Bread

It’s a rainy weekend here, and I’ve gotten around to writing our blog about Spanish bread. A few preliminary updates, though:

- We are again swimming in the Spanish germ pool. In the past two weeks, we’ve had roseola (x1), the stomach flu (x6), colds (x2), and malaise (x2). Seth’s had it the worst – been in school for a grand total of two full days out of the past 10. And there’s no end in sight – we’ve got him home for at least tomorrow, too. We apparently need to learn how to say (in Spanish) “Is your family harboring a Norovirus? In that case, my child can’t play with yours.”

- For one of those weeks of Starhill illness, I was away in Cyprus, visiting a colleague and his family. Wonderful and very interesting island – beaches, ancient archeological sites, birthplace of Aphrodite, and lots and lots of food. Not a good situation for Jon, though, who could only venture forth from the house (e.g., to take non-sick children to school) at the risk of a giant poop explosion from the ill.

- Nora had her 9^th birthday Saturday, complete with a party with girls from the complex. Jon organized the activities and I Seth-wrestled during the event, which was good, because one of the above-mentioned colds (me) and stomach flus (Seth) was occurring at the same time as the party.

OK, back to bread. It’s customary in Madrid to purchase a daily loaf of bread, usually a baguette, for consumption during the day. It’s really not an optional part of living here. For instance, even though the entire city is closed Sundays, bakeries stay open as a kind of public service to people who couldn’t possibly consider eating day-old, frozen, or square bread. We adopted this white bread addiction local custom without any trouble whatsoever.

So early on in our stay in Madrid, we sampled bread from all around the area: the supermarket (surprisingly good), a couple very local chain bakeries (OK) and then the bakery that sits on the main street in Alcobendas. We stopped there; their bread is heavenly. There’s a baguette-like bread called “gallega” which is thin with flaky crust; a cousin called the leiña, which is bigger and chewier; there’s also a poppyseed baguette, a sesame seed baguette, a plain white baguette, a whole wheat baguette, and, for lack of a better descriptor, a fat baguette. Of course, all of these have names in Spanish which I can’t remember when it’s my turn to step up to the counter. So it’s taken me awhile to figure out how to order the exact kind of bread we like, and we are still trying all the varieties, as they appear and disappear at random. The place also has butter-based sweets (croissants, napoleons, and a dozen other kinds that we can’t yet name), pastries with cheese/meat fillings, cookies, coffee drinks, and because we’re in Spain, beer, wine, and hard alcohol. They also sell bingo/lottery tickets. My favorite is the lottery advertised in a poster on their door, which reads “Wouldn’t your life be better if you won a rack of ham? Buy here and enter the XXY church lottery. One winner per week!” The advertisement’s decoration includes a side of ham, just like they sell (for 80 Euros and up) at the local grocery store.

The most interesting thing about this bakery, however, is the attitude that comes with the bread. The place is run by three brothers, all with big ears and hound-dog expressions. Occasionally, you also see their father, who has the same big ears, but is cheerful and talkative – probably because he’s retired. Pictures of him as a young man, presumably circa 1950, decorate the wall. Often, a baby girl with the same big ears appears as well—next in line to the gallega fortune. The baby’s mother consistently looks like she’s at the end of her rope, perhaps because her husband (we can’t tell which one he is yet; all three brothers appear indifferent to her presence) spends all day every day at the bakery.

Anyway, I digress; back to attitude. Unlike Jon’s padel instructors, these brothers have no problem making decisions. Spending a fair amount of time in the bakery, I’ve often seen them argue with patrons, for instance about the kind of bag the bread should go into or about what kind of lottery tickets the customer should buy. Typically the arguments occur at such a high velocity that I have no idea what it’s about. I’ve also personally a) been scolded for mistakenly telling them that we were taking out the food rather than eating in (easy to do if you confuse your ll verbs like llevar [take out] and llenar [fill up]; b) ordered the last two muffins (for my kids!) and had them plated by one brother but repossessed by another; c) been berated for ordering the wrong thing in the wrong location within the store (if you’re eating in-house, bread, butter-based items, and cookies must be ordered separately in a kind of Spanish Bakery Kosher law). And the cost of the same loaf of bread changes daily, according to which brother happens to wait on you (or perhaps, the mood of the brother who waits on you). Nobody ever leaves upset, but it is quite a trial to get the goods sometimes.

Over time, however, they seem to have come to accept our family and are even occasionally friendly. They give the kids lollipops or bread sticks. When I was in Cyprus, one of the brothers asked Jon where I’d gone. And one day when I was struggling to get out the correct word for the exact baguette I wanted, one of the brothers asked (in Spanish) “Well in English, what do you call this bread?” When I explained that in English there’s only one word for the dozen different kinds of baguette they sell, he just shook his head in disbelief at our American ways.

Next up: Daily bread delivery service. Yes – they have such things here in Spain. What else would the long, thin mailbox-like containers at your front gate be for?