Bad day to publish an opinion piece on gastronomy when you see, feel, sense that Cipotera food is going to prevail in this country with Bertín Osborne as Shogun, the samurai commander, with the ham knife.
The caloret sung by the distinguished Rita Barberá is wreaking havoc on the will of the Spanish in a torrid, terrifying summer, announced left and right by the new gurus of the galaxy, the meteorologists, unable to find positive news a day on a planet with 7,888 million inhabitants. The data for procreative incontinence are from 2021.
For an ex-alcoholic with no conviction of being one, summer is a bitch. For me, it is too, but for other reasons. If I have won something, it is being a former alcoholic with the conviction of being one.
Summer as a vacation concept is closely linked to the intake of alcohol in the form of soft drinks that end in a diminutive. A little beer, a little wine, a little glass… A phenomenon, to use the diminutive, which seeks to sweeten the possible hangover of the championship by turning into a human torrezno on the sand of the beach.
The connoisseurs of madness say it. The summer vacation is used to regain strength or, perhaps, to postpone reality until autumn and, by September, come out of the happiness of the metaverse like a pinball ball. And for the insurgents, the caloret is taking on the appearance of a gallows with the ham knife a few centimeters from the neck.
And as for the diminutive, it is also used for the temperature and appearance of the alcoholic beverage: it is important that it be cool.
Another of the pillars of the summer vacation is food. Each country has its top ten. The Greeks, for example, have their meze, and here, the tastes depend on the people of each of the now called, again, regions by the samurai of the uncorrupted swords.
Each autonomy or historical community – I’m sorry to be an insurgent – has its star summer dishes. I love esqueixada, and a good rice without having to apologize to the Valencians drives me crazy, a gazpacho without having to apologize to the Andalusians and grilled meat with rosemary aroma without having to apologize to the Greeks. And without forgetting the cold soups like ajoblanco or vichyssoise, a recipe that I prepare at home with the right touch of nutmeg as the fundamental mischief.
A dish without a point of mischief is a dead dish.
Former alcoholics try to replace the sugars in alcohol with sweets and if ice cream has managed to form part of the diet without the need for summer heat, it bothers me that you can’t drink horchata outside of the summer season. The first horchata of summer is as important as the first dip in the sea. Amb@s have some sensory baptism and allow you to enter the time machine of H.G. Wells to the cry of Whitebait is dead!
I realize I haven’t mentioned the national favorite mummy. And I haven’t talked about the acorn-fed ham tasted on terraces with torrid and melancholic sunsets because, despite the fact that I’m crazy about it, I’m starting to dislike a product that is taking on racial overtones because of these samurai with the ham sword. I hate racialized food and I begin to banish ham from my daily life thanks to these barbaric cipoteros, some ideological cannibals who only respect pigs because they can eat them. Like almost everything that passes through his hands.
