Spanish Secrets: Tongue In Cheek
Craig Briggs tells us about a Spanish village shop which you invariably leave half-cut, with a carrier bag full of things, even though you have only paid for one item.
We live in the very small village of Canabal. Up to Christmas we had two village shops, one which was perfectly recognisable as a shop and the other not so.
With that in mind I don’t need to tell you which one has shut down.
So we are now left with, err, well it doesn’t have a name, indeed unless you knew it was a shop you would just think it was another house in the village.
The entrance is straight off the street up about three stone stairs. Inside, the floor is concrete and the only lighting is through the windows which tend to be half shuttered.
I think this dimness is probably a good idea. Being able to see exactly what the place looked like inside might be just a bit much to bear.
As you enter the shop, straight in front is an old wooden counter similar to Arkwrights in the TV programme “Open All Hours.’’ On the floor leant up against the walls are sacks of… well your guess is as good as mine. And behind the counter is old wooden shelving more like an old bookcase than retail display shelves. On these shelves are bottles, tins, and packets of things, widely spaced, giving the impression that there has been a rush of customers and not enough time to restock. Thsis could well have been true, except that the remaining items are so encrusted with dust that most labels are illegible.
Regardless of the time of day, Mari, the old lady who owns the shop, always asks if you would like to take a drink, which is always on the house. Can’t you just imagine the chaos on a Saturday afternoon if Sainsburys did the same!
If you accept she bends under the counter and reappears with two small glasses and a bottle of the brown stuff. That’s not ale from Newcastle but home brewed coffee liqueur, which has some similarities to Tia Maria though it is sweeter and considerably more potent.
We’d gone to the shop for some chorizo to have with our tea time cocktail. Mari makes her own chorizo which is a kind of spicy pork sausage cured and smoked.
After we had asked for the chorizo Mari shuffled off to the back of the shop and returned with a couple which, after weighing, she said would be two euros. She also brought some liver. “This is for you,” she said. “We have just killed the pig. Don’t cook it until tomorrow.’’
She then went on to explain the best way of cooking it after which she shuffled off again and a few moments later returned with a paper parcel. “And this is for the dog.’’
It would be most unusual to leave the shop without a little something for the dog, be it the roast chicken heads, which she absolutely adores, or even a small chop.
She then weighed the chorizo again and this time asked for 1 euro 90 cents.
I think that’s called deflation.
As usual we had left the shop half-cut with a carrier bag full of things, having only bought one item.
By the time we’d walked back home the suspense of knowing what was in the dog’s parcel was overwhelming. Whilst feeling slightly warm through the paper wrapping it didn’t feel firm enough to be something cooked.
We put the parcel on the kitchen work top and slowly opened it, folding back the paper to reveal an eighteen inch long tongue.
Needless to say, after the tongue had been boiled, the dog loved it/
Only a bit at a time though.
