Bangkok Glutton

There are cities where you will never feel at home, no matter how often you go or how much you like the friends you have there. San Francisco, unfortunately for me, is one; London is another. As nice as Cape Town seems, I wanted nothing more than to get back onto my ship and sail away; I felt the same way about Charleston, South Carolina, but in that case, it was fleeing by car and Karen was the one who was driving. Some cities just don’t feel right, like you always have to be on your guard, like shoes that are a little too small.

And then there are the cities where you just feel at ease, no matter where you wander. Barcelona is one of those cities for me. The buildings are beautiful and the people wear colorful clothing. The weather is mostly sunny and everyone is for the most part generally friendly. As for the food, well…enough said.

It’s just a shame that I was hoping to lose weight here. After five and a half months on a ship and even longer away from home, I am now the biggest I’ve been since giving birth to my son 13 years ago. My husband has now taken to reflexively patting his bulging belly, which we refer to as his 8-month food baby, whenever he is deep in thought. We are in dire need of a diet.

But Barcelona just won’t let that happen. I don’t know if it’s the result of having been cooped up on a ship where the croissants taste like they came from an airport kiosk, but the bread here is the most delicious manna from heaven that I’ve had in ages. Ditto the olive oil. Then there are the tomatoes. Will this city not just let us be?

We get our first taste of Barcelona where we always do, at La Boqueria market. It has gotten to be a massive tourist draw since I was here last, only 6 or 7 years ago, where the famous Pinotxo Bar was only selling coffee and cream puffs, or xuxo de crema, in the morning. Now there’s a whole bar-long display of food and a full tapas menu offering the usual suspects like pan de tomate and ham, sandwiches, and Russian salad, alongside more unusual dishes like braised bull’s tail stew.

There are now a plethora of other shops selling ready-to-go food arranged in impossibly beautiful ways: olives and peppers skewered to resemble bouquets, slices of meat made into edible blossoms in bowls, and cones of ham and sausages just about everywhere you look. Razor clams and limpets are packaged separately with little wooden forks and wedges of lemon. Figs and avocados are lovingly wrapped individually in big green leaves and displayed like jewels. There is no way you will not be dazzled. I made it out of the market with a box of spicy olives, a wedge of cheese with quince jelly, and a clutch of sausages and pre-sliced ham and considered myself lucky. You can do real damage here.

But little did we know the serious damage (to our waistlines and our wallets) that was to come. After yet another pleasant lunch at Madre Taberna Moderna, we found ourselves at Nectari, recommended to us by our new friend from the ship, Jean-Claude. When we arrived, we knew nothing about what we were going to get; Jean-Claude had simply said that Chef Jordi would prepare something for us.

We arrived, as always, a little early (Karen says our family motto is “Hurry up and wait”) and consoled ourselves with a trip to the fruit stall next door, where I bought avocados, extremely fragrant red onions, and a handful of very sweet mini-plums and mini-pears that looked made for little forest sprites.

Jean-Claude had made us a reservation at the very unSpanish time of 7:30pm; unfortunately, the restaurant doesn’t even open until 8pm. Luckily, the very accommodating waitstaff allowed us to wait inside at our table. They even attempted to make my son his new favorite drink from the boat, a virgin pina colada (in spite of, I suspect, having never clapped eyes on one before).

We then met Chef Jordi Esteve, who told us that he wanted to show us his vision of what high-end tapas could be. The meal that followed is one that I can honestly say had its highs and lows: the highs, some of the best bites of food that I’d had in years; the lows, the fact that there was just so much of it. I am not as young as I used to be, and I now have to mentally prepare myself for meals spanning more than 4 courses. I lost track of how many courses we had. I do know that, towards the end, if we were indeed living a high-concept horror movie and being fattened for the kitchen, I would have willingly submitted to the knife and the culinary ministrations of our skilled chef. I was that full.

I cannot document everything we had — there were croquettes filled with a chorizo cream, and a Russian salad topped with caviar — but the things that stood out were numerous and varied. There was fresh endive topped with juicy white asparagus, mayonnaise and sea urchin; later, we had that sea urchin alone, topped with more caviar.

There were tiny razor clams in fragile shells so delicate that they were almost see-through, while the meat inside was tender and strangely peppery.

In a course that I described as the “baby” course, Chef Jordi brought out a plate of tiny smoked baby octopus, adrift in a chorizo cream and enmeshed in tendrils of samphire.

