."

"I think it's beer time," I said. "The supermarket's closed," she said. I paused only a moment. Then I gathered some coins, went to the lobby, and got two beers from the vending machine. The only beer they had was Heineken. In a can. Wow. We wouldn't be caught dead drinking this in our hometowns of Minneapolis and Los Angeles. But it was beer time. Once it's declared, it's not like you can not drink beer.  

We played double solitaire for an hour before realizing that one of the decks had 51 cards in it. I went back to the lobby for round two. We played 'speed' and tried to remember other card games from childhood so we wouldn't have to resort to 'fish' or 'war.' We laughed and drank and snacked. At 2:09 we turned on the TV and found a show in English for the first time, which seemed like a huge victory for some reason. "We should just stay up all night!" I said defiantly. After ten minutes of 'war,' we were asleep.

The next day we were up earlier than usual, packing and getting ready to go to the train station. We had been buying food from the grocery store all week so we wouldn't have to eat every meal in a restaurant or bar. I looked at the dregs of our pantry, sitting in sad little plastic bags on the floor. There was a small container of yogurt that hadn't seen a refrigerator in three days.

Spanish Coffee

 Whole cooked vacuum-packed beets that we had planned to make into a salad but never did. Half of a baguette that we bought two days ago. A little cheese. Some fruit. We were on the move, so the rule was:  eat it, toss it, or carry it. I tore at the dry bread, but the only thing I could think about was a giant bowl of Cinnamon Life drowning in ice-cold milk. I looked at the clock to see if I had time to get to the market. Who was I kidding. We didn't even have a bowl. I had a beet and a piece of cheese on a crust of bread. My cousin had a beet and a kiwi. We tossed the rest.

In the train station we went to the coffee shop, naturally. The coffee in Madrid can cure all that ails. It is a potent and magical mix of dark, rich espresso, served with hot foamy milk on the side. No crappy lattes that taste like milk. No wet or dry. No nonfat milk. Just good, thick espresso with hot milk to your liking. We needed it. I saw a waxy chocolate donut in the case and I ordered that too.

We sat down and they brought the coffee and donut. The donut was served on a plate with a knife and fork. So I used them, what the hell. As I cut into it I could see the Easter egg-yellow cake that had never seen a stick of butter. Mass-produced. Probably frozen. Bottom-of-the-barrel in the bountiful world of European pastries.

"This looks exactly like a Hostess chocolate donut and I'm sure it will taste like one," I said, disdainfully. My cousin nodded, joining me in my food-snobbery. I lifted the fork to my mouth and found that it did, in fact, taste exactly like a packaged donut from 7-11. But in that moment, all judgment fell away. I felt soothed and delighted. This freaking thing was delicious. The familiar taste and texture was a comforting point of reference for my weary soul, temporarily lost in a land of nocturnal pork worshippers. I was going to be okay.

We spent four nights in Seville, and then made our way to Marrakech by bus, boat, train, taxi, and foot. We had a few mishaps and miscalculations on the road in Morocco but eventually got back to Madrid to catch our flight home. We walked through McDonalds-ville one last time on the way to our favorite bar, and I noticed that I now looked at the crowds without my usual contempt. I saw them as people…travelers who probably felt a bit overwhelmed, a bit homesick, a little tired of trying so hard. Maybe they had beets for breakfast. I realized I can cut them some slack. Especially because the McDonald's in Madrid serve "Helado y Café"…a cup of vanilla soft-serve filled to the brim with coffee. No one could look down on the simple genius of that. In fact I thought I might just walk in and get one…or even some fries…and walk out with my head held high.

Helado y Cafe