After the flamenco heel incident I thought I’d go low-risk for a few days. No classes, no dinners, no situations where my bad Spanish could end in an ambulance call. Just groceries. A list with four things on it — pan, leche, queso, tomate — because that’s what I could spell without checking.
The walk to Mercadona is maybe seven minutes if you go straight. I didn’t. I passed the bakery with the shelves of things I still can’t name, watched an old man feeding pigeons outside the tobacconist, and remembered too late that it was already edging towards midday heat. By the time I got through the automatic doors, I was slightly dizzy from sun and the smell of those oranges they stack right inside the entrance.
Bread was easy. Milk too — though the milk aisle here is like a maths problem, all different caps and labels, some cartons fresh, some that don’t expire until the next presidential term. Cheese, I went for Manchego because I recognised it and didn’t want another mystery in the fridge. Tomatoes — fine. Stacked so neatly I thought about touching one just to see if the pyramid collapsed, but I restrained myself.
Then the fish counter. Spain’s fish counters look like the sea came in and organised itself by species. Dorada lined up like they were about to be judged, mackerel still staring, piles of squid, trays of pink stuff under clingfilm. The label said huevas de pescado. I clocked “huevas” — eggs. Safe enough, I thought. Maybe like caviar paste, something to spread on bread. I said yes.
The woman wrapped it, printed a label — €4.80 — and slid it over without any hint I’d made a questionable choice. I walked around with it in my basket like I’d just passed a secret Spanish shopping exam.
At home I unwrapped it and the smell hit before I’d even got the paper fully open. Not bad, just dense. Like the air near the port when the fishing boats come in. Not a paste, not even soft. Solid roe sacs, the kind you cure in salt in Murcia (salazón) or slice thin for ensalada murciana. I found recipes online, all of which made it sound simple. I didn’t trust them.
So I took it next door to Carmen. She wears house slippers outside, has a balcony full of plants in repurposed olive tins, and smells faintly of fried garlic at all hours. She opened the paper, smiled like Christmas had come early, and explained — slowly — how she’d slice it, add olive oil, maybe tomato. Then she asked if she could keep it. I said of course, pretending that had been my plan the whole time.
The rest of my haul was fine. Bread, milk, Manchego, tomatoes. I even remembered to get bin bags. But I’ve made a mental note: don’t improvise at the deli counter unless you’ve got the vocabulary to ask follow-up questions. Next time I’ll just point and say ¿me puede ayudar con esto? before nodding at something mysterious. Or I’ll take Carmen with me, and she can get straight to the good stuff.