At the same time, we also had plates of Spain’s famous baby eels atop a perfectly fried egg in a garlic cream.

Of course we had paella, but in mini-pans, garnished with the fatty underside, or double chins, of fish, breaded and deep-fried.

But the dish that blew my mind arrived with this “plancha” of raw red shrimp from Galicia: the raw shrimp head, simply garnished with a dollop of caviar.

So fresh, so sweet was this dish, I became a convert to Spanish red shrimp for life. But alas, I was emotionally (and physically) spent. The next course, a beautifully seared octopus, as well as the one after, a beautiful steak tartare plated on a perfectly grilled tranche of bone marrow, were only tasted out of a sense of duty.

At the end, the only people able to have the playful golden “hamburger” dessert with raspberry “ketchup” and passionfruit “mustard” was my daughter. It was, I must admit, a terrible shame. But then Chef Jordi offered us a chance to redeem ourselves, by promising to take us out to his favorite tapas places the next day. This time, we would know to arrive very hungry.

In Morocco, it’s impolite to eat with your own little plate. Everyone must eat together from one large platter, typically a tagine, where the food is cooked over charcoal. These tagines are typically made of clay, because Moroccans feel that is healthier than glass or steel. All of their kitchenware, including the double-handed long-necked containers they use to keep olive oil, are made of it.

Because meat is valuable, it is nestled in among the vegetables — the potatoes, the carrots, any green and leafies — and eaten only after the patriarch breaks it apart himself, dividing it into equal pieces for every member of the family. Everyone eats with their hands, in a circle. Moroccans believe it is a way to strengthen bonds between family members and friends.

I’m thinking of this because Thais eat in a similar way, from common plates set in the middle. No one has their “own” tom yum soup, for example, and absolutely no one orders the same curry, eating it from a platter set in front of them like the biggest Cheesecake Factory entree ever. I’m also thinking about this because in Spain, there are a lot of plates. Small plates, even. You might have heard of them? They are called tapas.

Yet tapas also serve as a social glue, probably because they are more often than not accompanied by a lot of wine. You can’t go anywhere in Spain without a tapas bar or two on every block, featuring at least one table of boisterous guests laughing over glasses of beer or, if they’re a tourist like me, red wine sangria. All the same, our tour guide warns us that bars with large photos of the dishes out in front, accompanied by large signs, are places to avoid. I think eateries back in Thailand that look like that should similarly be left alone.

Granada, in southern Spain, is an interesting mix between the Moroccan and Spanish philosophies, having spent a long time under Muslim rule. Its last Muslim rulers, the Nasrids, commanded the last Muslim state on the Iberian peninsula before being taken over by the Catholics in 1492 — but not before leaving Spain with The Alhambra, a gorgeous testament to 16th century Moorish architecture and alternately (with the Sagrada Familia in Barcelona) the most-visited site in the country.

Like in Morocco, the beauty of a place is hidden behind a mostly plain exterior. I’ve been told many times that it is to keep neighbors from feeling jealous, but I liked our Alhambra tour guides explanation of Muslims being introverted better. I also liked that the complex was made of mostly humble materials: local stone, local wood, even stucco, which through sheer skill was made into a thing of beauty. It must have been a beautiful place to live in at its height in the 16th century, and I understood why the Nasrids would spend so much money to bribe the Christians into staying away. Unfortunately, they did not stay away forever; our guide said that when the Nasrids started planting orange trees, everything started going wrong for the kingdom. The orange trees are still there, but no one eats the fruit.

At least they left behind their food. At Jardines Alberto, you can order their entire roster of Nasrid dishes, as well as a whole other list of what they call “local cuisine”, which is apparently different from Spanish food in general. One of these “local dishes” was an unusual salad of steamed codfish with potatoes, black olives and slices of the aforementioned cursed oranges, harbingers of the Nasrids’ fall. This being Spain, it was all topped with a hard-boiled egg.

But back to the Nasrids. We ordered a fresh spinach salad scattered with cubed cheese and raisins, and a dish called “vizier’s lamb”, a slow-cooked boneless lamb leg paired with a mountain of breadcrumbs for texture and a mild yogurt sauce. If you just pictured Jafar from “Aladdin” eating this lamb dish, you aren’t alone.

But the specialty of the house is the “Nasrin-style chicken”, tender ballotines made of the breast and stuffed with spinach and garnished with almonds and a honey sauce.

