el mercado de maravillas

I used to get all my food at the supermarket. It's easy, efficient, and to be honest, how America does food shopping. From suburbia to dowtown Manhattan, the large majority of people roam aisles searching for cereal and stuff shiny fruit into plastic bags. I won't go so far as to say it's the American way, but as a nation, we don't have time to go to the butcher, the baker, or the candlestick maker. We're modern. For the past year, however, I've been getting increasingly old school and getting my groceries from el Mercado de Maravillas (the Market of Miracles). Lucky for me, I live in Tetuán (some of my friends refer to it as the ghetto, but it's because they're jealous), only a few blocks from this famous market. El Mercado is one of the biggest in Europe, and there's an old madrileño saying, "Si buscas algo, vete a Maravillas. Si no lo encuentras, es que no hay." (If you're looking for something, go to Maravillas. If you don't find it, it's because it doesn't exist.) In the building (you know which building because there's a strong smell of fish and gangs of old ladies outside), there's innumerable stands, each specializing in fruit, vegetables, embutidos (cured and deli meats), nuts and olives, beef and pork, and chicken. I have my favorites. My frutero (fruit monger? fruit guy) sells me delicious fruit while simaltaneous making increasing lewd comments, which would usually bother me. But it's so ridiculous, I find it hilarious. My vegetables come from a nearby stand, where they continually ask, "¿Qué más, guapa? ¿Qué más, joven?" (What else, beautiful? What else, young person?) I've recently found a nut guy, who's filled my supply of toasted hazelnuts, macadamia nuts, and even sells cranberries, a rarity here. But the most intimidating stand has to be the meat stands. I was a vegetarian for seven years. I don't know what the different cuts of meat are, not in English, not in Spanish. And I definitely don't have the confidence to go toe-to-toe with some Spanish abuela, nervously pointing and shakily describing what I want. I did manage to buy a chicken for a small dinner party, no small feat for me. But when I went with a friend, we somehow managed to find a great pork stand with a drag queen out front (this is Madrid, people). The butchers behind the counter not only answered our questions but patiently explained where each cut of meat comes from, and how to cook each one. The man even took us across the aisle to their sister stand, which sold less desirable cuts, like liver, brain, trotters, ears, and oh yeah, a bag of pig's blood. What you do with a bag of pig's blood if you aren't planning to reenact Carrie I'm still not sure, but it was awfully nice of him to show us around. A small miracle, perhaps.