fried chicken & migas: a culinary cultural exchange

I should know better by now than to commit to anything when I’m drunk, but, for some reason I found myself agreeing to the request that the patriarch of my adoptive Spanish family issued on a recent Friday evening while we were out celebrating my move to a new apartment.

“Kisha, you have to cook us some Southern specialties one day soon! I’ll buy the ingredients. You just come over and cook for us something that represents Geor-geee-yaah!”

On more than one occasion, I’d watched Pablo or his wife prepare a typical Spanish meal – tortilla de patata, paella, maritako – at their house; and had documented the steps, asked tons of questions, and snapped pics so that I could attempt to replicate the dishes for myself in my own modest little kitchen. I’d just finished showing Pablo the results of my culinary tutoring sessions – swiping through a collection of pictures I’d taken of the finished dishes. Included among the Spanish food photos, were a few pics of some dishes that were typical of my home state of Georgia – fish and grits, macaroni and cheese, barbecue ribs.

Upon viewing the photos, Pablo’s eyes widened with respect. Wowwww, Kisha! That looks amazing!” And then came his request.

‘Damn’, I thought. ‘That’s what you get for being a show-off’. But then, I realized that I actually would enjoy sharing a bit of my culinary culture with my newfound family. Besides, how could I possibly say ‘no’ to these folks who had given me food, shelter, taken damned good care of me when I was ailin’, and even helped me move all of my stuff not once, but twice since I’d been in town? That. Would not be southern.

A few moments later, I was entering a calendar appointment into my phone for the following weekend:

Southern lunch at Juana y Pablo’s

Almost a week later, Pablo sent me a message:

“Shall we have migas and southern tapas tomorrow in the countryside? We’ve all been invited.”

I squinted my eyes at the message. What the hell is he talking about? Countryside? Migas? Who’s invited us somewhere? Did I agree to do this this weekend!? Was I really that drunk?

As it turned out, I had indeed agreed to prepare the southern-style meal this weekend, i.e., tomorrow. Since agreeing  upon the date, a coworker of Pablo’s had invited his family to join a group of about 20 other people – more coworkers and their families – at his country house to enjoy the traditional La Manchan dish, migas. Instead of cancelling our southern lunch plans, Pablo had decided to just invite me – and my southern food – along for the ride. So now, instead of preparing a quiet little lunch at home for Pablo, Juana, and their two boys, I would now be preparing food for at least 20 people. No pressure.

After talking with Pablo about the logistics of the day, I discovered that this country house didn’t even have a kitchen per se. So, my planned menu of fried chicken, mac-and-cheese and cornbread was simplified to just fried chicken and cornbread. I could cook the cornbread at Pablo and Juana’s before we went to the country, and Pablo would bring along a portable cooking station so I could fry the chicken onsite. Hours later, after making my shopping list (and googling translations for some of the ingredients I’d need), Pablo and I hit the grocery store, then joined the rest of the family back at home where I marinated the chicken and prepped my mise en place for the cornbread, while listening to the James Brown station on Pandora. You know, for proper motivation.

Grocery shopping for the 'Macon meets La Mancha' culinary exchange

Marinating the chicken in 'buttermilk' and spices

The next day, Pablo came to pick me up. I had to admit I was a bit nervous about the whole thing. I know that Spaniards take as much pride in their regional culinary specialties as we Southerners do, and I felt like it was up to me to adequately represent my culture in this moment. What if the food turned out bad? I mean, I was cooking in an unfamiliar environment, without the same ingredients that I’d normally have back home. One of my worst fears is being the person who brings that dish to a gathering. You know, the one that stays on the table, largely untouched, because it’s just… wrong.

In my nervousness, I managed to almost drop the pan of cornbread as I slid it out of the oven. In the process of saving it from falling all over the floor, I burned the sh*t out of my left index finger. When it was time to head out to the country, I was in such pain that I really didn’t care anymore how it all turned out. At least that’s what I told myself.

After we arrived, Pablo set up the chicken frying station, while our host, Manuel, started in on the migas. Soon, the other guests began to arrive. A flurry of names and double-cheek kisses followed. Everyone seemed excited about the fact that they’d be getting some authentic ‘Kentooky fried chicken en estilo Sureña’ to go along with the migas. In between breading and frying batches of chicken, I was also able to document Manuel’s process for making the migas.

First, water is added to the breadcrumbs and mixed in by hand. Greeting incoming guests - optional, but recommended.

Starting the fire for cooking the migas

Soothing my burned finger with an ice cold beer. The perfect remedy.

Unpeeled garlic cloves are sauteed in olive oil

Adding the moistened breadcrumbs

After heating the breadcrumbs, pre-cooked chorizo, pancetta, and italian green peppers are added. The mixture is tossed, and tossed, and tossed until done

In the meantime, Pablo preps the frying station

The first batch of chicken goes in...

...And comes out looking good enough to eat!

After a while, everything was done. The food was placed on a communal table, and everyone oohed and aahed over it before digging in.

The chicken and cornbread were a great success! And Manuel’s migas was one of the best examples of the dish I’d had yet.

After lunch, the festivities continued with plenty of wine, then post-lunch fruits, then coffee and dessert, then mixed drinks. We didn’t end up leaving until long after the sun had retired for the day. I returned home feeling full and satisfied that I’d done my culture proud.

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espere tu turno, gracias.

I’ve heard all sorts of horror stories from other auxiliares in other parts of Spain about the process of applying for and obtaining a NIE, or numero de identificacion para extranjeros. Basically, it’s like a social security number for foreigners. My own appointment for my NIE was scheduled for a Thursday in my 2^nd full week in Ciudad Real. A woman who works with the auxiliars in my province sent me an email asking if I’d like to join a group of other auxiliars whom she’d be helping with the process on that day. All I had to do in advance was fill out my application form (which was in Spanish). She suggested that I have one of the teachers at my school help me with it.

