Cafe con leche

After the UK and Ireland, I made my way through Amsterdam, Berlin, and Istanbul before hopping over to Spain.  In Amsterdam I had one of the best sandwiches I’ve ever eaten—turkey, sprouts, and honey—but that’s another blog for another time.  When I think back on drinks during that leg of the trip, the only one that stands out is the tiny cup of Turkish coffee I had with my baklava one night in Istanbul. It was a dainty little thing, in an ornately painted blue and gold cup.  But it was powerful.  A bit too strong for my taste, in fact.  And it started to get gritty toward the bottom.  The English and Irish teas were still winning.  Then I flew to Barcelona.

Café con leche.  It just means “coffee with milk,” but it’s so much more than that. Tea with milk, I can make at home, even if it’s not as good as Dave and Chloe’s stuff.  But café con leche, no chance.  They do something special to the mix, whipping it up a little and infusing the coffee with the milk just right.  Toss in a packet of sugar and you’re golden.  Maybe even platinum.  I couldn’t get enough of the stuff during my two weeks in Spain. 

After a few days in Barcelona, I bussed it over to Logroño, where my buddy Jason and his wife, Maite, picked me up at the station.  They took me back to Maite’s parents’ place in a little town up the road called Tricio, where I stayed for a week.  Just about every day during that week, Jason and I would be out and about and find some bar or restaurant and dip in for a cup of café con leche and some food. 

At one of the first places we went, Jason demonstrated an amusing bit of Spanish culture he’d discovered since moving there.  As he finished his pincho (a small plate of food served at bars and cafes in Spain), he wiped his mouth, wadded up his napkin, and as he finished chewing, said, “Watch this.”  Then he threw his napkin on the floor, right in front of the bar.  I looked down, and there were dozens, if not more, wadded-up napkins and toothpicks and other pieces of trash at our feet.  Apparently Spaniards prefer sweeping the floor over cleaning off the bar.  I got into the custom and pretty soon we were both chucking napkins, empty sugar packets, anything, onto the floor with gusto. 

But Jason's new home had a lot more to offer than just coffee and free-spirited littering.  You see, Tricio is in the heart of a region in northern Spain called La Rioja.  And it wasn’t long before I learned just how important that name is to people who enjoy a good glass of wine.  

Cafe.

This was hanging in the bathroom in Maite's parents' house.  It has nothing to do with coffee, but I like it.