The Magic Of Costa Brava And A Portuguese Omelette Dripping With Chorizo

The view. The breakfast. The coffee. The moment. I really didn’t need anything else.

My eyes opened slowly as my fingers gently rubbed the salty sleep from the corners of my eyelids. I was in that cloudy, hazy moment between consciousness and dreams. The moment where you woke up, but you haven’t really gathered your senses, or even really knew where you were. Waking up here, along the coast in Costa Brava, was unlike waking up anywhere else. It was especially not like stirring from a deep slumber in a large, crowded city. Not in the way you wake up in a hotel room in Midtown, with the distant wail of sirens and the vague threat of room service knocking way too early on the door, even though you distinctly remembered hanging the “Do Not Disturb” tag clearly outside. Here, in this rented villa, on this stunning piece of Spanish coastline, I took my time and woke up slowly. It was as if the sun itself couldn’t be bothered to rush today as well. In a moment of brilliance, quite unlike me I might add, I left the doors wide open last night. I seemed to recall that this was more of a deliberate act of defiance against every warning I’ve ever heard about bugs, thieves, or the chill that tended to creep in off the sea at night. Fuck it, I thought. Let the Mediterranean in. Let the world in. Let the coastal breeze in. And most of all, let the early morning, hazy sunlight in. If you’re going to wake up on the coast in Spain, for once in your lifetime, do it the right way. Wake up to something actually worth seeing.

I sat up in bed slowly and gathered my comforter in my arms. The first thing that hit me was the quiet. It wasn’t the kind of quiet that was empty, but the kind that was full, nearly deafening. Full of that low, insistent hush of waves that were crashing gently on the shoreline, just below the tiled terrace and the white stone walls of my villa. It was that gentle ebbing and flowing of the waves that created a soothing sleep agent and alarm clock all at once. That amazing white noise that could instantly lull you to sleep, but could also stir you awake, bringing you slowly back from a deep slumber. I laid there, tangled in my sheets that still smelled faintly of someone else’s detergent. My mind was blank, and my actions supported it as I just stared at the ceiling. The air drifting through my open doors was cool, tinged with salt and the ghost of last night’s grilled sardines that I paired with a local Tempranillo. The sunlight was lazy too—it spilled across the floor in thick, golden slabs, as it painted the whitewashed walls in slow motion. “I could get up,” I thought. “I should get up,” I thought again. But I didn’t. I chose not to listen to myself. Not yet, anyway. There was no rush. There was no chef screaming for mise en place. There no line cooks slamming pans, tossing them haphazardly into the industrial kitchen sink. No orders being called out like rapid machine-gun fire. There was just the sea, just the sun, and just the promise of coffee. Now there, was truly, a magical word.

Eventually though, gravity won. As it always did. I swung my legs over the side of the bed and felt the coolness of the tile beneath my toes. There was a moment of something. It was just a beat. It was a moment where I just sat, doing little more than breathing. The only sound that dared to break the puffy silence was the distant crash of the waves, the occasional caw of a seagull flying by and behaving like a marine asshole, and the soft, almost apologetic creak of the villa as it settled into another day. I stood, stretched, and wandered toward the open doors, drawn in by the light, by the view, and by the simple fact that I could. The Mediterranean was just right there. It wasn’t a postcard. It was the real thing—deep blue, endless and impossibly fucking gorgeous. The sun was climbing. It didn’t bother to wait for me this morning, as it was already giving itself up to the afternoon. “Not too fast, please,” I muttered. I glanced around, taking in the view. The world was waking up. I leaned forcefully against the doorframe, letting the sunlight wash over me, feeling the warmth seep into my skin, nourishing me, making me feel just a little bit more human. There was no rush, no schedule. Just utter and complete serenity. This was what mornings were supposed to feel like. Not a battle. Not a chore. But a gift, free from responsibilities and schedules.

I shuffled into the kitchen, still half-asleep, still partially dreaming. The kitchen was small, but who cares! First, it’s on the beach. And then second, you guessed it, it’s on the beach. I grabbed at a bag of local coffee beans that I found at the market—something dark and earthy, and roasted just up the coast. I scooped a handful into the grinder, not really bothering to measure the amount, but savoring the ritual all the same. As soon as the burrs revved to life, the sound, the smell, the aroma of deep, rich, coffee hit me squarely in the jaw in the best way possible. Coffee in Spain was not coffee in America. Fuck, if I’m being honest, it’s not like coffee anywhere else. Except for Italy, but that’s another story. This coffee, spinning wildly in my grinder, was not a to-go cup of “Joe”, it was not a caffeine delivery system that was just swigged and chugged to get the job done. It was, in fact, a ceremony. It was a reason to pause. To savor. To smell. And to properly caffeinate. I scooped the right amount into my percolator, filled the bottom with clean water, screwed the contraption together, popped the Bialetti onto the stove, and turned on the flame. If you want a quick and thick espresso, the Bialetti was not for you. This process was not fast, but it was absolutely worth the wait. Grinding the beans was one thing. But the aroma that suddenly filled the kitchen as the Bialetti started to do its job—it was rich, it was bitter, it was perfect. Honestly, I could have stood here, rooted to this spot all day, just breathing it in, and literally waiting and watching for the water to boil. But, I was hungry.

