gerardcarey
Veteran Member
- Time of past OR future Camino
- CFx2, CPx1
Well I don't know about Claude, but I certainly do, and from all accounts Franco liked paella.
The story I get is that Franco in fact loved it, and made thursday his paella night. As he travelled around Spain, and arrived unexpectedly somewhere on a thursday, he would demand it.
And you wouldn't want to be the restauranteur to refuse Franco, would you?
The word spread and soon cafes and restaurants all across Spain were offering it on thursdays, just in case. Sort of became like a menu del dia, like del thursdays.
It has since become a tradition. Thursday is paella day.
So I'm told.
My right arm lay on the dining table, in a relaxed fashion.
Except perhaps that the palm faced upwards, and a large plate of paella nestled therein.
I saw the waiter weaving thru the tables.
The blood rose. I made to lift the plate.
But it was too heavy. I couldn't lift it.
I looked down to see a hand firmly holding my arm to the table.
I turned my head to see who it was.
It was Claude.
Strange bloke that Claude.
Somewhere that day he'd appeared on the edge of our walking group.
Shorts and a loose grubby t-shirt. A very small day pack.
Travelling very light was our Claude.
He was staying in our albergue and had been invited to join us for dinner.
French of course, late twenties, quiet, but you sensed an intelligence.
Tall, probly 6' 3, lean yet broad shouldered.
Loose-limbed, with an easy gait that gathered up the miles.
In an earlier life I would have immediately marked him as a man of action.
Today I hadn't. No need. These were different days.
Claude's hand seemed to weld my arm to the table.
“The paella,” he said, “so it is not to your satisfaction? What are you going to do about it?”
I was so angry that I hadn't even noticed him rise from the table and position himself behind me.
I nodded towards the approaching waiter.
“He's going to wear it,” I replied angrily.
I'd been so looking forward to a paella.
Even before I left home, I'd imagined myself in Spain, happily sitting at a restaurant on a warm evening, in some Plaza Mayor, a glass of wine in hand, a paella in front of me.
And tonight it had all come together.
Here I was with a happy group of pilgrim friends, outside under the canopy, at a restaurant, in a Plaza Mayor.
I saw it on the menu and ordered it immediately!
My dream was about to be fulfilled!
And out of the kitchen had come this monstrosity.
It had been microwaved.
I kid you not. A microwaved paella.
The rice was cold around the edges and scalding hot in the middle.
I opened one of the clams only to find it's inhabitant had shrivelled up and was hiding up in the hinge of its shell.
Presumably its brothers and sisters were behaving likewise.
The interior of the prawns appeared to have disappeared completely. At some stage during the cooking process they had jumped out of their shells and scarpered, so horrific had been their experience.
My wonderful dinner was a disaster.
A great disappointment fed the anger that surged.
Someone was going to pay.
That's my trouble. The madder I get, the madder I get.
And everyone within earshot gets to hear of my displeasure.
Not very civilised I know. But that's me.
And I wouldn't want to change it.
Because I happen to think that the greatest fault a person can have, is to be boring. It's at least up there with murder and wife beating.
Shoot me if I ever get boring.
Beat me with a big stick first if you want.
As to the fate of the waiter, Claude had other ideas.
“No,” he said, “he is not going to wear it.”
I felt his other hand press down onto my left shoulder and grasp it firmly.
I was now imprisoned on my chair. He looked down at me.
“Why?” he asked. “Because he is not to blame, that's why. He is just a working man, doing his job”.
I stared at him for a while. His logic took the wind out of my sails.
“Fair enough,” I said, “it's gotta be the chef then, where's the kitchen”.
I glanced around for the kitchen door, and attempted to rise.
I was going nowhere.
“Not the chef,” he said. “This is obviously the owner's policy in order that you pilgrims are catered for on a quiet night. There is only one woman in the kitchen. It's probably the chef's night off. They have been instructed to use the microwave.”
“Ok," I said, "then it's gotta be the owner.”
I was running out of candidates, fast.
Claude released me, stepped back.
“Please,” he said, “be my guest.”
Me and my paella then arose and went in search of the now correctly appointed miscreant.
The trouble was that by now my anger had all but dissipated.
I was now just calm, sad and disappointed.
I guess a sudden violent anger has a very limited lifespan.
I really didn't want to layer anyone with paella any more.
Yet now, here I was, wandering about this restaurant, paella in palm, looking for the owner.
I felt like a proper git.
The waiter informed me that as it was quiet, the owner had taken the night off, gone home early.
Lucky for him, because I may have felt obliged to layer him anyway, seeing I'd made such a fuss in front of my fellow pilgrims.
Then again, lucky for me, because then I would have done it for the wrong reason, a dishonourable reason.
I would've been ashamed of myself.
Life's often confusing if you're a bloke like me.
We returned to the table, my paella and me.
My pilgrim friends were somewhat disappointed at the damp squib outcome.
They cheered me up, shouted me a beer.
Claude just sat quietly, glancing at me every now and then while eating his dinner.
I made do with accepting a replacement bistec con patatas fritas.
Steak and chips.
Ah well.
Wonder what Franco would've done.
We gathered outside the albergue next morning, after breakfast, ready to walk.
“Where's Claude?” I asked.
I thought thanks were probably in order.
“Gone,” Marcy replied. “Early. He's on leave from the Foreign Legion. He's walked from Paris. Going to turn down the Plata, heading for Morocco, one of those 40 to 50k a day types.”
That'd be right.
I'd just received a practical lesson in morality from a Legionnaire.
