One balmy afternoon I strolled down La Rambla, eying the various floral stands, trinkets, and people who sprinkled the famous avenue. Barely a week into living in Barcelona, I only had a mental image of a map and an inkling of a sense of the neighborhoods guiding me. No sooner did I start getting used to the shops and cafes lining the street that I noticed what appeared to be a massive gap between buildings, and a large market tucked within it. Large but unimposing, famous but humble. Bustling with people, but not spilling into and disrupting the life of La Rambla.
La Boqueria.
I barely walked in and immediately wanted to retrace my steps. My eyes were shocked by vibrant colors. Succulent, ripe Valencia oranges and Mediterranean citrus fruits, fresh crisp peppers and fruits with colors, names, and shapes I had never seen before. But my eyes weren’t alone in the shock; the loud hum of locals bartering, the crowd brushing past me impatiently. How could they not be awestruck like I was?
Sensing that I was causing a bit of a traffic jam, I haphazardly ducked towards a fruit stand to the left. Immediately the grocer greeted me in Catalan, and I must have just shot him a bewildered, terrified look. He continued unloading beautiful fuchsia starfruit, and I soaked in the selection in front of me. I saw a fruit I had never encountered in my life, resembling a cross between a pear in color and smoothness, yet a gourd in firmness and weight. I followed my stupid instinct to give it a squeeze, as if I had any sort of notion what a ripe whateverthiswas should feel like. My fingertips barely lifted off the thing when the stallholder swooped next to me.
His rapid Catalan startled me and he snatched the fruit out of my hand.
“Que es esto?” I blurted dryly, immediately regretting my inarticulate question. Again his rapid speech swirled around my head and escaped me, but from his gestures and pointing, I gather he probably was showing me what I should look for in a whateveritwas and when it was ripe. “Membrillo” I heard over and over again, and concluded this large pear-gourd was called a membrillo. He asked me something and I nodded my head. Before I knew it, with movements more rapid than his speech, the stallholder weighed and determined the price for the membrillo. “5 euros.” He said.
Shit. That’s a $7 fruit. But I felt like I had offended the man enough by touching the produce in his stand, asking stupid questions, and now wasting his time as he impatiently wiped sweat off his brow. I forked over the money and wished I hadn’t. I walked out with a stupid heavy fruit I had no idea how to eat and 7 bucks poorer.
I felt cheated. I felt stupid. I felt like I failed at La Boqueria.
Besides deciding I needed to improve my Spanish more than immediately, I also decided on my walk home that I really didn’t want to relive the shame and embarrassment I had that day, and would probably never return to the market. The grocers all seemed like hawks or vultures, and I was the meek dumb tourist who stupidly pays for a (probably massively) upcharged fruit. Stubborn and resentful, my mind was made up.
So it was much to my chagrin to hear my friends, barely a week later, brainstorm what to do after class and hear someone suggest “Let’s go to that market on La Rambla!”
No.
I supposed walking through was no harm, so long as I didn’t respond to anyone who hassled me. I’d take my pictures and follow my friends, and not have to make shameful attempts at Spanish, further revealing my non-native status.
I couldn’t be more grateful (to this day!) that I returned to the market with my friend Markus. A chef-in-training, a foodie, a culinary expert beyond his years, his tour of La Boqueria narrowed my focus onto beautiful details I had missed the first time I was too shocked to process. The freshest, highest-quality exotic spices sold by the pound, sweet lychee fruits and straight-out-of-the-water seafood. Though some sights (ahem, the skinned lambs) made my stomach turn, our walk weaving past every last stand in the market was the most sensory experience of my life.
Noticing Markus had a high command of exotic produce, as we made our way out, I pointed to a membrillo and asked him what it was: “Markus, I bought one of those. I have no idea how to eat it… or what the hell it is. I need you to do something with it.”
Markus politely tried to stifle a laugh, but I didn’t mind him teasing me for my culinary ignorance. He briefly spoke with the stallholder (as I wandered over to the next stall, “la dee da… hope you don’t remember me!”)
Markus spoke so fluently and confidently. The grocer seemed to explain to him the same thing he explained to me days earlier (but with much less irritation in his voice), and I later prodded for a translation.
“Don’t worry, I have a really great recipe for a quince sauce we can make on crostini.”(QUINCE! That‘s what a membrillo is?! I’VE HEARD OF QUINCE! … but in the form of a little jam to spread on some cheese, not in its natural state of a massive freaking gourd fruit monstrosity!) His tone was so reassuring. I felt such relief!
That night Markus came by my apartment (with a mission to salvage my culinary creativity and make use of the membrillo I had been staring at for days). He baked the quince with a dusting of brown sugar (if memory serves me correctly) and made delicious toasted baguette slices topped with the baked quince and manchego. And of course we paired this with a great wine. Truly one of the most spectacular things I’ve eaten. And lot of that had to do with the good company.
…as well as the relief that I wouldn’t have to throw away my much-regretted produce purchase.
Related articles
- Las Ramblas (cbarcelona.net)
- La Boqueria in Barcelona, Spain (insearchofthenextmeal.com)
TRAVEL LOVER, HISTORY NERD 