No comas el pollo verde.

In October, once I had moved into my apartment and gotten settled into my position at work, I started exploring the city with my roommate, Devon. One Sunday we took a walk through El Parque del Oeste, just a few blocks from our apartment. Another Sunday we went to an English-speaking church, a twenty minute walk away from the Arturo Soria Metro station.

I absolutely loved the church. It was such a melting pot of people from different countries and backgrounds. The worship music was phenomenal with a mix of traditional hymns and contemporary songs. There was a piano, guitars, and a saxophone. I particularly enjoyed the rhythm section composed of three African men on bongos.

On the way back to the Metro, it started to rain. Having left our umbrellas at home, Devon and I decided to stop into a little café for coffee and brunch. I absolutely love the café con leche here in Spain. They serve one part espresso with about three parts scalded milk. Azúcar, or sugar, comes on the side.

After ordering our coffees, I took a look at the menu. One traditional and very common food here is tortilla española, or Spanish tortilla. It’s very similar to the concept of my Dad’s ‘Hillbilly’s’. On Saturday mornings or on Sundays after Church, he sautés wedges of potato with scrambled eggs and adds whatever leftover meat and vegetables are sitting in the fridge. Though ‘Hillbilly’s’ have never been my favorite meal, I appreciate the way no ‘Hillbilly’ creation is ever the same, highlighting my Dad’s inventiveness and culinary prowess. Anyway, a tortilla española is essentially a Hillbilly in omelet form; sliced potato and sometimes meat and vegetables are baked into a very thick layer of wisked eggs.

On the menu at this café, I found three types of tortilla española. It was listed plain, with salsa, and with callos. I didn’t want to have it plain and I don’t like salsa. So, I decided I’d try the tortilla española con callos. I didn´t know what callos was, but I figured it would be an interesting twist on the traditional dish.

What came out of the kitchen was a pan of tortilla española covered by bits of mystery meat in a sizzling-hot reddish-orange sauce. Devon laughed and told me it was intestine. Swept up by my fearless decision to try something new, I told her it couldn’t be and took a few bites.

Devon waved over our waiter and asked what type of meat it was. He responded, “Es de vaca.” (It’s from cow.) I shouldn’t have asked what part. He answered with a word I hadn’t heard before. He motioned to his stomach. I could have lived my life without knowing I’d just eaten cow guts.

My Spanish lesson of the day: callos means cow entrails, or tripe.

One of my Dad’s favorite things to say in Spanish is “No comas el pollo verde.” (Don’t eat the green chicken.) I’d like to insert my own little piece of advice: No comas algo si no sabes lo que es. (Don’t eat anything unless you know what it is!)