A Comer en Espana

Last night was quite amazing. Last minute, I decided to take my oldest son to the Lemony Snicket’s event at Olympus High. Lemony did not disappoint—it was the liveliest book reading I’ve every been to as he ran up down the aisles, played the accordion and piano, sang, shrieked, pulled jaws out of a bag, and interacted in multiple ways with the audience (e.g. warning kids not to not expose their armpits by raising their hands as a bite from the “jaws” is what had delayed the real Lemony Snickets from attending).

After, in an amazing moment of insight for me, I took my son to Café Madrid which serendipitously was just down the street from Olympus high. Of course this set me back about 40 more dollars than if I’d just taken him out for a hamburger, but now he has officially “dined,” something I did not do until I found myself in NY by myself as a teenager in front of a lobster, a lobster and assortment of glasses and silverware I could not decipher. You know how sometimes you set out to have a great experience with your kids and it doesn’t workout—they end up hating it or feel you are preaching or they don’t appreciate it. But this little “experience” actually worked. It was pure delight.

We order a Spanish styled salad with Spanish olives and what I call cold asparagus (it’s lighter and has strange texture), then had entremeses (a platter of cured meats—jamon Serrano, some type of pork, and chorizo), next was gambas con bacon, and lastly an amazingly creamy flan. Our waitress was quite understanding, allowing us to eat piecemeal, sharing each tapa in this upscale restaurant surrounded by real adults dining out. And the owner/chef (who I think I overheard is also an artist or maybe his spouse is—still not clear on this) talked with us and even gave us a free bowl of his special chicken soup. I hadn’t remembered (from my missionary days in Spain) any particular Spanish style of chicken soup so he set out to show me what I’d missed. Turns out the minute I tasted the soup, I recognized the flavors and was sent back to 10-years ago (I mean 16 years ago) to a little old woman’s house dressed in black (still mourning for her husband) who served us chicken soup.

I just have to say that my son was not only a good sport but into it. He’s not a sheep when comes to food—he generally hates to eat out and regularly refuses to eat fastfood. At first he was a bit nervous as the restaurant is fancy and I think a bit disorienting for him, but he settled in and enjoyed each part of the experience. During our meal he said, “I love how each little piece of food tastes different; it’s like when we usually eat we just mix everything together.” Oh son, if you only knew how important those words are to me. A true budding food connoisseur—a wonderful gift, one which will bring you much joy (and probably some harassment and disappointment in Layton) and passion.