I really am losing it.
Cheers Claude.
Regards
Gerard
The story I get is that Franco in fact loved it, and made thursday his paella night. As he travelled around Spain, and arrived unexpectedly somewhere on a thursday, he would demand it.
And you wouldn't want to be the restauranteur to refuse Franco, would you?
The word spread and soon cafes and restaurants all across Spain were offering it on thursdays, just in case. Sort of became like a menu del dia, like del thursdays.
It has since become a tradition. Thursday is paella day.
So I'm told.
My right arm lay on the dining table, in a relaxed fashion.
Except perhaps that the palm faced upwards, and a large plate of paella nestled therein.
I saw the waiter weaving thru the tables.
The blood rose. I made to lift the plate.
But it was too heavy. I couldn't lift it.
I looked down to see a hand firmly holding my arm to the table.
I turned my head to see who it was.
It was Claude.
Strange bloke that Claude.
Somewhere that day he'd appeared on the edge of our walking group.
Shorts and a loose grubby t-shirt. A very small day pack.
Travelling very light was our Claude.
He was staying in our albergue and had been invited to join us for dinner.
French of course, late twenties, quiet, but you sensed an intelligence.
Tall, probly 6' 3, lean yet broad shouldered.
Loose-limbed, with an easy gait that gathered up the miles.
In an earlier life I would have immediately marked him as a man of action.
Today I hadn't. No need. These were different days.
Claude's hand seemed to weld my arm to the table.
“The paella,” he said, “so it is not to your satisfaction? What are you going to do about it?”
I was so angry that I hadn't even noticed him rise from the table and position himself behind me.
I nodded towards the approaching waiter.
“He's going to wear it,” I replied angrily.
I'd been so looking forward to a paella.
Even before I left home, I'd imagined myself in Spain, happily sitting at a restaurant on a warm evening, in some Plaza Mayor, a glass of wine in hand, a paella in front of me.
And tonight it had all come together.
Here I was with a happy group of pilgrim friends, outside under the canopy, at a restaurant, in a Plaza Mayor.
I saw it on the menu and ordered it immediately!
My dream was about to be fulfilled!
And out of the kitchen had come this monstrosity.
It had been microwaved.
I kid you not. A microwaved paella.
The rice was cold around the edges and scalding hot in the middle.
I opened one of the clams only to find it's inhabitant had shrivelled up and was hiding up in the hinge of its shell.
Presumably its brothers and sisters were behaving likewise.
The interior of the prawns appeared to have disappeared completely. At some stage during the cooking process they had jumped out of their shells and scarpered, so horrific had been their experience.
My wonderful dinner was a disaster.
A great disappointment fed the anger that surged.
Someone was going to pay.
That's my trouble. The madder I get, the madder I get.
And everyone within earshot gets to hear of my displeasure.
Not very civilised I know. But that's me.
And I wouldn't want to change it.
Because I happen to think that the greatest fault a person can have, is to be boring. It's at least up there with murder and wife beating.
Shoot me if I ever get boring.
Beat me with a big stick first if you want.
As to the fate of the waiter, Claude had other ideas.
“No,” he said, “he is not going to wear it.”
I felt his other hand press down onto my left shoulder and grasp it firmly.
I was now imprisoned on my chair. He looked down at me.
“Why?” he asked. “Because he is not to blame, that's why. He is just a working man, doing his job”.
I stared at him for a while. His logic took the wind out of my sails.
“Fair enough,” I said, “it's gotta be the chef then, where's the kitchen”.
I glanced around for the kitchen door, and attempted to rise.
I was going nowhere.
“Not the chef,” he said. “This is obviously the owner's policy in order that you pilgrims are catered for on a quiet night. There is only one woman in the kitchen. It's probably the chef's night off. They have been instructed to use the microwave.”
“Ok," I said, "then it's gotta be the owner.”
I was running out of candidates, fast.
Claude released me, stepped back.
“Please,” he said, “be my guest.”
Me and my paella then arose and went in search of the now correctly appointed miscreant.
The trouble was that by now my anger had all but dissipated.
I was now just calm, sad and disappointed.
I guess a sudden violent anger has a very limited lifespan.
I really didn't want to layer anyone with paella any more.
Yet now, here I was, wandering about this restaurant, paella in palm, looking for the owner.
I felt like a proper git.
The waiter informed me that as it was quiet, the owner had taken the night off, gone home early.
Lucky for him, because I may have felt obliged to layer him anyway, seeing I'd made such a fuss in front of my fellow pilgrims.
Then again, lucky for me, because then I would have done it for the wrong reason, a dishonourable reason.
I would've been ashamed of myself.
Life's often confusing if you're a bloke like me.
We returned to the table, my paella and me.
My pilgrim friends were somewhat disappointed at the damp squib outcome.
They cheered me up, shouted me a beer.
Claude just sat quietly, glancing at me every now and then while eating his dinner.
I made do with accepting a replacement bistec con patatas fritas.
Steak and chips.
Ah well.
Wonder what Franco would've done.
We gathered outside the albergue next morning, after breakfast, ready to walk.
“Where's Claude?” I asked.
I thought thanks were probably in order.
“Gone,” Marcy replied. “Early. He's on leave from the Foreign Legion. He's walked from Paris. Going to turn down the Plata, heading for Morocco, one of those 40 to 50k a day types.”
That'd be right.
I'd just received a practical lesson in morality from a Legionnaire.
I really am losing it.
Cheers Claude.
Regards
Gerard
Last edited:
