Well, it’s time to pay the piper. So here they are.

I. THOU SHALT NOT INFLATE A COLD BOTA.
Never! When deflated, the two-sides of the bota will touch and, being covered with pitch, stick together.

If you forcibly inflate a cold bota, you will likely tear the pitch from one of its internal walls. The end-result: a bota that can’t hold its liquor. A bota should be heated with a dry heat source (e.g., the summer sun or a heater duct) in order to soften the pitch before inflating.

II. THOU SHALT “CURE” A BOTA BEFORE THE FIRST FILLING.
When you first unscrew and sniff the inside of a new bota, it smells like a freshly paved parking lot. “Curing” removes (or, at least, drastically reduces) this unappetizing bouquet. To cure a bota, pour in a cup of wine and a cup of brandy or cognac. Let it sit for two to three days, flipping the bota every 12 hours or so, and discard.

III. THOU SHALT NOT STORE SOFT DRINKS IN A BOTA.
This is both sacrilegious and bad for the health of your bota. Soft drinks will eat away the pitch. Botas should only hold wine or liquors with an alcohol content less than 25 percent.

IV. THOU SHALT NOT LEAVE AIR INSIDE A WINE-FILLED BOTA.
Ignore this commandment if your goal is to dress a salad. There are two ways to avoid this problem. The most effective is to drink your bota dry during the same day that you fill it. Practical as this option may be, traffic police frown upon it.

The next best solution is, after a good long drink, to hold the bota vertically with the spout pointed upward and gently yet steadily squeeze the bottom so as to force the wine upward. When you see the first drop of wine rising from the spout, screw on the cap.

V. THOU SHALT NOT HANG A BOTA.
If you hang a bota, the pitch will drip down to, and accumulate in, the bottom. The result will be a bota that seems to have swallowed a tennis ball. A bota should be stored flat and horizontal. If the bota is empty, then it is a good idea to cover the spout with a small piece of plastic wrap before screwing on the cap. If the bota should accidentally slope downward and a drop of pitch migrates down and out of the spout, the plastic wrap will prevent the pitch from welding the cap shut.

VI. THOU SHALT NOT WASH AN EMPTIED BOTA.
Soapy water will taint the pitch and, obviously, your next gulp of wine.

VII. THOU SHALT NOT PUT WHITE WINE IN A RED WINE BOTA.
And vice versa. This is one of the few instances where the practice of segregation should be encouraged.

VIII. THOU SHALT NOT BLOW CIGARETTE SMOKE ONTO A BOTA.
Most Spaniards break this commandment, but it is still good advice. The bota’s leather absorbs cigarette smoke like a sponge. I once bought a bota from a smoky Barcelona bar.After several weeks of airing out, it still smelled like the Marlboro man’s finger. That smelly bota, for which a Spanish goat bravely gave its hide, ended up in the garbage, unused.

IX. THOU SHALT NOT PUT GOOD WINE IN A BOTA.
The bota will impart a slight pitch flavour to any wine that it is filled with, so save your gran reserva for a crystal decanter. Nonetheless, pitch flavour or no pitch flavour, a less-than-stellar wine always seems to taste better when fired into the mouth from a bota held at arm’s length.

X. THOU SHALT NOT RUB A BOTA WITH SUNTAN LOTION.
Don Julio concedes that few people would do such a preposterous thing, but his son-in-law once broke this commandment and ruined his bota. He therefore felt compelled to warn others.

And that’s it! So, show a little respect!

Slung over the shoulder during a sunny day’s hike, a handcrafted and well-maintained bota will provide its owner with years of bacchanalian pleasure.

And stuffed under a ski parka during Spring Break, a handcrafted and well-maintained bota will provide its owner with years of rehab for the torn ligaments on his right knee.

What a pity! If more people were to appreciate the history and craftsmanship surrounding the bota, as well as the simple rules for its use and maintenance, then perhaps it would be treated with the respect it deserves. On behalf of Hemingway, Cervantes and my adopted country of Spain, I resolve to defend the bota’s honor in the paragraphs below…or get really, really drunk trying.

The bota is as old as Spain itself, existing before wooden casks and bottles came in to use. It is said to have evolved from the pellejo, which is the skin of a largely intact goat carcass sewn and sealed liquid tight, and was used by Spanish families to store several months’ supply of wine. It was a line of pellejos that succumbed to the mighty sword of Don Quixote in the upstairs loft of the inn.

The bota evolved as a small pellejo, holding approximately 1.5 liters of wine for individual use. No Spanish shepherd would dare tend his flock, or farmer work his fields, unless armed with bulging a bota.

Botas are still used in rural Spain, and have three common characteristics: they are made from goatskin, have a curved shape and impart a slight pitch flavor to the wine.

