Jamón ibérico, aside from a few painters, a discoverer or two, some okay football teams, and a couple of architects, is perhaps Spain’s greatest contribution to civilization. These long cured, deeply flavored, profoundly inspired examples of charcuterie sit squarely next to fois gras, pesto, and tuna sashimi as examples of what we can do with simple ingredients to make them stunning.

Ordered as a tapa, the jamón arrives thinly sliced on a plate, sometimes with a light drizzle of olive oil, sometimes with an accompaniment of manchego, and sometimes with nothing at all. The color is a deep, almost purple, red with stripes of fat running throughout. The taste is complex, slightly salty, barely meaty, with a hint of vegetable. The fat is buttery and sweet. Forks are okay, but almost everybody uses their fingers.

The flavor is unique, and is due in no small part to the way the pigs are raised. Jamón begins as little piggies are weaned off their mothers and let loose in forests to eat acorns and frolic amongst the woodland creatures (think Winnie the Pooh, only little Piglet is much tastier). The result is a bunch of well-fed pigs with an appreciation for the open air. Later (when they are no longer being used) the legs are salted and then cured for anywhere between six months to two years plus. This unique combination of pig sort, free range munching, and curative good Spanish air, creates a delicacy that stands up to Italy’s prosciutto and smacks it around a bit just for fun before completely dismissing the entire boot shaped peninsula as wannabe.

And, according to the FDA, they’re bad for us. Like real cheese, the FDA has declared that we are all likely to die a horrible, bacteria-laden death should we even contemplate eating such a thing. The thousand or so years of human trials in Spain have proven only that Spanish people don’t die from eating jamón. The Spanish may have managed to land successfully on our shores five hundred years ago, but that was just a couple of ships, some cannon, and European civilization. A pig leg is, as they say, a whole different animal.

There are rumors that jamón ibérico will be available in the States sometime next year. Even at $1100 a leg, I expect it’ll sell like rich, marbled, meaty hotcakes (with manchego).

Having just returned from the land of Isabella and Ferdinand, Christopher “maybe I discovered America and maybe I was a slacker who got beat by a fur wearing Nordic he-man” Columbus, Francisco “the trains WILL run on time” Franco, and Diego “ain’t that an ugly Habsburg but his gold is…so…shiny” Velásquez, I can state without any sense of irony that the entire capital city can be summed up in a single word: botas. Madrileños of the female persuasion are absolutely bat…shit…crazy over their boots. They are everywhere in almost every imaginable color, configuration, and material. Most look absolutely stunning (although how any woman can saunter across rough cobblestones in three inch stilettos and waver not at all is a worthy topic for some very inspired (and very, very clever physics graduate student)). Walking along Calle del Arenal, or through El Corte Inglés, or even popping into any random accessory/gelato/book/electronics store, there’s at least a pair or two for sale. Nowhere outside of Japan has a city been so demonstrably overcome with fashion.

But not everywhere, and certainly not in everything.

It is difficult coming from the made up world of Starbucks coffee culture to adequately explain and hope to have understood what Spain and Italy mean when they speak of coffee (the French may wish to once again stamp their feet and demand recognition for their advanced and very civilized cafe culture as well, and…okay). But - and I apologize to the vast and deep reservoirs of national pride that I’m about to knowingly piddle in - I think that Madrileños take their coffee more seriously than any other people in the world.

I know! I know! But didn’t the Italians invent the very idea of espresso and splendid coffee drinks? Didn’t the sons and daughters of Caesar himself craft piazzas, and cafes, and sidewalks, and beautiful women to appreciate while drinking? Perhaps, and it doesn’t matter.

Walk into any three places on any single block and a shiny chrome espresso machine will have the place of honor amidst the bottles of wine behind the counter. For a caffeine addict, this is what heaven looks like (or at least that little part of it that has to do with being a caffeine addict).

And the coffee!! Think perfect espresso. Every time. Most everybody drinks it con leche (as in, with steamed milk; as in about half espresso and half milk, as in can you hear your teeth chattering over the pounding in your chest), but some solo (as in all by itself, as in, perfection in a cup). Every morning on our way out to the Prado, or to wander the streets, to explore the markets, to hunt down the elusive criadillas, or just to find the perfect warm square to sit out and drink some more coffee, we’d stop at any of a hundred places within four blocks of our flat, belly up to the bar, and start things off with a deeply satisfying expression of Spain.

Spanish coffee, like the country itself, remains overlooked in the popular and secular imagination of us New Worlders when we think of the old. And that’s okay, because the cafe con leche isn’t going away, and when we do finally catch on, ages after we’ve worn through this season’s boots, it’ll still be there to discover.