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Wednesday, December 7, 2016

Postcard 2011_Catalan Christmas from NY

     A Catalan Christmas -2011 (Lisa Abend)

IT was the Christmas season in Barcelona, but inside the city hall, a 14th-century palace, a scene from “the Arabian Nights” was playing out. Palm trees and satin cushions had turned the Gothic patio into a desert tent, complete with incense and Middle Eastern music. Pages, clad in pantaloons and velvet-trimmed turbans, led each child to the Moorish throne of the Royal Mailman and the bulging satchel he would use to convey their petitions to the Three Kings. Yes, those Three Kings: the magi in the manger with the frankincense and myrrh. Here in the Mediterranean, the North Pole and the jolly guy in the fur-trimmed suit don’t make much cultural sense. And you have to admit that there’s a certain biblical logic to having the Kings rather than Santa bear gifts.
Like so many things in life — soccer, sex, pigs’ feet with snails — Christmas is better in Barcelona. Not for the Catalans the tinsel, the candy canes, the celebrity reindeer with his blinking nose. No, Christmas in Barcelona is an altogether sleeker affair, whimsical and exotic in equal measure.
Next came the dish I had heard most about. Canelones are quintessential Christmas food in Catalonia, and I had been told that the only place to eat them was in someone’s home. Fina Navarro, the Fonda’s manager and wife of the chef Carles Gaig, explained: “Traditionally, you eat them on St. Stephen’s Day,” Dec. 26, she said. “Your grandmother would have made a big pot of escudella for Christmas Day,” she added, referring to a chickpea and meat stew, “and she would use the leftover meat to stuff the canelones.” It was hard to imagine even a grandmother making a better version: the tender meat encased in pasta tubes and topped with a creamy béchamel was deeply flavorful but surprisingly light.
The next day, I had a date at the crèche in Sant Jaume Square in the center of Barcelona. In recent years, the Christmas tree, like Santa Claus, has made inroads into Spanish holiday culture. But the Spanish still reserve most of their adornment impulses for Nativity scenes. The one in the square was huge — a diorama, really — with bucolic scenes of peasants leading donkeys and hauling hay. Mary and the baby Jesus seemed almost beside the point. Especially when I noticed the figure in the corner of the manger relieving himself.
“You found him,” said Joan Lliteras, the collector I had arranged to meet. It was hard not to; the squatting figurine had his pants around his ankles. He is called a caganer, and as Mr. Lliteras explained, is a feature in every Barcelona Nativity scene. To prove the point, he led me a few blocks away to an annual exhibit organized by the Association of Friends of the Caganer, of which Mr. Lliteras is president. Inside were some 400 figures, some dating back to the 18th century. The stream of visitors seemed particularly taken by the ones of the famous — Lady Gaga, Plácido Domingo — all doing their business.
“In the past, people believed that if you didn’t put a caganer in your Nativity scene, you’d have a bad harvest,” said Mr. Lliteras , with the gravity of a man discussing debt relief. “Others say that they’re a reminder of our essential humanity — that even in the midst of the most divine moments, nature still calls.” He pointed out a caganer dressed as a politician. “For me, they speak of the absurdity of life. The caganer reminds you that there’s always something to laugh about.”
Laughing myself, I realized it was almost time for the big moment, and I hurried to the port. Barcelona celebrates the arrival of the Three Kings with the pomp of a state visit, and by the time I arrived on the afternoon of Jan. 5, the waterfront was a mob scene. The mayor was there, waiting anxiously on his receiving platform as a tall-masted ship sailed into the harbor. The kings — Gaspar with a flowing white beard and with layers of fur draped over his shoulders; red-haired Melchior with his soaring crown; and dark-skinned Baltasar with his turban — disembarked amid a scrum of paparazzi. After a few speeches about peace on earth, they received the key to the city: one that, the mayor noted in this land of chimneyless apartments (another reason Santa would find it tough in Barcelona), would unlock the doors to every child’s house. A high-pitched roar went up as a mounted guard parted the crowd of thousands. Gaspar, Melchior and Baltasar made their way toward the fleet of Model T’s that would whisk them to the start of the cabalgata, or parade.

