She and I took Younger Son to the airport on January 16. We were excited. He was excited. We were sad. He was sad. I hugged him often, and I think She and I both carefully wiped our eyes as we left, not wanting to make the other sadder. But again, we were excited. And sad.
I’m sure you understand.
The next time I heard from him, he’d been in Toledo for a couple days. There were a few things I took away from that conversation. 1, his host family (a single mom and her eight year old son) were very, very nice. They lived in a small apartment. His bed was too small for his 6’3” body. 2, He bought an Iberico ham sandwich for about $3. Iberico ham is only made in Spain. It’s from a black-footed breed that only eats acorns. Iberico ham is the crown jewel of cured meats. If you don’t agree, then obviously you’re a lunatic and now I’m sad for you. The last time I saw Iberico ham for sale in the U.S. (at the Ferry Terminal in San Francisco), it was selling for about $100/pound. He sent me a picture of a sandwich that had about a quarter pound of ham for $3. And 3, Toledo was the prettiest town he’d ever seen, much less visited.
He’s not a liar.
Toledo was breathtaking. It’s old, I mean really old. The oldest place I’ve ever been. It was mentioned by the Roman historian Livy. Livy died in 17A.D. That kind of old. The first thing we saw in Toledo was it’s train station. Like the rest of the town it was old, beautiful, well-maintained and quiet. We thought Younger Son would be there waiting (I was hoping), but his bus hadn’t yet arrived. So we stood outside and waited, ogling the old center of town, built on the hill above us on the bank of a river. After a few minutes we spotted Younger Son running down the sidewalk towards us, grinning large, Gopher cap predictably on backwards (I noted the cap because he’d admitted it was one of his few little rebellions against European fashion. Baseball caps aren’t a thing there). Hugs were given and given again, and we all hopped on the bus that’d take us up the hill.
No one really drives in the old part of town. The streets are narrow, bend in frequent and awkward angles, and due to the lack of sidewalks are always filled with pedestrians. So the bus dropped us off at the Plaza de Zocodover and we walked the quarter mile or so through town to our Airbnb. Our apartment was small, cheap, on the top floor, and perfect. The view was astounding and it was right in the middle of town.
I needed something to eat, and I wanted that sandwich. So She and I, Older Son and Brother, and Younger Son and “H” (a friend and roommate from the U also studying in Toledo) went to the shop to get a bocadillo de jamón Ibérico. It was worth the 4,328-mile trip. Or maybe I was just really hungry.
Now, on the ramp-up to this trip, I’d decided that there was one souvenir I wanted. As a cook, foodie, lover of history and souvenirs, I wanted to find an authentic, hand-forged Toledo steel chef’s knife. I’d heard, from many sources, that Toledo steel was the best. Hell, even Inigo Montoya’s sword was from there. I was quickly dismayed to find that because of that fame, that reputation, Toledo’s knife and sword market had become overrun, polluted by knock-offs and impostors. It has become nearly impossible to find the real deal. Most are stamped out of a factory from all over the world and sold in Toledo as the real thing. I was deflated.
But I started noticing one name being referenced, in different places. Chef’s blogs, food writers, metal workers. Mariano Zamorano. Apparently, he was one of just a few, or the only, blacksmith in Toledo still hand-forging blades. I had to find him, which in Toledo, with it’s infuriating obsession with giving a grid the finger, is really tough. But that was my mission.
So the morning of our first full day, I told everyone what I wanted to find. After studying the map apps on my phone, I felt confident that Señor Zamorano’s workshop was nearby. We all set out. Brother and I walked down the stairs from the apartment, discussing our strategy for finding it. We’re going to go left, through the little courtyard, and around the block. There, we’ll reconnoiter. We walked out the front door, turned left, and walked right into the shop. It was next door.
The gentleman who greeted us spoke a refined but broken English. We asked him if the knives were made here, in the shop. He informed us that all those on *this* shelf were not, but instead were stamped out in Madrid to Señor Zamorano’s specifications. Everything on *this* shelf was made here and bears the stamp “MZ”. I asked, “they’re made right here?”
