[Forgive me, Trac…for I have sinned.]
As an aside, I am well-aware that I’ve been a lazy, neglectful bastard on the writing front lately. I’ve been suffering a nasty spell of writer’s fatigue, but am in the process of recharging the batteries.
Really, I am. I’ll post some new stuff shortly.
But in the meantime, you’re in good hands with Tortelvis.
What am I? INFJ, of course.
Confused? Well, then Google it.
Tonight for dinner, I’ll be having veal cutlets sautéed in butter and served with an apple, cream and Calvados sauce.
No, it’s not that I’ve suddenly become a French food fanatic. It’s just that…I can no longer afford to cook Spanish food. Olive oil—the building block of nearly every Spanish meal—has become prohibitively expensive for those of us without the letters “CEO” on our business cards.
I’ve watched with horror as the price of olive oil at my local supermarket has skyrocketed during the past year. But I assumed that it was due to price-gouging by the store manager. It is, after all, the only supermarket here in Sanchoville—and nothing tempts a store manager quite like a monopoly.
But then last week, Expatica published an article stating that olive oil—whose average price during the past year has risen from 3.14€ to 4.50€ per liter (i.e.,44%!)—has become a de facto luxury good in Spain.
Expatica further reported that, “[O]rganised criminal gangs…have mounted a series of raids on olive oil plants in Andalusia in recent months, stealing at least 500,000 litres”—although I suspect that the thieves were members of the Italian mafia and the oil was not resold on the black market; but rather, it was funneled directly to their wives’ kitchens. Tony Soprano may be a lot of things, but tolerant of French food surely isn’t one of them.
In any event, olive oil has certainly become a luxury good in my home. And for the first time since I completed grad school in 1995, it has ceased to be the sole cooking oil in my kitchen pantry. I do keep a small bottle locked in a strongbox—you know…just in case an unexpected guest should demand a salad. But otherwise, Chef Sal now cooks with butter (at 2€ for a nice, big block) or sunflower oil (at a refreshingly merciful 0.60€ per liter!).
But here’s the thing that I don’t understand. Shouldn’t the economic laws of supply and demand have prevented this price increase from happening in the first place? Sure, there’s a high demand for olive oil in Spain. But then again…we’re the world’s largest producer, dammit!
By way of analogy, let’s look at Saudi Arabia. It’s the world’s largest producer of petroleum oil. But Saudi drivers surely aren’t paying 1€ for a liter of gasoline like we are!
Or are they? I decided to find out.
So I contacted my Middle East-based work colleague and asked him the following question: “How much does a liter of gasoline cost in Saudi Arabia?”
His answer: “For $1 USD, you can buy 6.25 liters of petrol.”
In other words, 0.13€ per liter.
So by this standard., shouldn’t we residents of Spain (i.e., “The Saudi Arabia of Olive Oil”) be paying 0.59€ per liter of olive oil?
Then I had a frightening thought. Maybe the price of olive oil in Spain *is* comparable to the price of gasoline in Saudi Arabia. If we Spanish residents are paying 4.50€ for a liter of olive oil, then—extrapolating (again) from the Saudi example—shoppers in Ireland must be paying nearly 35€ per liter!
Or are they? I decided to find out.
So I contacted my Dublin-based work colleague, Kathleen, and asked her the following question: “How much does a liter of olive oil cost in Ireland?”
Her answer: “Oh…around 4.50€ per liter.”
[Sigh!]
So what does all this mean? I’ve reached a few conclusions.
First, olive oil tastes better than butter. Butter tastes better than sunflower oil. But it all tastes the same once you’ve added a big spoonful of curry powder. So let’s all save a few Euros and sit-down to a nice Paella Vindaloo.
Second, current price levels show that a liter of olive oil is four and a half times more valuable than a liter of gasoline. Spain is the world’s largest producer of olive oil. Boy-oh-boy…I sure hope that nobody in Washington DC decides that Spain needs a “regime change.”
Third, if my Irish friend Kathleen should ever drop by my house and demand a salad, then she’d better bring her own damn bottle of olive oil.
YouTube is a huge collection of video files submitted by users. The videos can then be accessed by anyone with a broadband connection and a sufficiently pitiful social life.
Best of all, most video files are accompanied by a hunk of source code that can be embedded into a blog.
Now…the main focus of this Virtual Tapas Bar is supposed to be writing. But hey…this YouTube video thing is just too seductive to resist. So I am pleased to announce a new, non-regular feature of this VTB: Friday Night Videos.