I raced along the waterfront and, turning left on the Via Laietana, grabbed a prime viewing spot. It was nearly dark, and the whole city, it seemed, had turned out, with families stuffed onto balconies, and a clutch of Sisters of Mercy passing the wait by snacking on sunflower seeds. A toddler in a bear hat made a break for the street; his parents snatched him back just as the red-coated guards on their black stallions approached. Behind them came floats, though the word hardly does justice to the magical creations processing up the street.
There were dancing angels with illuminated wings, and disco balls suspended from silvery sculptures that cast glittering shards of light on the street. Fantastical birdmen on stilts preceded a swaying dinosaurlike creature, and archers lowered their 15-foot-tall bows so that procrastinators could drop last-minute wish lists into the wire mailboxes attached there. Through it all, elaborately costumed revelers on the floats pelted the crowd with candy; one nun elbowed me out of the way in her quest to get a Starburst. Finally, the Kings themselves rode by, mounted on fine carriages, and behind them, a giant clock, reminding children it was time for bed.
For the rest of us, it was time for dinner. In Spain, what you eat at Christmas when you’re not eating truffle-stuffed turkey and the almond nougat called turrón, is shellfish. In Barcelona, no less an authority than Ferran Adrià told me the best place for it was Rías de Galicia. He’s hardly an objective source; José Carlos Iglesias, one of three brothers who inherited the restaurant from their parents, is a partner with Mr. Adrià and his brother Albert in Tickets, a tapas bar. Still, I figured, he’s got good taste.
And so he does. Rías de Galicia, just outside the old theater district, is a formal, old-fashioned seafood restaurant, complete with gilt-framed seascapes on the walls. Some of the preparations, like a sashimi tasting, which included perfect specimens of shrimp, gilthead bream and tuna belly were unexpectedly modern. Razor clams on the plancha were sweet and dense, and shellfish rice, full of cockles, scallops and — another innovation — wild mushrooms, was utterly delicious.

When it was over, it was midnight. I wandered over to the Gran Via, the broad avenue that cuts across the city, to find it lighted festively and full of people happily perusing the offerings at a toy market. Barcelona apartments are small, making it difficult for parents to keep presents hidden until Reyes. So the sensible Catalans devised the very seny solution of holding a market late on the night before the holiday; you can tuck your kids into bed and go shopping without the little ones being any the wiser. Except for a candy stall or two — all oversize ruby lollipops and snaking lengths of lime taffy — the vendors were selling mostly plastic junk. But everyone seemed so pleased to be there that the place felt charming nonetheless. I walked back to my hotel, I pondered the mystery of a culture that could delight in both a spectacle like the cabalgata and an earthy trickster like the caganer; that could produce both a delicate béchamel and a market full of cheap Barbie knock-offs.
The next morning, I walked to Escribà, the city’s most famous bakery. It was early, but lines had already formed as people waited to buy the traditional roscón, a ring-shaped cake made from brioche, filled with marzipan or cream, and topped with candied fruit. Each one hides in its eggy innards a dried bean, said to bring good luck — as well as the obligation of paying for the cake — to the finder.
That morning, Christian Escribà himself was there, busily making and decorating one ring after the next. He estimated he would sell 3,000 roscones that day. As a saleswoman tied up each cake, she slipped a paper crown beneath the knot. “My father started adding the crown in 1960, as a way of distinguishing ours from everyone else’s,” Mr. Escribà said. I looked at the crown, which reminded me of things they used to hand out to kids at Burger King to serve essentially the same purpose: marketing, pure and simple. Then I looked at the exquisite cake, with its perfect ripples of cream and jewel-like fruits. Art and commerce, whimsy and pragmatism. Rather than a conundrum, I realized as I stepped into a city waking to one final day of celebration, this was balance.

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