“Yes,” he said, gesturing to a door. “Right here. Please, feel free to go see for yourself.”
So we tiptoed through the door, oddly nervous. We found ourselves in a little courtyard, surrounded by knives, swords, and daggers in various stages of completion. There were forges, piles of steel, anvils and tools everywhere. And in one little cubby was MZ, grinding a blade.
I found two knives there. An eight-inch chef’s knife, and a three-inch paring knife. Brother bought a set of steak knives and a six-inch chef’s knife. All stamped “MZ”. I spent €66.
Two of our other goals for the day; seeing where Younger Son lives, and where he goes to school. We first went to his apartment. It was about a 20-minute walk through town, over the city walls, down an ancient staircase, over an ancient bridge over the river, and down the street. Along the way we detoured to hike down to the river and check out an old (obviously) crumbling structure. It was interesting to me that the local government hadn’t prohibited access, it was dangerous inside. But I’m glad they didn’t or I never would’ve seen some truly inspired graffiti.
A side note: here in the States we venerate our history. We rope it off, we put “do not touch” signs up. We protect our history, set it aside. I don’t mind it, I don’t disagree with it. But the Spanish live in and on their history. They too venerate it, but it’s not something separate, apart. It can’t be, it’s everywhere.
So we get to Younger Son’s apartment. Two things: First and most important, it’s a happy, loving home. Second, it’s small. probably about 300 square feet. 3 bedrooms, 1 bath. He’s happy there. He and Nicholas, his host brother, work on English and Spanish together. Nicholas thinks the way “women” is pronounced is stupid. Nicholas is wise for his age.
From there we check out the school, or as it’s students call it, “The Fund” (pronounced foond). It stands for Fundación Ortega-Morañón, an international program inside the Fundación Ortega y Gasset. It has about 80 students from all over, though many come from the University of Minnesota and it’s Carlson School of Management. I found it remarkable for three reasons. 1, it’s exterior is old, beautiful and next to a castle. 2, the room at the top, where he and his friends study and hangout, is like a cupola or parapet with unbelievable views. And 3, on the inside it looks like any school in the US, with it’s painted cinderblock walls, fluorescent lighting and industrial tile.
At midnight that night, Younger Son turned 21. At an “English” bar, She and I, Brother, Older Son, Younger Son, and five of his friends did a shot of a surprisingly smooth tequila.
From there, She and Older Son retired to the apartment, while Brother and I joined the youngsters going to the next bar. Imagine an “English” bar that celebrates England’s more jaded colonial or imperial eras. Yikes. But we had fun. Brother even hopped on stage to do a little dancing. I noticed, sitting there on the back bar, a drink dispenser very similar to those here that pour shots of Jagermeister. Only this wasn’t Jagermeister. This was something called “Thunder Bitch”. I asked Younger Son and his friends what “Thunder Bitch” was. They looked at each other, back to me, back to each other. That, I said to myself, was a very stupid question asked by a very stupid man.
“Thunder Bitch” tastes like nothing and everything. It calls itself a “whiskey liqueur”. I think they could have called it anything. It tasted like a mistake.
Do you know what a Mat Shot is? It’s better than a Bar Rag Shot, but still not good. A Mat Shot is when the bartender picks up that black rubber mat they mix drinks on and pours what’s been spilled onto it into a glass. One of my roommates in college was a bartender and once gave us one while we waited for him to close the bar.
It tasted like “Thunder Bitch”.
Toledo is beautiful. During the day it’s alive with people. Residents and tourists crowd the streets, shopping, eating, and drinking. I loved it very much. At night, when most of the tourists head back to Madrid, a 30-minute train ride away, it’s quiet and you feel closer to the town. The smallest things; someone whistling while walking home, a flickering streetlight, even just a thought, seem more consequential. Wandering back to the apartment very late one night, I passed a group of people drinking wine and laughing on the steps of a building that was at least 1,000 years old, the moon and the stars overhead. I was happy to have been there.
The next morning, a train to Barcelona…
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