Spanish Stereotypes

Published in BCNWEEK
Issue # 8
July 7 - 13, 2006

On a stifling day this coming August a couple will stroll along Las Ramblas. Beneath the shade of their new, colossal sombreros they’ll pass a few restaurants. They’ll sit in a terrace outside a taverna with white walls with rounded corners and dark wooden beams supporting a low ceiling. A short waiter, a bit soggy around the midsection and lacking some of his salt-and-pepper hair, will come to the table and grunt, “Que te pongo?” The couple will be too excited to be bothered by his tone. They’ve read up, they’ve planned, they’ve traveled, and now, they’re finally here. The man will hold up one finger and say, “paella por favor senor.” The waiter will cringe at the accent and note down the request before the man adds, “and un jamon.” The waiter will scribble the last bit and ask, “Y para beber?” “Oh yes . . er . . sangria por favor.”
The pitcher of sangria will come out and the man will pour it out, thinking, “if only we had some entertainment,” when, out of the "peoplely" haze that is Las Ramblas, a guitarist and two dancers will appear clapping and stomping and strumming. The paella will be put down next and the travelers will dig in. Before they’ve finished, the rude little waiter will bring out the final touch, a massive pig’s leg, and slam it onto the table before going to town with a carving knife. Everything will be going perfectly. Almost.
Unbeknownst to the couple, that same day a bull will have finally toppled a matador and also will have escaped the ring. That bull will end up on Las Ramblas and, as luck will have it, will run full throttle into the man as the ice clinks in his glass, spearing him straight through, and continuing down the main boulevard with more than sangria dripping from its horns.
The man’s wife will drop, stunned, to her knees and scream, “Whyyyyyy?” Then she’ll stop, remembering where she is, and scream “Porqueeeeeeeeeeeeee?” The waiter will look at her and say, “Porque this is Espain!”
And there you have it. The power list. Toros, sangria, jamon, sombreros, paella, flamenco, rude waiters, and stifling heat. Shit . . . why even visit? But, of course, these power stereotypes have various levels of influence or even truth within Spanish culture, not to mention Barcelonian “this is Catalunya” culture.
To begin with, Toros. Bullfighting is so thoroughly a part of the Spanish stereotype that even Spanish people have adopted it. The great and noble bull graces their flags and shirts and the bumpers of their cars. So, why not kill one? But the fact is, you are far more likely to see one of these impressive creatures slowly and cheaply mutilated far, far from Barcelona. Bullfighting is illegal in Catalunya, and, on the whole, quite unpopular. The symbol, however, doesn’t seem to be going anywhere.
Next . . . sangria. Cool, refreshing, fruity, and alcoholic, sangria is an easy one to understand. It’s just plain gooooood. And although its icy deliciousness makes more sense in the south, where only ice and alcohol make summers tolerable, sangria is as integral to Spain as ice-cold lemonade is to the USA.
Jamon is the sangre of Espana. I realize it is not liquid, but have no doubt! Pig meat flows through the veins of almost each and every Spaniard. Is there any part of this animal you guys don’t eat? Jamon es jefe.
And then there were sombreros. But the question is, where the !@#% did these things come from. The answer is Mexico. At some point, the world got confused and started to think that large round hats somehow define Spain. No, they do not. Spain does have her own versions of the cowboy hat, for lack of a better word, but it is not the Mexican sombrero, does not have little white bolitas hanging all over it, and is not bright sea-foam green. Take it off! You look retarded.
As for flamenco, people who come to Barcelona expecting authentic and fantastic flamenco will have to look muy hard to find it. Flamenco is from the south, from Andalucia, and while it’s a definite Spanish power stereotype, it isn’t a very present reality here in Catalunya.
Paella is originally from Valencia and like sangria is just plain good. Not many visitors expect the little prawn heads that stare them in the face. Nor do they expect to be expected to rip the head off and basically suck the meat out of that little exoskeleton. To them we say: Paella has pretty much established itself as the Spanish flagship dish enjoyed by both natives and foreigners, so pull that head off and start suckin’.
Oh, and the waiters who put those paellas down really are rude. But you can’t really blame them. Without tips, who would really want to be a waiter?