So it was that I found myself in the teachers’ lounge a couple of days before my appointment, looking for someone to help me with the application. I had just been introduced to Emilio, a retired profe in the school’s English department, who happened to be onsite that day. Apparently Emilio stops by every once in a while to visit and chat with the other English profes, even though he no longer works there. With his British mannerisms and his Mr. Rogers countenance, I figured he was just the right person to ask to help me with the task. I was right. He gladly accepted my request, and slowly walked me through each field on the form, making sure I understood exactly what I needed to enter in order to complete it correctly. After we’d finished, he asked me where my Thursday appointment was. I gave him the name of the location that I thought I had to go to, but I wasn’t sure I was remembering it exactly correctly. Emilio was sure I was mistaken. I thought harder. No, I was sure that was the place. I went to the computer and printed out the email I’d received, and showed him the address and building name. Emilio remained unconvinced. He seemed certain that the lady coordinating the meeting didn’t know what she was talking about. I was certain that I had only asked Emilio to help me with the application, so I wasn’t exactly keen on him ‘helping’ me figure out where I already knew I needed to go two days later. But this gray-haired gentleman had already accepted his charge, and would not be swayed. Before I knew it, he had gallantly snatched up my completed application, and was signaling me to follow him. I tried resisting – politely, but firmly. ‘No, I think I’ll just wait to go with the others on Thursday. Maybe that will be best.’ Emilio scoffed. This shit was going down, and it was going down now. 

Dismayed, but hopeful, I quickly asked my knight in cable knit cardigan what I should bring with me. He advised me to bring all the documentation and identification I had. Before I could quickly gather my folder that contained everything, Emilio was already heading out of the lounge. I followed, clutching my folder to my chest, still not sure how his helping me with my application had turned into this impromptu, unsolicited expedition.

Despite his advanced years, Emilio moved swiftly. I had worn the wrong shoes today, and found it a little difficult to keep up with his long, loping strides. We made our way out of the school, down the block and across the street to a different foreign registration office. Emilio strode in, stopping briefly to ask the security guard which doorway we needed to pass through. The guard motioned to the left, but also seemed to indicate that the waiting area – where other people with appointments were seated – was on the right. I was pretty sure that our expedition would be a bust since we had no appointment whatsoever. Emilio glanced towards the closed office doors, but ended up heading toward the waiting area. We copped a couple of chairs, and waited – me, nervously wondering if Emilio was being just a little too cavalier; Emilio, tapping his foot somewhat impatiently. We waited for a couple of minutes, and when someone from the office on the other side of the hall stuck their head into the waiting area, Emilio pounced. He sprang up from his chair, and crossed the large room in two quick strides, his index finger held up in an authoritative attention-getting gesture. I sat quietly, my eyes slightly bugged, waiting for what would come next. In a few moments, Emilio peeked his head back into the waiting room. He motioned for me to join him. I tried to ignore the stares of the other extranjeros who were patiently waiting their turn. I’m sure they were thinking, “Who the hell are these two? Why do they get to jump the line?” Ok, maybe they weren’t thinking that, but I knew that’s what I would be thinking if I were them.

On the other side of the hallway, Emilio motioned for me to have a seat at a desk where a middle-aged official-looking woman was seated. She started asking me for my paperwork, and entering my details into a computer. Emilio sat next to me calmly watching the process, chiming in to help me out if there was something the woman asked that I didn’t quite understand. Once the lady had finished her questions and tip-tapping into the computer, she ripped off one of the pages of the triplicate form, and then told Emilio that I needed to go to a nearby bank to pay the application fee, then come back to finalize the process. Emilio seemed slightly exasperated at the inefficiency of that procedure, but he rose and exited, and again, I found myself scurrying to catch up to him.

Outside, Emilio paused for a moment to explain the bank-paying step to me in English. He said I should go there now and get it out of the way. I explained that I had only brought my folder, not my wallet, and would have to go back over to the school first before heading to the bank. He glanced at his watch, seemed to calculate that that would take too much time, then waved away the idea altogether. “That’s ok,” he said. “We can go now,” Then he set off again. I cursed myself for at least the third time in the last 30 minutes for picking these shoes today. I did a halfway decent job of keeping pace with Emilio as we made our way to the bank. We entered, then waited for the clerk to finish with one other customer. Then Emilio approached and stated our business. The clerk seemed annoyed. Apparently, they only handled this type of transaction during certain hours. We were well outside of that timeframe. Emilio didn’t bat an eyelash. The clerk started processing the transaction. Emilio casually tossed down the 10 euro payment on the desk like he was throwing down his gauntlet. I was glad the clerk had chosen not to deny him.

Emilio. Waits for no one. 

Once the transaction was finished, we walked back to the foreign registration office and showed the office-lady the receipt. She loudly applied an official stamp, and de repente, I had my NIE. It had taken less than an hour. I thanked the office-lady, and we left. When we were outside of the building once again, Emilio made me repeat to him what I needed to do next. I repeated the instructions the office-lady had given me. I needed to call the police office and request a cita previa to apply for my tarjeta de residencia. On the day of my appointment, I needed to bring specific paperwork and forms of ID, etc., etc.

Emilio seemed satisfied with my answer. He mentioned that since it was a little past lunchtime, he needed to head home now. I thanked him profusely for his help that day, explaining that I couldn’t believe how quick and easy the process had been. I headed back to school, still a little bit bewildered by the whole incident, while my hero turned in the other direction and strode off into the sunset. Well, not really, it was still only afternoon.