Order a coffee or beer anywhere in Extramadura, and it will arrive with free tapas, those seductive sirens, piquant culinary morsels served with no purpose other than to make you tarry and consume more.
Early morning tapas with coffee might be “tortilla de patatas” (fried potato omelet with spices and onion dipped in egg), “pan con tomate” (tomatoes, salt, garlic and local extra virgin olive oil spread on toasted rustic bread) or ridiculously over-sugared “churros” (deep-fried dough)—all perfect fuel for cyclists.
An actual breakfast menu will feature more of the same, plus “Jamon Iberia Bellota,” Extramadura’s world-famous acorn-fed, spiced and cured-for-years local pork hock, thinly layered on various warm breads drenched with oil, spices, and “Torta del Casar” (renowned local cheese). No muesli, healthy seeds or fruit to be found. Pity.
Later in the day, “patatas bravas” (potato chunks in spicy tomato sauce), “pimientos de Padron” (green peppers from northwest Spain) and pungent local green olives stuffed with roasted piquillo pepper, a whole almond, or crumbled blue cheese will appear beside your beer or cocktail.
For choosing dinner, Google Translate may have helped, but where’s the fun in that? Calamari was easily recognized in Spanish as calamares, and I learned the hard way that “oreja de cerdo” was pig’s ear —fried bits of fat, cartilage, skin and hair. I was happy to take my chances on any item that didn’t contain either of these disgusting delicacies.
For a dedicated “food is just fuel” guy, Extramadura was a fabulous culinary adventure.
Casa Estella was our only option for accommodation in lonely Peralejos de Abajo, population 157, and we were the only guests. A friendly middle-aged fellow greeted us, said Estella turned out to be his mother, who invited us in. He showed us our room, the family kitchen which we were free to use, and his room, in case we needed him quickly. I noticed a partially packed suitcase haphazardly flopped on the bed, but he assured us he lived there.
Nearby Bar and Grill Peralejos was likewise our only dinner option. When we entered, four women were eating and chatting together while two young kids played in the otherwise empty dining room.
One woman welcomed us in relatively competent English, and asked if we’d like a drink. We replied “Cerveza (beer) por favor,” and asked to see a menu. She responded apologetically that a few tapas was all she had, as they’d only been open for a week.
She thought for a moment, then suggested she could use what was in her own family fridge. I asked if she had broccoli, she countered with green beans, fish and pasta, which was delicious.
“There was no chance of a life for our kids. We were so fortunate Spain accepted us quickly”
“Why open a bar in such a place?” I asked, keen to learn her story. Her candour surprised us.
She and her husband and kids had recently fled Argentina. She had left Spain two decades earlier to study Environmental Engineering in Buenos Aires, met a handsome Spanish expat, married him, had two kids, and a great job. They ultimately gave up their Spanish citizenships to become Argentineans. “We loved Argentina then,” she said.
In 2022, fearing for their security amid increasing organized crime, police corruption, and economic crises, they applied to immigrate to Spain. They were accepted as refugees within a year.
“There was no chance of a life for our kids. We were so fortunate Spain accepted us quickly,” she continued softly through misting eyes. “We’ll be fine. My husband is busy as an electrician, and I can manage the grill while we raise our kids. We’re okay.”
As we silently walked the time-worn street back to our casa, Mart and I and turned to each other, shook our heads, and mumbled almost in unison, “We don’t appreciate how lucky we are, do we?”
Next morning it was my turn to pay for the room. Cash was the only option, so I opened my wallet to search for €65 Euros. I handed our host two tens then fiddled with the Euros’ foreign colours and sizes searching for a fifty.
“That one,” he cried, then shot his fingers into the bill sleeve, emerging with a fifty. He quickly handed one of the tens back, said not to worry about the extra five, and laughed that I’d eventually get used to Euros. My spidey sense kicked in, but the money disappeared into his stuffed wallet within a second. I could prove nothing. Two days later, when I realized my cash was €50 Euros short and remembered his half-packed suitcase, I wondered if it was even his casa...or mother.
Alcantara sits on a rock outcrop close to Extramadura’s border with Portugal, where Spain’s longest river, the Rio Tajo, enters an unforgiving gorge. This important but remote town would introduce us to the history, culture and architecture of early Iberia.
Around 105 AD/CE Romans engineered a 204-metre-long, six-arch stone bridge above the fast-flowing water. This Puente Romano expanded Spain’s Roman road network to facilitate trade, wage war, and spread various religions — frequently simultaneously.
We quickly learned that Extramadura’s history and culture from the early CE (for “Common Era,” the modern historical term that dates events from the birth of Jesus without explicit reference to him) to the recent present were little different than our current daily barrage from the CBC or CNN. War, conquer, war, defend, repeat. Romans, Moors, Islamists, Visigoths, Christians, Conquistadors, Fascists — the names change and the facts may be open to interpretation, but the result is always the same.
Our dinner in Alcantara that evening was understandably somber until we noticed that the young male bar manager, female bartender, and waiters looked eerily alike, as did the one member of the kitchen staff we saw.
I couldn’t resist, and asked the manager if they were somehow related.
“Our parents opened this bar in 1973, and now us kids, seven sisters and brothers run it,” he replied. As he saw my eyes widen at “seven,” he grinned. “No TV back then.”
Next week, Part 3: Merida to Avila, a wonderful 10-day ride you could do too!
