You'll attack a skinny triangle of it with a plastic fork awaiting an early-morning flight connection at Madrid Barajas airport or on the ground floor at your little hotel in Leon or Barcelona while you peruse a spiderwebby city map. Tortilla española owns a piece of all of that - not just because it's a ubiquitous Spanish dish, but because it's all-day food. In every city I visit, I lounge in the porticoed Plaza Mayor and crane for snippets of idle chatter - at once furiously translating and intoxicated by the beautiful cadence. The blueish cobblestone streets of vieja San Sebastian recall the glittering Mediterranean sea, and the vinegary white anchovies I wolf down on sliced baguette with glasses of fizzy sidra. The gently nutty funk of ribbons of aged jamón taste like snuffling, black Iberian pigs roaming Extremadura to feast on acorns. Sipping dry, figgy tempranillo exudes the sunny, vine-capped hills of Logroño in La Rioja. ![]() Spain looms large and visceral in my mind's eye, its food and places fusing together. ![]() That's the hour I'm wandering around in search of a café con leche, a crust of pan smeared with tomato flesh and olive oil and a slab of tortilla española - the glorious all-day egg-and-potato omelet that comprises the country's unofficial national dish. Sometimes when I walk down certain Chicago streets in the morning after it rains, I'm transported to early-morning Madrid, after the power washers have come through to hose off the remains of last night's ir de tapas, before the hot sun singes away that glorious aroma of wet old stone.
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