for the love of ham

i'm finally reading the sun also rises, and thinking back on my one night stay in the big apple before jumping the east coast ship and packing the moving truck for chicago, this was a place my friend jessica and i stumbled upon that truly seemed to be ripped from the binding of a hemingway novel. bar jamón on seventeenth st. in union square.

a spanish wine list with more spanish wines than i'd ever seen and things like mussels en escabeche and bacalao with arbequinas and manteca with boquerones, all handwritten on a distressed mirror that spanned the entire length of the small place behind the bar. it's a place that requires little work of the imagination to think of robert cohn and lady ashley, and the rest of hemingway's lost generation characters, drinking bottle after bottle of albarino and rioja, nestled over the comnunal high tables, deep into the night. and then there was the ham. sliced thin on antique berkel slicers like the one we used at il casale, it took just one plate and my trip to new york was fulfilled.

i'm a throwback guy. i want my fingers dirty with the oil of the cured swine and the grain of the cheese after tearing each, bit by bit, and tossing it back with a sip of wine. i like the gruff of thick wood and the darkness of candlelight when the sun sets. hemingway had paris. for now, i don't mind having to settle for new york.