Segovian Bean Stew and Kristin White's Studies

So the latest bout with Spain was a resounding success: cultural immersion, inexpensive wine, and agreeable weather. But the one thing that stands out as particularly excellent was the lunch me and Kristin White had at El Bernardino during a day trip to Segovia.

After spending Thursday and Friday in Valencia, and Saturday in Toldeo our Frommer's guide had a record of 2/2 when it came to guiding us to exemplary meals. Meals to which we would compare all others. In Valencia it was La Lola on Friday night, a wonderfully chic (and friendly) modern Spanish place with quirky flatware and polka dotted walls (one snag: Kristin White's bilingualism lapsed and she mistakenly ordered our veal and duck rare instead of medium). Then there was Friday's lunch at a fantastic business lunch-y paella place where, again, we had a tremendous seafood paella with scary good helado (dark chocolate and frozen yogurt with berries).

So by the time we came to Sunday, we were riding on the waves of Frommer's epicurean benediction and our expectations were high. We had two names of places in Segovia that were written up in Frommer's. One was El Bernardino. The other was some other place whose name goes unrecalled. We quickly found the old what's-his-face place as it was (tacky) located right next to the mortarless Roman aquaducts. El Bernardino was located on the tricky diagonal Calle Cervantes. After a fortifying stroll around the town's old center we asked an officer of the law to point us in the right direction and...success.

As I glanced at the menu del dia I noticed one thing and one thing only: Segovian bean stew. That pretty much sold me on the place, so after an obligatory glance at the rest of the menu, we found ourselves seated in an empty room at a wonderful table by the window overlooking snow-capped mountains and being doted on by an older tuxedoed man (thus fulfilling our only criteria for dining abroad: old men in tuxes).

First was the idiosyncratic Segovian bread which has a wedding cake-ish look to it and holds its own in a very bread oriented country. Our menu would be such: the aforementioned bean stew, roast suckling pig, and a Segovian vanilla postre. Right before we were to receive our first course Kristin White excused herself to go to the servicios (as opposed to my uncouth preference for "el bano" which Kristin White pointed out is akin to "Where's the toilet?"). Mere moments after Kristin White went off in search of the bathroom, our waiter entered carrying a large kettle of soup, ladle and all. Noticing Kristin White's absence, he put the soup down on a nearby tray table, folded his hands in front of him, and patiently waited. This is why you only go to places where old men in tuxedos work. To kill time I admired the half liter clay pitcher that bore not only my wine, but also El Bernardino's insignia.

Her bladder thus emptied, Kristin White returned and we were allowed to get our stew on via our waiter's skillful and noble ladle. Now when I talk about my five favorite things I've ever eaten, I'm talking about harrowed ground such as my grandma's tomato sauce and fusilli, or my own braised pork shoulder or stuffed zucchino from Liguria. It is not a list that is easily infiltrated. So imagine my joy when I was able to induct a new member into the top five favorite ingestables list! To be quick about it, the stew was perfect: rich, savory broth, expertly cooked (huge) beans, and perfect...PERFECT...chorizo. There's a reason Segovia is saturated with salchicherias, and this stew's chorizo was it. To be even more succinct, I present the following:














Next came our roast suckling pig, a dish that is big all over Spain and indicated by El Bernardino's sign out front labeling it as an "asador." By this point, other people had been seated in our once private room, so taking another photo was out. But I stole the following photo off Google and it gives one a good idea of what we're dealing with. On the one hand it might seem cruel in some way to eat a baby pig and in such a manner. But in actuality eating the animal in a state where it still looks like the animal heightens the meal and the relationship between eater and food. So there. (Note: ours did not have rosemary. Just pig.) It's not a pinkish medallion that comes wrapped in plastic and labeled as pork. No, this is identifiable by it's cute face, tiny snout, and little trotters (also the teeth were in there, but they could easily be confused with a toddler's). It was delicious--impeccably crisp skin, meat that yielded to the gentlest pressure from a fork (no knives necessary) and it came served in this ancient cast iron roasting dish. Again, our heroic camerero was on hand to first present our piglet and then slice it up for us. One of the most enjoyable aspects of this part of the meal was searching out the tiny ribs and making damn well sure every morsel of meat was cleared off of them.

After a while of staring at a baby animal, Kristin White was ready for a change, and after I unsuccessfully attempted to find meat on the animal's underdeveloped jaw, we and the pig parted ways.

Next up was the vanilla tart. It was very pretty, very delicate and very fine, but after the greatest stew in the world and the Renaissance protein course, a simple postre could never have expected to hold court for long.

We lingered another half hour or so, enjoying just sitting in the restaurant, then realized we had been inside for over two hours and only another two remained until our train left back for Madrid. Drat.

Those mountains in the background below looked really tempting, so me and the sister bid our waiter are very sad farewell and went off in search of a route that would lead us near them. There was a pretty little path that lead around the side of the hill upon which the town rested so we followed that and were rewarded with a dramatic valley view of the French influenced castle. We continued down the trail and were brought to the valley between the two hills (one being Segovia's hill, the other being a little tree lined step hill). Zigzagging our way up we were lead through a small tunnel that popped us out onto the foothill that was the start of the giant plain that eventually lead to the snow-capped mountains. We we rewarded for our minimal effort with this:

















We strolled about up here for a time before heading back to the center of town. At the edge of the town was a very fine rectangular plaza that overlooked the mountains and castle. It also had benches. We strolled around a bit more, feeling very full and enjoying the sun. It was a very pleasant plaza. After a while we took the bus back down past the acquaducts and back to the town's train station. A short while later and it was onto the train and chatting with a Mexican father and daughter and a Texan husband and wife. I tried to forge a new relationship between the two thus ushering in a new era between Tejanos and Mexicanos, but the Mexican dad was asleep, or at least was really good at pretending to not feel my jabs to his ribs. Moments later we were back on the metro and tucked back into Senora's apartment.

One other thing I have to point out. While strolling around the town's windy little streets I heard a familiar noise. After a quick bit of auditory detective work (don't know what that means) I was able to determine that it was a yeowling cat! I followed the noise to its source: a seemingly abandoned construction site. I made that little kissy kissy heeere kitty noise and sure enough, a small cat came to the window and started yeowling all over again. It was as if Cat Dad had come to life and this kitty cat was not really a cat but, (coughs) Damnit, I am a man, not a kitty cat! The scenario that most seemed to fit was his owner had been dead for weeks after inhaling all the construction dust and now the cat was just all out of sorts. And Purina. Here's a photo I took of my incarcerated brethren in the hopes that a single image can unite disparate peoples to action. Stand tall, Segovians!



















p.s. I have no doubt in my mind that if this cat had the chance, he would have murdered me straight away.