Was it something I’d go back for? Well … no. It looks like I prefer the Christian Spanish food. But it was the perfect punctuation mark to a day full of history, the remnants of a fallen kingdom, left behind for people to share over a common plate.

My friend James is a repository of useful food info, so when I learned that I was visiting the actual homeland of James’ ancestors, of course I was quick to ask him about what to eat. He came back with reams of information, including the fact that Cape Verde is home to a host of interesting and rare deep water fish and shellfish — think marlin, wahoo, yellow fin tuna, percebes, limpets and a meaty fish called forcado, with thick hollow bones like a cow. He told me about caldo de peixe (fish soup), made with big chunks of fresh fish and hearty root vegetables, and regaled me with tales of the delicious coffee of Fogo, grown in the soil in the crater of a volcano.

I did not get to sample these treats, but I fell in love with Cape Verde anyway … or at the very least, its cultural capital Mindelo, located on the island of Sao Vincente, one of the country’s 10 islands. This is the birthplace of Cesária Evora, the world’s most famous singer of morna, a musical art hailing from Cape Verde. Sao Vincente is also famous for its panoramic vistas, making it, in James’ words, the “Edinburgh of archipelagos”.

I’m not sure about Edinburgh, as I went at the age of 15 and remember almost nothing about that trip, but what I’d say about Mindelo at least is that it’s a beautiful city full of art, flowers, and bright buildings.

It also harbors a charming set of beaches, one of which appears to be ruled by a pack of very healthy and happy looking dogs, and another of which is home to a clutch of fishing boats that apparently no one will steal. When I find a place that I really like, I automatically pick out a home there, and my chosen place on Sao Vincente is a two-story shophouse with a bay window overlooking this spot.

We also saw a music performance accompanied by local dances, performed by a heartbreakingly beautiful woman and her younger brother. During the show, we were served three types of local liquor: grogue, like Brazilian cachaca but meant to serve as a “pick-me-up”; tamarind rum; and bondcha, a potent alcoholic syrup tasting of honey. The drinks were strong enough that members of the tour spontaneously started to dance in the dining room. I was just happy that there were also little salted fish nibbles to eat so that I did not stumble back out into the street rip-roaring drunk.

But it wasn’t until our tour was over when we managed to get to the meat — literally — of our day. We walked back out of the ship to a tempting restaurant I spotted called Nautilus , where I figured we would enjoy a nice leisurely lunch far away from the bustle of the boat. So it was a big surprise when we arrived and ended up encountering half of the other people on board, no doubt fruitlessly hoping for a nice leisurely lunch far away from the bustle of the boat themselves.

As a result, service was painfully slow, but we were so grateful to finally get our food that our server giggled. We’d ordered catchupa, a filling stew of beans, corn, cassava and meat described on the menu as Cape Verde’s national dish. James says that leftover stew can be drained the next day, fried into a patty and topped with a fried egg to make one of his favorite dishes called “catchupa guisado”.

We also had braised octopus and conch with good bread, alongside cubes of the local goat cheese with olives.

To pair with the meal, we chose a local wine called manecon, made from grapes grown on Fogo. Perhaps because of the wait, or perhaps because we just liked it so much, no matter: we ended up with two bottles, which pretty much put a stop to the rest of our day.

We then sailed to Santa Cruz de Tenerife, one of the Canary Islands, which made many people happy because finally their phones worked again. Here, obviously, the food was very Spanish-inclined, but with a few staples that seemed very “Canarian”: wrinkled potatoes, cooked in heavily salted water, paired with a garlicky green sauce and a mildly spicy red one; a handmade bread of mashed nuts, meal and honey with a consistency (and taste) like cookie dough; and the ubiquitous goat cheese, either sliced simply or mashed with garlic and paprika as a dip.

It was here where we also ended up wandering aimlessly into a movie set, spying a heavily bearded Gerard Butler. After upsetting his plans a second time by hooting and hollering from our table, well into our third and fourth servings of wine, several members of our party managed to walk up to the van in which he was hiding from us and finagled selfies out of him. Of course, I was not one of those people. I did, however, enjoy explaining to my tablemate Richard from London the vast lexicon of Mr. Butler’s films (“Plane”, no not that one; the one where he saves the president that’s not Channing Tatum; that horrible movie with Katherine Heigl that’s not “27 Dresses”; don’t you know “300”?)

We now are in the real homestretch of our around-the-world journey, and I have to say, I’m ready to go home. So is everyone else. Bring on Spain proper. Paella and ham, here we come.