Making a quality bota is not like mass-producing tennis shoes in a Far East sweatshop. Rather, bota construction is considered an art in Spain and the botero a respected artisan. Bota-making is a labor-intensive process requiring a period of apprenticeship and a heavily calloused set of hands.

First, the hair of the goatskin is trimmed to a length of one centimeter and the skin is salted in order to close the pores. A pattern is then laid upon the skin and cut.

The pattern-shaped skin is folded together, hair side out, and lightly stitched. The botero then intertwines several hemp threads to make one strong thread and rubs it with pitch so that it will pass more easily through the skin. The pitch-rubbed hemp thread is strung through a needle tipped with a stiff wild boar hair, and the bota halves are tightly sewn together. The botero keeps constant pressure on the stitching in order to assure a wine-tight seam.

When tightly sewn, the bota is turned inside-out (so that the hair side faces in), wetted and inflated. The botero then pours a brew of hot pitch and olive oil into the bota and swishes it around to distribute it evenly. When the pitch cools, it clings to the hairs and renders the interior impermeable.

Finally, the botero attaches a plastic spout (which, in bygone days, was fashioned from bone or wood), wraps the spout with a collar and attaches a carrying cord. Like a high-quality corkscrew or well-stocked cellar, the handcrafted bota is now ready to serve its thirsty master.

But how does one use and care for a bota?

For guidance on this crucial matter, there is only one place to turn: a Spanish grandfather. As such, I sought the counsel of 80-something year old Julio M., a lifelong Madrid resident who claims to have taken mother’s milk from a bota when Calvin Coolidge was in the White House. He gave me his ten commandments for use and care of a bota.

And I am, in turn, going to give those ten commandments to you.

But…not till next month.

Nothing says “Christmas in Spain” like Freixenet (pronounced, “fresh-in-NET”).

Freixenet–headquartered an hour’s drive from Barcelona–is Spain’s largest and most well-known brand of cava. You’ve all seen Freixenent at your local liquor store. It’s that sinister-looking black bottle with the gold lettering and foil-wrapped stopper.

“Ahhhhh,” you’re now saying. “*That’s* Freixenet?! So tell me…what the hell is in that bottle?”

As I said, it’s cava. Cava, quite simply, is Spanish champagne. But the Spanish can’t call it champagne because, amongst other reasons, Spain isn’t located in France.

But I’m not really here to write about Freixenet the drink. You can buy your own bottle and figure it out for yourself. No…I’m here to talk about Freixenet the Christmas tradition.

It’s impossible to avoid Freixenet during Christmas-time in Spain. Neighbors force a glass upon you at every opportunity. Employers uncork a bottle in the conference room during the last workday before Christmas break. Even my bank has a bottle at the ready in its lobby–which makes remembering my PIN just that much more difficult.

But the Freixenet/Christmas tradition really hits its peak over the television airwaves. Why? Because each December, Freixenet airs the season’s most kitchilicious TV commercial. Each year, they break the bank to hire a big-name celebrity to star in the latest installment. Past commercials have featured Pierce Brosnan, Penelope Cruz, Demi Moore and some classical music guy that all Europeans (but few Americans) are apt to recognize.

Then they produce a minute(s)-long extravaganza that is best described as “Bollywood meets Barcelona.”  Freixenet’s Christmas commercial is a much-anticipated event. The company even takes out newspaper advertisements announcing when, and on which channels, it will air.

This year’s celeb de jour is Gwyneth Paltrow–who, in addition to being quite foxy, speaks fluent Spanish.

Tellingly, the company doesn’t disclose the ratio of Freixenet to Dom Perignon bottles in Ms. Paltrow’s personal wine cellar. But one might be forgiven for wondering.

Four people were seated at a table—in the middle of which sat a large, earthenware bowl.  The bowl, which was filled with liquid, had burst into flames.
 
“Step aside!” I said to my dinner companion.  And then—stroking my handlebar moustache and rolling-up the sleeves of my red, flannel shirt—I grabbed a nearby wool overcoat and prepared to smother the raging beast.
 
“You idiot!” she said while grabbing my forearm.  “Don’t you dare touch that! It’s a bowl of Queimada!” (pronounced, “kay-MAH-da”).
 
Queimada is a popular “cocktail” from Spain’s northwest Galicia region—which borders Portugal and is reknowned for its craggy shoreline, driving rains and tasty shellfish. 

Queimada is prepared by filling an earthenware bowl with the Galician grappa called “aguardiente” and spicing it with such ingredients as sugar, lemon or orange peel and coffee beans. 
 
