For many years, I've dreaded my (more and more infrequent) trips to Madrid. Not because I've assumed the typical Catalan disregard for and snubbing of the capital of Spain, oh no; sadly, I will never be a Catalan patriot. Maybe it has to do with the uncomfortable sleeping conditions at my mother in law's: a sofa bed even I, at 5-foot 2-inches tall, am too long for (whoever invented the sofa bed surely went to hell for all those sore backs anway), in a room that is really a hallway between her bedroom and the living-dining area.
Israel, my husband, is from Madrid. But then, you surely wonder, I should have some regard for the place, right? But Israel not only comes from Madrid, he comes from a big family. And I mean very big: my mother in law has 9 brothers and sisters, each with ther own set of children and grandchildren, which makes up for huge reunions with lots of small talk, smiling until your jaw hurts, and being asked the same questions over and over. This for a person who comes from a tiny, over-psychoanalyzed family in which typical over-the-dinner-table conversations (even when we haven't seen each other in over a year, my usual visiting Buenos Aires rate) can verse on anything from our sex lives, to childhood traumas, to the meaning of life, to how our parents messed us up. Which also means that, given the sensibility of said topics, my family members can often spend long periods of time not speaking to each other.
Anway, last week Israel and I enjoyed our second consecutive summer week without the kids. We spent three days in Madrid on our way back from 4 days in southern Spain (cross your fingers, post to follow). This time, we were alone at my mother in law's (she was with the kids at her weekend house). For a couple on a romantic trip, the attic flat is ideal: it has the most coveted asset in the city: a large terrace overlooking a quaint square, an oasis smack in the middle of the city. The perfect place for lazing around once the sun goes down and Madrid's unique sky lights up with stars. We also got to sleep in her bedroom, a loft-like room with a futon and tatami, just like we have at home.
This time, we played it like tourists (which we are; Israel has been living out of his home town for over a decade now) and Madrid managed to surprise me: the weather was exceptionally acceptable for August, and we came across lots of new (to us, at least) cool spots and things to do.
Madrid seems to be incorporating the café thing sooner than Barcelona, though. Harina, a bakery and café right by the Puerta de Alcalá, instantly became our favorite breakfast spot. They bake real bread, an unfortunate scarcity in this refined-flour day and age. They also open at 8:30 am every day, amazingly early for Spanish hours. I do suspect the owners are Argentine, though, due to the suspiciously foreign to Spain sandwiches de miga, medialunas (Argentine version of croissants), vigilantes, and cañoncitos de dulce de leche.
My beloved Le Pain Quotidien (yes, I know, a chain, but still good!) already has three branches in Madrid and no sign of showing up here in Barcelona yet. So we made a point of visiting each of the three at least once; we even spent an entire Saturday morning reading lazily on the terrace of the new Pain Quotidien in Madrid's Plaza Mayor (and were shocked that their prices are even higher than the other two branches, which are already pretty expensive; tourists will be tourists, we dished out every cent and it was worth it).
Another discovery we just happened to stumble upon was Espiritu Santo street, a picturesque narrow street in the city center. Trendy cafés, bakeries and shops have recently popped up along the entire street.
We had a light dinner of gazpacho, a warm vegetable salad, and eggplant parmiggiana at a cute corner café called El Rincón.

But my favorite place on the street was a tiny hole-in-the wall grocer's selling only very select merchandise. They opened only a month ago, and the owner was only happy to tell us stories behind the provenance of several products we asked about. We picked up several items to lug back home with us, such as a pound of beans very similar to black eyed peas (called carillas, and from León in Castille), mint green tea from Navarre, La Vera smoked paprika, and my favorite of all: a jar of violet jelly (French, of course). The man tempted us by showing us the jar in the light, and the beautiful purple specks just did me in, I had to have it to spread on my morning toast. We left the shop fulfilled and anxious to tell my mother in law about it so she can become a regular customer. About half a minute later, as we sat down for an apéritif, Israel accidentally dropped the bag and the 6-euro jar of flower preserves smashed to bits. In a frenzy, I rushed back into the shop, hoping the man would take pity on me for my clumsy husband and replace the jar free of cost, just because we were nice people. But no, these are times of crisis, freebees were never heard of in Spain anyway. I bought a second jar on the spot.
Today I had a couple of hours alone at home in the afternoon and I decided to put the violet jelly to good use, so I baked these cookies, based on a recipe I learned at the summer intensive course I took at the Natural Gourmet Institute in New York last month (stay tuned for future post!).
1 cup almond meal
1 cup rolled oats
1/2 cup maple syrup
1/2 cup melted coconut oil
1/4 teaspoon sea salt
1 teaspoon orange blossom extract