Every Friday or so, I’ll embed whichever YouTube video has been keeping me awake at night.
And I am pleased to announce that our first installment features my all-time favorite electric guitarist—Johnny Winter.
Johnny stepped onto stage at Bob Dylan’s 30th Anniversary Celebration concert in 1993 and punched a hole in the stratosphere with an absolutely blistering performance of “Highway 61 Revisited.” I feel so, so sorry for the poor bastard that had to follow him on stage that night.
Watch this video and I’m sure you’ll agree that Johnny is the greatest 110 pound, cross-eyed, heavily-tattooed, albino, blues guitarist ever.
One of the buildings we floated past had a billboard advertising a health club.
The billboard is pictured above. I think it’s brilliant!
But my question is…for whom? My cats?!
Not that it’s an especially interesting story, but I suspect that most of you have grown tired of reading my recycled Expatica posts and would welcome any change of pace.
The reason that I was in Chicago was that my employer—Acme Low Carb Tongue Depressors, Inc.—held its Legal Department Olympics at the corporate headquarters. This meant that it was the best kind of business trip—one for which I had no responsibilities, other than to stay well-behaved and awake.
But alas, staying awake wasn’t much of a problem, because the conference was fabulous. And I’m not just saying that because my boss (a) organized the conference, and (b) is a regular reader of this blog. Although you might be forgiven for assuming as much.
We sat through a number of top executive presentations on the state of the low carb tongue depressor market and its latest technological trends. Did you know that low carb tongue depressors can also be used as shoe horns for people with narrow feet?
And as shoes for people with flat feet?
And when burned at temperatures exceeding 350º, they smell like rosemary? The tongue depressors, that is; not the feet.
Midway through the week, our entire department took a field trip to downtown Chicago to (a) see the brand-spankin’ new Millenium Park and its Frank Gehry-designed sculpture, “The Bean;” (b) eat a great Cajun dinner at Heaven on Seven; and (c) swing to the vocal-stylings of the talented and foxy Dena DeRose at the Jazz Showcase.
BTW…when was the last time you saw the word “foxy” used in someone’s blog?
But the best part of the conference was having the opportunity to hang-out with my colleagues not just from Chicago, but also from Singapore, Ireland, Finland, Indiana and California—some of which I haven’t seen in four years, and others that I hadn’t previously met at all. And I don’t just say that because some of them are regular readers of this blog. Although you might be forgiven for assuming as much.
I’d love to tell you about it, but am going to wait a day or two. The all-night, no sleep flight across seven time zones has turned my brain into haggis for today.
But in the meantime, you can peruse my scholarly dissertation on sweet, red vermouth—which was published in The Spirit World last Friday. The essay also includes a poem that is guaranteed to touch your heart…or bring a tear to your eye…or something like that.
Check it out by clicking here.
And now if you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll return to sitting on the sofa and staring at my knees.
If this works, then we can all thank Euro-Trac.
And if it doesn’t…
She has created a blog to memorialize her adventures with the recently-arrived Flat Stephanie from my sister’s third grade class.
She has also been writing for a travel blog called Meandering Margaux.
Another VTB alumnus makes good.
Most of those recipes have been Nonnie’s—including The Oliva Family’s Macaroni Sauce and the now-immortal pusties.
In today’s installment, I am releasing another recipe. This is one that I couldn’t (or wouldn’t want to) live without. It’s…Nonnie’s Italian Sausage!
What’s the big deal about Italian sausage? Three things:
1. Outside the US, it’s not easy to find Italian sausage in supermarkets.
2. Inside the US, it’s easy to find Italian sausage in supermarkets…but much of it is poo.
3. Who needs a friggin’ supermarket?! Making Italian sausage is so easy that even an Italian can do it.
And so, I give to all of you…another post for posterity.
NONNIE’S ITALIAN SAUSAGE
4 lbs. Coarsely-ground pork butt (i.e., pork shoulder)
2 teaspoons salt
2 tablespoons paprika
2 teaspoons fennel seed
2 tablespoons hot red pepper flakes (optional)
Sausage casings, soaked in water to soften and remove salt (optional)Step 1. Mix pork and spices in a bowl.
Step 2. Cover and let sit overnight in the fridge.
Step 3. Form into patties if you’re a lazy-ass—otherwise, stuff into casings.
