Homage to Catalonia

My wife and I were recently honoured with an invite to a night out with a party of locals.

Now, depending on where you are in the world this may not seem like anything remarkable.

When we lived in the States – whose citizens I have found to be probably the most hospitable of any place I have been – we were invited into people’s homes on a regular basis, sometimes after we’d only just met them.

However the Catalans, as they themselves observe, tend to be more reserved. It takes a while to make it past the polite smiles on the street and into their houses (a comment many people make about we English).

This though is one of the advantages of sending your children to the local schools in your adopted country – you start to integrate more into the community. And so it has been with us.

On this occasion we were asked out to dinner by the two ladies who split the role of classroom monitor for our daughter, who has severe food allergies. Because of their close association with our little girl we’ve got to know them fairly well. And so, with their husbands in tow, they took us to their favourite restaurant.

First thing to note – the Spanish eat late. This is particularly the case in Madrid, where it’s almost time for breakfast once dinner is done. But even here in provincial Catalunya our hosts didn’t pick us up until 9:30 pm, and it was a half hour drive to our destination.

It was the kind of place you’d never find on your own, a hidden gem frequented by those in the know. It was in a village I’d not seen before, although I must have driven by it several times, a traditional Catalan masia with bare stone walls and exposed wooden beams, serving traditional Catalan food.

The car park was packed, the tables in the plaza outside were packed, the series of small dining rooms inside were packed. But fortunately one of the husbands was friends with the owner.

Second thing to note – by and large, vegetarians are not well catered for in Spain.

The menu was what you’d describe as hale and hearty. Rustic fare. Meaty, in all senses.

On the table as we arrived were baskets of toasted bread, which you rub with fresh tomatoes and garlic cloves, drizzle with olive oil and eat with slices of the local dried sausage.

The house wine came out of an unlabelled green bottle with a cork half-stuffed in the top, probably produced a couple of kilometres up the road. Hardly Château Lafite, but eminently drinkable. And a fraction of what you’d pay for similar quality in the US or Britain.

Starters were local specialities too: plates of sliced anchovies, strips of Iberian ham, snails.

The main course selection included rabbit kebabs, guinea fowl, shoulder of kid goat, spareribs, veal steaks. When the plates arrived they were loaded with slabs of tender meat. Vegetables though – if you exclude the fries – were nowhere to be seen.

One of the women, Neus, had pigs’ trotters, a local delicacy to be found in every self-respecting butcher’s. My wife and I have always fought shy of it, but when she offered us a taste decided to give it a try. After all, when in Rome ... The gelatine-based consistency and flavour actually wasn’t bad, but a couple of mouthfuls would be enough.

Aside from the food we were also privileged with an insider’s view of the Catalans themselves.

Catalunya is not so much a region within Spain as a nation within a nation. It has its own language, own flag, own customs, own festivals. And they have a renowned antipathy towards ‘Spain’ as a whole and Madrid in particular, not least because of General Franco’s aggression during the Civil War and repression of Catalan culture during his four-decade dictatorship, something they have energetically sought to redress since his death.

More revealing though were the insights of Neus’ husband, who described the tensions that exist within Catalunya, between Barcelona – where he was born and raised – and the regions.

As George Orwell describes in “Homage to Catalonia,” Barcelona was a stronghold of the Republican forces during the Civil War, and one of the last places to fall to Franco’s Nationalists. Subsequently Barcelona – not least through its eponymous football team – became a centre of opposition to the General’s regime.

And with Franco’s death and the return of democracy Barcelona emerged as the hub of Catalanism, the seat of the region’s autonomous government, the Generalitat de Catalunya.

Given such precedence, and the local population’s near universal and fervent support for FC Barcelona, I’d have thought the city and all it represents would be viewed with pride by the Catalans. Not so.

Barcelona has long been the commercial powerhouse of Spain. As a result, our companion explained, Barcelonans have had far greater exposure to the wider world, and are more cosmopolitan for it.

By contrast the area where we live, with its traditional agricultural and fishing communities, was practically cut off from the outside world until as little as 50 or 60 years ago. An adventure was travelling to the local market town.

And that contrast between commercial cosmopolitanism and rural isolation remains in the mindsets today. For while Barcelonans look down on the provincials as hicks, those in the provinces regard Barcelonans as rich city types that know nothing of their lives and are not to be trusted.

Which is why, after 23 years of living in our little patch of Catalunya, he is still referred to as “Neus’ husband,” rather than by his own name.