In this post I revert to writing about a spring festival, paella fit for the gods, and a dog who is very nearly accorded that status.
Last Thursday was the last day of this year’s Falles, a springtime celebration that goes on for about three weeks only in the Valencia region of Spain.
Falla in Denia
Neighborhood groups in the region’s towns and cities spend months, weeks, hours putting together their falla, a paper mâché statue. On the final night of the festival, always St. Joseph’s Day, the statues are burned. It’s kind of like the Mummers in Philadelphia only it involves statues and fire, rather than brigades of men dancing in crazy costumes. Actually I’m not sure what made me think there’s any similarity between the two.
Costumes, Denia, Falles
At any rate, the closest Fallas outside of Valencia was in Denia, a coastal town about 20 kilometers from us. It has a nice marina, and on the last day of the Fallas they were holding a boat show. So in addition to searching out the paper mâché statues, we ogled boats. And then we watched part of a costume parade. Temperature wise it was near perfect at about 68 degrees, but the girls in heavy brocade dresses had to be burning down. Maybe it was the costumes that made me think of the Mummers comparison. Still, the link is tenuous.
I love the way the kid on the far right appears to be head butting whoever is front of him.
Paella man, Denia
BUT, the thing that capped the day was the man making paella out of his truck parked down a little side street to which we were led by our quivering noses. One whiff, and we were ravenous, ready to buy the whole dang truck, the doomed paper mâché thingy also in the street, the cat sleeping on the sidewalk, and whatever else they wanted us to buy to get our hands on that pan of savory rice, peppers and chicken.
But it was not for sale, the paella that is. Can’t vouch for the cat or the truck. The statue’s fate was already sealed. So why, pray tell, was the man with the van there, taunting we poor tourists with those plate-licking aromas? Apparently after the statues are burned there’s great merrymaking in the streets with music and firecrackers and nothing remotely saint-like. (Thoughts of St. Joseph weak as wee embers.) The brigades who make the statues also dish up their own unique paella to feed the frenzied, fire-cracker tossing masses.
So, this man’s paella wouldn’t be available for serving until much, much later in the day. Like near my normal bedtime. I can’t imagine waiting that long. Who am I kidding? I most certainly would have if it weren’t for the dog.
The only reason we didn’t hang around for a plate of that paella was some simple math involving our dog’s bladder and stomach. The paella was being made at 1 PM; it wouldn’t be served until about 9 PM. In the eight hour period between, our dog would need a pee, his dinner, and another pee. Because that’s what he’s used to. That’s the only reason I can only yammer on about how good that paella smelled as opposed to how good it tasted, not to mention the attending side shows of effigies, street discos and small explosives.
Disappointed and ten times as hungry, we walked back to the marina where we’d espied a restaurant that served seven or eight different paellas. We ordered a Valenciana with rabbit and chicken. It was good. But not as good as the paella from the guy with the would have been. I just know it.
I hope our dog realizes how much he’s loved.
