The Country Mice

It must be the farming blood in me as I do love a good day at the market.

This old one in central Barcelona (and there are many) was reportedly established in the 13th century as a good place to crush bull heads… Before you feel too askance at the appellation, do recall the bullfighting history of this country.

La Broqueria is a bustling arena of fish stalls, fruit stalls, red meat stalls and candy, chocolate, olive oil and — you did not know this many varieties existed — salt. I thought fancy salt was the sole obsession of the foodies’ culture. Not so, my friends. The colour of your salt, its shape, its provenance, these features are apparently important to discerning cooks everywhere. And that will explain too why we dropped five euros (it occurs to me now, ‘what was I thinking?!’ while on the other hand, compared to its neighbours, this little box was actually on the cheap side) on a box of ‘pyramid’ salt. I’m inclined to think the pyramid has more to do with the shape of the crystal rather than the gasp-inducing thought that it travelled here from the land of the pharoahs.

Now, I know (better than many, as a long-time veg-head) that a visual reminder of the cotents of a cow’s gut may not be necessary, I do think tripe is actually very pretty.

It has a underwater pink seashell quality to it, don’t you think? Yes, I’ve seen it cooked to a most unpalatable grey and smelled it too…. but here, for the moment, well, it’s quite attractive.

And again.

Now getting more to the heart of the matter …

My mother used to quite enjoy most organ meats, especially heart. High in iron, or something like that. I did like when she cooked it.

Seems quite strange to be writing about all these innards when it’s been more than a few decades since I was in the same kitchen as a pot of stewed bovine parts.

Okay. Caveat time. The pictures are about to get worse. Do not let the easily queasy close to the monitor. Trust me. This is Europe, the home of the best sausage makers du monde. Trust me.

And another disclaimer — there isn’t anything in these pictures I have not eaten at some time in my life except for the very last picture which I why I am warning you so I feel I have some freedom not to be accused of disingenuity. Just sayin’.

Tongue and then brains. Again, my mother liked tongue. Must have been the leanness of the meat. I remember Mom peeling the skin off the surface (I have a much better understanding of the structure of a taste bud, thanks to her) and then sending my brother and me thin slices of tongue between slices of rye bread.

Brave woman. But I wonder why it gives me shivers now.

And brain. I remember my grandfather bringing it over to our house and my mother frying it up. Don’t recall much else. Repressed memories for sure.

Okay, here we go. Last chance to back out.

For my part, I’m not precisely sure what. I would guess goat.

Anyone?

Suffice to say, I was not the only one to be startled on walking by. On the other hand, I don’t frequently make my way into butcher shops.

Enjoy your dinner!