Meatless in Madrid

November 17, 2010 marked the day I almost turned vegetarian. It wasn’t the Powerpoint showing pig carcasses hanging on hooks for optimal blood drainage, or the graphic cuts of flesh depicted during our lecture. Oh no, it was the 34 cured meats heaped on my shiny plastic plate in tasting class. Suddenly, my senses were overwhelmed by memories of food poisoning, curled up weakly in a fetal position on the rickety bus on study trip in Puglia: the spewing gastronome. The months-long love affair with all things smoked or cured, porcine and bovine, had ended with a vengeance.

So as I boarded an evening flight less than a month later to meet my cousin for a long weekend in Madrid, there were no visions of jamon iberico dancing in my head. In fact, I knew meat couldn’t be further from the agenda, for Anna is vegetarian. There may be irony in traveling to a culture known for its meat consumption and choosing not to eat meat. There is infinitely more when you are Anna: converted to vegetarianism while living in Argentina with its massive beef industry, and now opting to teach in Spain in a small town dominated by pork products.

Several hours later found us ensconced in a tiny underground tapas bar, hams lazily swaying above our heads and a bota of wine poured into small glasses. Now for the test: the menu, which was painted on a piece of wood shaped like a pork shank. Hmmm. Surprisingly, it was very easy to go meatless in Madrid . . . if you allowed seafood, that is. Marinated mushrooms, patatas bravas, and smoked fish were laid out on the scuffed table and devoured as we talked, shrieked with laughter, and made our plans.


The rest of the weekend dissolved into a montage of art and architecture, Christmas lights and open-air markets, good wine and salsa dancing, baby eels, empanadas and flavourful pitas overflowing with chickpeas, salads, pickled vegetables and garlicky yogurt sauces. Meat wasn’t invited to our table, and neither of us missed his bold and arrogant presence.

It was only as I settled into my airport hotel on the Sunday night and began to flick through my photos of the weekend that I came across the inspiration for the one meat conversation of our visit. On Saturday we stumbled across an almost eerie demonstration in Puerta del Sol. Half of the huge square was dominated by silent protesters clad in white factory garb and matching black t-shirts. They stood in perfect rows, faces stern, their arms held out in supplication. And cradled in each set of latex-gloved hands rested a dead animal. Some of the animals were feathered and furred, appearing to sleep in awkward positions. Many others were packaged and stripped of all recognizable animal characteristics: clear demonstrations of industrialized meat production.

We stood for awhile quietly and watched, oblivious to activists weaving through the crowd of spectators eager to talk. As I looked down at the supermarket chicken held by the protestor nearest to me, I was struck by how unnatural it looked in comparison to the animals I’ve seen on study trips, or even at my local butcher in Bra. And yet this is the only perspective many people have on the meat they purchase; without dignity or recognizable characteristics, it is solely a commodity and a convenience.

When Anna and I turned to go off in search of our daily falafel fix, she asked me what I thought of the protest, and how my view of meat had changed since my arrival in Europe. And it was in the answering of those questions that I realized how much more I’ve learned, and how my positions on food and ethics are solidifying as a result of this year of study and experience.

Instead of quoting The Omnivore’s Dilemma, I now have first-hand knowledge of what constitutes an ethical producer. I told Anna about visiting a Bresse Chicken producer and seeing the free-range conditions the birds thrive in. I discussed the pig farmers I’ve met who care for their animals with affection and respect right from birth to humane slaughter, and the pride they take in what they produce. We talked about how knowing what you’re buying and eating and where it comes from is a way of showing respect to the animals you’re consuming and also the farmers who sacrifice quick profit to provide ethically produced meat.

And I realized that I have no intention of giving up the joys of eating meat in the long term. Yes, an animal does still have to die for my steak frites and I realize that offends some people. But when I choose my consumption thoughtfully in terms of amount and provenance, I’m supporting a way of production that allows for a full life and humane death. There may be an element of bad romance in my love affair with meat, but I’m not prepared to give up on it just yet.

My free-range beef burger at the hotel bar that night had never tasted so good.