Where’s the meat? Or, never have we paid so much for so little.

In our endless quest to satisfy our apparently ginormous American appetites, we came upon a restaurant that looked like it would fill the bill—the restaurant at the Hotel San Polo. We were allowed to eat in the quiet dining room away from the screaming soccer fans in the bar area. Our ubiquitous waiter offered us menus in English, a welcome change.

Ken surprised our waiter by first ordering a delightful Spanish cocktail known as 43 and Coke. Stunned, he repeated our order and nodded his approval. Shortly thereafter, he brought to the table two tall glasses filled with more than one ice cube (usually you just get one), two small bottles of Coke, and the entire bottle of 43 from the bar. Forty three (or “cuarenta y tres”) is a Cuban liquer with a flavor close to vanilla and it is good with Coke or alone on the rocks. If you ever get a chance, you should try it.

The waiter brought us two pieces of standard, stale Spanish bread with no butter, no olive oil—nothing. Just dry bread. Then he brought out an unexpected treat of (don’t get grossed out) phyllo purses stuffed with blood sausage, pine nuts, and rice with a tasty sauce of reduced balsamic vinegar. Ken and Mother of Ken were pleased and impressed.

These feelings were short-lived. Our entrees of grilled baby lamb chops were underwhelming. We each had about 8-10 “chops” which were approximately a quarter of an inch thick and contained less than 2% meat. These were served on a bed of 15 French fries (which were salted—an unusual occurrence) with a sautéed red pepper draped over the top of everything like a blanket. We are sure that this was a ploy to avert our attention from the lack of meat. In hindsight, it took more calories to cut through the gristle in search of meat than we actually consumed. Neither one of us was willing to be the first to comment on the paucity of the food. Instead, we kept up normal conversation. During our entire dining experience, when he was not serving us elf food, our waiter busied himself by endlessly drying silverware and throwing it into piles and drying plates and stacking them loudly a mere five feet from our table.

We were grateful when he offered us a dessert menu. Even in our weakened state, we were able to peruse the menu, which included such delicacies as olive oil ice cream and skewered fruit with hot chocolate. We chose what we believed was a fail-safe option: lemon sorbet. It arrived at our table in short champagne glasses with plastic flexible straws. We stared in amazement, looked at each other, and laughed. Sticking the straws into the glasses, we bravely took our first sips of sorbet only to find out that it was more like lemon foam than the sorbet we expected. It was somewhat like an orange julius, but thinner. Ken remarked that it tasted like lemon scented Lysol.

It was now 9:30 p.m. No one else was in the dining room with us. Had we eaten the Early Bird Special?

We got our bill and were astonished at the total as our stomachs growled in hunger. We hurried back to our room to snack on the cookies we had taken from the breakfast buffet.

I don’t know what I’m ordering, but I’m sure it won’t be good

Spain is not known for its culinary achievements, although, based on Ken’s previous experience, food prepared in the home is quite delicious. That said, we have been forced to eat what we affectionately call “street fare.” For the uninitiated, breakfast consists of coffee and croissants. Lunch is eaten between 2 and 4 in the afternoon and most restaurants serve a “menu of the day.” This includes a first course of soup, salad, or pasta, a second course of some kind of “meat” dish, bread, dessert, and water. Dinner, which is eaten no earlier than 9:00, is usually lighter fare consisting of small portions of cheese, cured meats, sausages, croquettes, etc.

Our breakfast at the hotel is very nice and there is much more variety than what you might get in a regular restaurant.

Our lunches so far have consisted of gazpacho (which we eat frequently because we know what we’ll be getting when we order it) and cured ham and melon for our first courses and roasted chicken, breaded pork cutlets, and extremely thin, overcooked pieces of steak for our second courses. We usually have ice cream for dessert as neither of us cares for flan or rice pudding. The water is good as long as the waitstaff remembers that we ordered non-carbonated water.

One notable exception to this dreary repetition was the lunch we ate at the Café Barbacoa in Avila. We were seated on the top floor of the restaurant with only a few other people who were all Spanish—far away from the crowded streets full of tourists. We began our meal with a teeny tiny bowl (about the size of a thimble) of melon foam with cured ham shavings on top and small pieces of toasted bread which we were instructed to top with a drizzle of olive oil and a pinch of gray sea salt. For the entrée, Ken ordered seafood ravioli in a zucchini reduction and Mother of Ken ordered carpaccio with arugula and shavings of a mild local cheese dressed with balsamic vinegar and olive oil. The waiter served us each three rolls—olive, cheese, and French. For dessert, we each had a plate of artisanal confections and coffee. The waitstaff at the Café Barbacoa were kind—a welcome change from the service personnel in most of the eating establishments we have visited.

In order to avoid trekking into town each evening to eat dinner amongst the raucous crowds of people participating in the Feria, we have taken to eating dinner in our hotel room while watching season two of Dynasty on Ken’s laptop. Our spread consists of bread or toast topped with tomato, different cheeses, and cured ham with apples on the side. We have cookies and Nestle chocolate bars for dessert. We cannot wait until we have our apartment in Barcelona and can cook for ourselves.

So far, we are enjoying eating jamon Serrano (cured ham), Manchego cheese, gazpacho, melon, and Nestle chocolate bars. Also, we are drinking our weight in Fanta de limón (lemon flavored soda).