The Mediterranean Diet

After a few days here, between the walking and the biking and the tapas and the shopping at the fresh food markets and the generally smaller portions severed in restaurants, one starts to think, "I'm soooo going to become one of those skinny European bitches."

But then I forget that my version of the Mediterranean Diet involves vino, and when I have too much of it, I get ravenously hungry. Not truly stomach-growling hungry, just drunk hungry, which really isn't hungry at all, probably more like dehydrated, because isn't that what all the experts say--that mild dehydration is often mistaken for hunger? I know this--even in a wine-induced haze I know this--and yet every time, I can't help but stuff food in my mouth.

So so much for becoming a skinny bitch.

Last night we discovered a gem of a tapas place, Casa Paco, which happens to be just across the street from our apartment. Other places we've tried on the Alameda have been just so-so thus far, and though we noticed that the locals jam the place every night promptly at nine, when the kitchen opens, I cannot explain why it took a full week before we finally popped in.

Now it has been a struggle to not go there every night, given the delicious and deceptively simple dishes, such as tuna with peppers marinated in olive oil, bacon-wrapped dates drizzled with honey and the clear star of the menu, as it is escorted out of the kitchen every five minutes: queso de cabra au gratinada, which is basically a slab of goat cheese broiled until the top is crispy, then drizzled with honey and rosemary and served with a side of crostini. Our responses to these delicacies were very Rachel Ray á la her travel show, except genuine.