Spain is incredibly rich in culinary diversity.
Every pueblo has it’s own speciality – of which the local population are both proud and protective. Wherever you go there are dishes you “simply have to try”.
Go north and the cuisine turns heavier, featuring stews and pulses. Along the extensive coastline there are shellfish and fried fish specialities. Go inland and the you’ll enjoy the delights of the matanza – where every part of the pig is turned into delicacies from jamón to chorizo, morcilla to carrillada.
In places the piglets don’t even get the chance to wean – suckling pig being a firm favourite and speciality in cities such as Segovia.
Murcia is no different – La Huerta (the vegetable garden) enjoys a broad range of delicacies not found outside a 30km radius : morcón, pasteles de carne, longaniza… the list is almost endless with every offering seemingly more tasty than the last.
And it was here that I was treated to lunch at the Venta La Paloma – today victim to the new motorway which passed it by and took with it it’s regular trade.
But back then…. back then it was a bustling truck stop, dark and dingy inside with longaniza sausages hanging from ceiling beams and loud patrons three deep around the bar, beers and tapas in hand, the floors littered with shells (nuts, shellfish) olive stones, bread crumbs and serviettes. Character ingrained into the thick walls that kept out the heat and small windows that let in little light.
And we were going to lunch. With Pedro. I love Pedro. He is a patriarcal figure in the family, is Murcia born and bred and proud of his region as only a Spaniard can be in these times of geographic mobility and the draw of the big cities.
And because he loves me back, he orders our food. He and I are going to share a starter – a speciality he called to order in advance the previous day.
Anticipation is high. I enjoy eating. And when the plate arrives, it looks…. it looks…. it looks…… at… me.
Half a sheep’s head, slow baked in the oven until the meat ( I say meat, but…) is falling away from the bones (skull).
It doesn’t take an expert to work out that if you get half a sheep’s heads you get a cheek, half a tongue, half a brain and…. yep… an eye.
I’m not a fussy eater – I should, perhaps, have started this piece with this affirmation. I will eat almost anything, and have done.
So I began – the cheeks were easy, the tongue was fine, the brains – not really a fan, but I worked my way through the meal. It was good.
As I made to leave my cutlery amid the cranial carnage Pedro applauded me for leaving the best til last. This was not precisely what I had done.
The single eyeball looked up at me – a little like when you look at someone with a squint and you’re not quite sure if they are looking at you or something over your shoulder…. well, just like that.
And lifeless, obviously.
But… in for a penny. I decided that cutting it in half was probably going to make a bigger mess than was warranted, so I popped it in whole.
I won’t go into detail, suffice to say that I don’t want to eat another one. Ever. Ever, ever… ever.
I smiled. I nodded. I struggled to swallow, and Pedro beamed.
And that made it all worthwhile
