Arroz Ala Valenciana Novels & Stories

He planted a small kiss on my forehead before gently pulling me inside and closing the door. "The dishes are ready. Let's eat," said the young man then guided me into the kitchen again and pulled me to a chair. The fragrant smell of what he was cooking stung my nose. He placed a vegetable-like soup in front of me. "This is ribollita, a bread with vegetable soup," he said then put down another bowl with only one red meatball. "This is arancini, an italian rice balls coated with bread crumbs and deep fried," he again put down a bowl filled with cerelac-like vanilla flavor and its aroma. "And, this is polenta, a boiled cornmeal."

While I was serving the dinner, he poured us wine. The question "What did you cook, freckles?" I said, "Arroz atollado." You sound attractive when you speak Spanish, but I still don't understand what you're saying. Even so, he began to eat. I stated, "It's made of rice, chicken, pig, potatoes, and vegetables, followed by those plantain pancakes. Levi complaining about the meal made me delighted because my mother would never let me miss my grandmother's culinary lessons. When we had done eating and drinking wine, Levi asked me, "How was your day baby girl?" I could feel his focus shifting to me.

I'm almost too full to try it, but it looks so delicious that I have to. "Crema Catalana," Alejandro says. It's a custard dish that reminds me of crème Brulee, made of cream, milk, egg yolks and vanilla, with cinnamon as well. Antonio is adamant that I'm going to enjoy it, as is Alejandro, but per my hesitance, Alejandro scoops the dessert on a spoon and holds it out for me to try.

“Let’s eat, for god’s sake. I’m salivating here.” The smell from the dishes in front of us is downright heavenly, and my stomach growls in agreement. Luke serves me a generous helping of what looks like a perfectly seasoned dish of rice and chicken with a rich, fragrant sauce that has my mouth watering before I even taste it. I take a bite and nearly melt on the spot. “This is amazing,” I say, savoring each flavor as it bursts in my mouth. “What is this?” Luke leans back, looking smug. “It’s arroz con pollo. I thought I’d go with something traditional.”

Rafael set down the dishes one by one—quiet, deliberate. There was olla de carne, rich and aromatic, the broth slow-simmered with beef, corn, yuca, plantain, and root vegetables grown on the estate itself. Alongside it sat arroz blanco, perfectly steamed, and frijoles negros cooked with onion and sweet pepper. A small plate of plátanos maduros glistened with caramelized edges. Fresh tortillas, still warm, were wrapped in cloth.

"Secret ingredient. Tell you what. I'll tell you what's in there if you give me the recipe for that paella I saw you serving up yesterday. It wasn't the usual seafood arrangement...." It's not often one meets a soul-mate in the kitchen, but I feel Sally and I share a common outlook where food is concerned. "No, it was traditional Valencian paella. It's a peasant's dish really, like a lot of the best food...." She nods, agreeing. ".... one of those meals invented from the 'what do I have in the larder' school of thought. My mother's recipe. I'll make it again tomorrow and show you."

She has two months and a final year of university, a ROTC summer exercise in August, and a version of herself she is still in the process of completing. Rosa comes on Sunday with food — a container of escudella (a traditional Catalan stew, thick with vegetables and meat, the kind that takes most of a Saturday to make properly) and a smaller container of crema catalana (the Catalan version of crème brûlée, with a caramelized sugar crust and a custard infused with lemon zest and cinnamon) because Rosa Serra has always expressed care in the form of things that keep you fed. She sits at Valentina's kitchen table and watches her daughter eat with the quiet attention of a woman taking inventory.

I held out my hand and waited. "Lexie..." Rick whined and I wiggled my fingers, as if reminding him to hand over the phone. Reluctantly, he handed me the device and I placed it on the counter beside me. "Now sit down, we're deciding whether it's barbecue or paella tomorrow." I pointed to the stool. "And can you even eat paella? Aren't you allergic to shrimp?" Rick said the same thing as Wanda. "Yes, I'm allergic to shrimp, so I can't have seafood paella, but I can have Valencian paella, with chicken, rabbit, and green beans. So we're thinking of making both versions," I explained.

Perhaps it was because Valentina had never mentioned that she was married to begin with. "Let's eat," Valentina said, as she opened the tray of food. I picked up my fork and knife, staring at the unfamiliar dish in front of me. "What's this?" I asked, my curiosity getting the better of me. "It's Chilaquiles. It's a traditional Mexican dish made with fried corn tortillas and topped with a spicy red salsa. It's sweet and delicious. I know you'll love it," she explained, with a smile.

He said rather innocently. “You’re lying.” She squinted her eyes. “I didn’t know I was.” He grinned before he turned towards the waiter. “We would take Paella Vallenciana, Tortialla Espanola, Carbonara and some wine.” “Right away, Senor.” The waiter said before he was on his feet and gliding through the diner back to the kitchen.