Iannuccilli: Of Tortillas & Omelets To Die For

Dr. Ed Iannuccilli, Columnist

Iannuccilli: Of Tortillas & Omelets To Die For

Dr. Ed Iannuccilli
There were many reasons for us to anticipate our trip to Spain…geography, culture, history, art, music, etc.  And food, of course.

Though Jamón, ham, was at the top of our list, I did not realize how often tortillas, the egg-based omelet (tortilla patate) was served. We encountered it at every breakfast and in virtually every bar and restaurant.

We took a cooking class in Barcelona with Chef Alvaro Brun, and the first dish we prepared was the tortilla.

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It reminded me of the days when my mother made potatoes and egg sandwich for my lunch. The Spanish omelet is thick, but it did not match my mother’s.

High school lunches were an anticipated part of the school day; sometimes an adventure. Our group had enviable and interesting sandwiches…contents nestled in rich textured bread, wholesome aromas permeating the lunchroom.  Any sandwich, pepper, and eggs, Italian cold cuts, baloney and mustard, peanut butter and jelly, eggplant and meatballs might come out of those lunch bags that our mothers prepared, but when they went Italian, it was a different story.

Of all that Mom made, the one I loved best was the potato and egg frittata. I knew what I had on my way to school because the lunch bag was as heavy as a book. She put the monster in a number eight or nine bag, among the biggest Kraft made.

At the lunch table, I took the sandwich out and removed the wax paper. Mom had cut the sandwich in half, and I could see its contents. The potatoes were browned, firm and crispy and were layered in a pillow of buttery-colored egg speckled with black pepper.  A thin layer of olive oil covered the creation and oozed through the bread. An occasional onion popped up. Once there were a few pieces of sausage. The full-bodied Italian bread, now weakened by the oil, softened and split. Sometimes I punctured it with my fingers. It didn’t matter. Nor did it matter that the omelet was cold. Its’ consistency was better. I consumed it, chewing slowly so I could savor its full taste. The potatoes were crunchy, just the way I liked them; the eggs soft, the bread a mush of flavor — pepper, oil, the smell of our kitchen.

It was Mom’s forte, and it was thick!

The Spanish say, “A well-made tortilla is one of the best things you'll eat in Spain, or anywhere. They’re easy-to-make and are a kind of carefully crafted comfort food that few Americans have ever had the chance to experience." Wrong. It was one I experienced early and often in my life, and I never forgot it.

Here I was, vacationing and remembering the days of my youth, thanks to the tortilla. I was not prepared to have an omelet in Spain transport me to my days in Providence, Rhode Island.

Ummm …. DELICIOUS ...  everywhere.

Ed Iannuccilli is the author of "Growing up Italian" and "What Ever Happened to Sunday Dinner?" and both books can be found here.


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