Somewhere in my stupor, my brain registered a second thought. “Breakfast.” Truth be told, it was more of a mental yell of anguish and hunger. But, for the purpose of this morning, let’s just call it a suggestion. I flung open the door of the fridge and rummaged through the shelves. I grabbed the chorizo Ibérico. Yes, the black pig. The good shit. I wrapped my fingers around a handful of local earthy, wild mushrooms. I grasped a couple of shallots, let’s not forget those purple beauties. Sharp and sweet. Tangy and Fresh. And finally, eggs, the main ingredient. I stared at the Bialetti for a moment, willing the water to boil faster. But alas, here in Spain, the laws of physics didn't change for me or anyone else. Water here would boil, just the same as water in California. “Omelette,” I thought. Not a French omelette, no. French omelettes were too fussy, too precise, too—French. Today, I wanted something rugged, something tangy, something with a kick to it that would complement my coffee and launch me into coherence. The ingratiates that stared back at me on the counter told the story of only one dish—a Portuguese-style omelette. It was the kind of omelette that you would make when you didn’t really care about impressing anyone but yourself. And to be honest, I didn’t need impressing. I diced the chorizo, cubing the black pig into tiny squares of fatty goodness. I sliced the mushrooms, and diced up the shallots. The knife felt good in my hands as I worked it across the cutting board. It was solid. It was familiar. And, it was kept impressively sharp by its owner. The chorizo stained my fingers red, and I was all too happy to suck the color right off of them, as I licked the fatty remnants off. This was Portuguese country cooking at its best.

I shot one more glance at the Bialetti, still disappointed in the laws of physics and tossed in olive oil and butter into the hot pan on the stove. Why olive oil and butter, you ask? Well, why the heck not. The sizzle is immediate. It was aggressive and utterly promising. I tossed in the chorizo, let it render in the smokey pan as it bled its fat and color into the heated oil. I threw in the mushrooms and shallots, letting them soaking up the flavor as they turned golden, translucent and utterly delicious. If you wanted me describe something healthy for you, you were shit out of luck. If you wanted some green, fresh pressed concoction made with tears carefully extracted from almonds dipped in organic sunshine, slurped through a straw while strolling through the parking lot dressed in Lululemon spandex, this was not the story for you. This was not health food. This was not restraint. This was breakfast that was bold, unapologetic, and utterly delicious. I pulled the chorizo and vegetables from the pan, and let them rest in a bowl on the counter. I cracked a few eggs into the greasy, hot pan, and added a splash of olive oil, and another knob of butter. I used a fork to whisk it all together haphazardly in the pan not bothering to make any fuss or even adding any ceremony to the technique. The eggs cooked rapidly as I spread them out in the pan. I glanced over at the Bialetti again, hoping that damn percolator would get the hint. Spoiler alert—it didn’t. Fuck physics. I flatten the eggs out, letting them set, then piled the chorizo and vegetables into the center. Now was the moment to add salt, but only on the inside—never, ever add salt to the outside. Well, you could, but any self respecting chef would immediately grab your pan and toss the smeared attempt into the garbage.

I used my spatula, folding the omelette, but letting the pan do all the work. Nice and tucked, I slide the omelette onto a clean plate and prepped it with a sprinkle of chives. The smell was intoxicating. I glanced again at the Bialetti on the stove and raised an eyebrow. And just when I nearly lost confidence in the laws of physics altogether, physics finally came through when that beautiful sound of popping and hissing emanated out of the little metal pot. I could instantly smell it, that dark, rich, luxurious espresso, oozing into the top chamber, and spreading its aroma throughout the open kitchen. “Just in time,” I muttered at the Bialetti. I grabbed the handle of the Italian contraption and poured a cup in to waiting mug. Dark, thick, almost syrupy liquid drooped from the spigot as my eyes glazed over the chocolate waterfall.

I carried my breakfast to the table by the open patio doors, and settled at the kitchen table that faced the sea. I sat there fork in hand, coffee steaming, omelette cooling, and got lost in the horizon that stretched effortlessly out into the distance. The waves were still crashing gently on the shore below my balcony. The sun was still climbing into the sky, not waiting for me to hurry myself along in any way. The world around me was still waking up. Still dragging itself through the mid morning as though it had no better thing to do today. I stared into the endless blue of the sea and took a bite. Salty. Spicy. Tangy. Rich. Umami. Creamy. I took a sip. Bittersweet. Chocolatey. Hot. Smooth. Decadent. Perfect.

The villa was silent except for the sound of my own chewing, the occasional clink of my fork against my plate, and the endless, relentless pounding of the sea below. “What the fuck was I going to do today,” I thought. Did it matter? Did I have a place to be? The view. The breakfast. The coffee. The moment. Maybe later I would wander down to the beach, letting the salt eat at my dry skin, and letting the sun burn me a little. Maybe I'll find a bar by the beach. Order some type of local spritz. Chat with the bartender. Watch the locals. Maybe talk to a few of them too. Hang out and watch the tourist all come and go. Or maybe, I would do nothing at all. Because right now, I really didn’t need anything else.