If Cities Could Speak

Cojonudos - honey-soaked pastry heaven The living room smelt of coffee and chinchón after lunch. I inhaled the smoky, aniseed-laced scent greedily. I didn’t partake in the drinking of the chinchón (an anise-based spirit from the Spanish town of the same name) and my post-lunch coffee was decaf, as I’m still breastfeeding. What I missed in terms of chupitos and caffeine, though, I made up for in food. In April last year my trip to Madrid was marked by pregnancy-related dietary restrictions and anxiety. This time, I could eat with carefree abandon…and I did.  On our first day we ate cojonudos from the local take-away shop - small, dense, honey-soaked pastries powdered with icing sugar that melts on your tongue. We ritualistically buy a box each time we’re here and I like eating them with a strong coffee to cut through the richness. For weekend breakfasts we had churros that were crispy on the outside and soft on the inside and fat, oily porras (the churro’s bigger cousin) dipped ...

We’ve been in Madrid for a couple of weeks now for a prolonged Easter visit. Besides the obvious (spending time with J’s family and feeling the sun’s dependable rays on my skin), the thing I relish most about coming here is the food.  This trip has been different in that I’m 19 weeks pregnant, which necessitates a more restrained relationship with food, what with all the NHS-recommended restrictions. Normally when I’m here I eat everything with joyful abandon, so it’s been hard having to second guess what’s on my plate and saying a temporary goodbye to certain food (for example, the slices of soft pale cheese that looked as if they would melt in your mouth that J’s grandparents put out as part of a pre-lunch spread).  Despite this, I have still managed to indulge on several occasions. We were only a few hours into our stay when I gleefully gobbled up my first  torrija  of the season, and I went on to eat at least three more throughout th...

  I ate my first torrija around six years ago in the kitchen of a house in Tooting where I rented a room. In those days I was sceptical about white bread and sugar, so I probably didn't relish this doughy treat as much as I could have, feelings of guilt polluting the pleasure of each sweet bite.  Now, I'm standing in the kitchen of a house in Madrid with my mother-in-law, sleeves rolled up and my relationship with food uncomplicated. It’s a hot Easter Friday and we’re making a fresh batch of torrijas to enjoy throughout the long weekend, as per tradition for this Spanish dessert. Whether you’re familiar with the name or not, you’ll almost certainly be familiar with the concept of torrijas. They’re Spain’s answer to French toast and are made by dipping sliced bread in sweet milk and eggs, before being fried in a deep pot of bubbling sunflower oil and sprinkled liberally with cinnamon-speckled sugar. There is something therapeutic about the repetition of it all, the dipping of e...