Food, tied to place, is a great rarity in America. We have a national cuisine, but increasingly that national cusine is, in fact, what is America – an amalgam of cultures, tastes, and approaches. This is good, certainly, but it comes at a price. That price is paid every time you suffer through chow mein, through chicken tender kebabs, through spaghetti with meatballs, through nachos or fajitas, or any other number of culinary atrocities committed in the name of making the world acceptable to the American palate. That same palate, nurtured under the paternalistic eye of a government that would rather feed its people beef mixed with illegal meat packer than unpasteurized cheese, is utterly unprepared to eat food that is about something.
Spain is a start.
Food, tied to a place, is about something. And the food in Spain, still, is about something. Of course there are the ubiquitous McDonald’s (although thankfully not as ubiquitous as they might be), and there is – completely inexplicably – Starbucks, but there is also an enormous care for the food and the meal. At least for now, that is the greatness of Spain, and my most enduring reason to tell other to go. Quickly.