The lot is then ignited and the table’s occupants (or, at least, those who didn’t go too heavily on the hairspray that night) stare transfixed at the bluish flames licking skyward from the bowl. All the while, ladle-full after ladle-full of the flaming cocktail is scooped, lifted and poured back into the bowl. 
 
Tradition dictates that a special poem be recited during this ritual of obsessive-compulsive ladling in order to ward-off evil spirits.  The poem—called the “conxuro” (pronounced, “cone-SHU-roh”)—goes something like this:

Owls, barn owls, toads and witches.
Evil demons and devils.
Spirits of the snowy plains.
Crows, salamanders and sorceresses.
The spells of the quack doctors.
Rotten, hole-ridden canes.
Worm holes and lairs of vermin.
Fire of the souls in torment.
The evil eye, black spells, the smell of the dead, thunder and lightning.
Dog’s bark, portents of death.
Satyr’s snout and rabbit’s foot.
The sinful tongue of the harridan wife of an old man.
Hell of Satan and Beelzebub.
The fire of burning corpses.
The mutilated bodies of the wretched.
Farts from hellish asses. [Hey…don’t blame me. I didn’t write it.]
The roar of the raging sea.
Barren womb of the single mother.
The meowing of cats in heat.
Mangy and filthy hair of the ill-begotten goat.
With this ladle I will raise the flames of this hell-like fire, and the witches will flee on their broomsticks, to bathe on the fat-pebbled beach.
Hear, hear!
The howls of those who burn in the aguardiente and thereby purify themselves.
And when this brew runs down our throats, we will be free of all the sins of our soul and of all witchcraft.
Forces of air, earth, sea and fire, I make this call to you: if it be true that you have more power than man, here and now, make the spirits of the friends who have departed share this Quiemada with us.
Kinda makes you thirsty, doesn’t it? I suspect, however, that Queimada is rarely served backstage at the 700 Club.

Anyway…when all is said and done, the flames die-down and the hot, fragrant, carmelized Queimada is a ladled into small, earthenware cups.

And then the revelers drink-up—secure in the knowlege that they are “free from all the sins of our soul and of all witchcraft.”

And that, my friends, is something on which you can’t put a pricetag. 

Well…actually, just two things in common. They both get a lot of rain. And they both grow a lot of apples.

But whereas the good people of Washington drink Starbucks coffee, those of Asturias drink sidra (pronounced SEE-drah).

Sidra is Spain�s world-famous, alcoholic apple cider. It ranges in flavor from sweet to (IMO) savory; and can be sparkling or still. Its strength hovers around five percent alcohol by volume.

The sidra-making process is relatively straight-forward. Apples are harvested, fermented for several months and then bottled. More interesting than the drink itself, however, is the way that Spaniards serve it.

The bartender will uncork a large, green-glass bottle of sidra and grab a traditional, wide-mouthed, straight-sided sidra glass. He�ll hold the bottle well-over his head with one hand, and hold the glass at knee level with the other. Then he�ll slowly, carefully, pour a four-foot long arc of sidra into the glass without spilling a drop.

He�ll then hand the patron the glass containing a mere two fingers� worth of cold, frothy sidra; which must be drunk immediately.

If any sidra remains in the glass after the froth subsides, the patron will dump the remains into one of the many squat, wooden buckets on the bar floor and slide his glass back to the bartender for another round.

Do not�repeat, do NOT!�attempt this serving technique with a Starbucks Tall Caffe Latte. It would clearly be a case of apples and oranges. And, mostly likely, second-degree burns.

The Calimocho is made by mixing equal parts red wine and, are you ready for this, Coca-cola.
That’s right, Mr. Robert Hess, red wine and Coca-cola.? I’m so, so sorry!

Actually, it doesn’t need to be Coca-cola. Any cola will do and as for the wine well, that’s an equally loose interpretation. Most Calimocho connoisseurs opt for wine decanted from a Tetrabrik box; rather than a French oak barrel.

How would one describe the typical Calimocho connoisseur? In a word, young.

Indeed, a Calimocho is the type of cocktail that is passed-down from father to son, provided, of course, that the son is under fifteen years old and the father is sporting prison tattoos.

But back to mixology. A Calimocho is prepared in one of two ways. One way is to slosh the two ingredients into an enormous, one-liter plastic drinking glass. The importance of using plastic becomes apparent around 2am, when said glass serves its secondary-purpose as a shock-absorber between the connoisseur’s alcohol-induced freefall and the hard, cold pavement below.

The other way to mix a Calimocho is to pour one liter of a two liter bottle of Coke into the gutter, and then top it off with wine.

So, why is the Calimocho so popular? It largely has to do with a Spanish phenomenon called, the botellon.

Botellones are informal, open-air parties at which several to hundreds of teenagers compete to see who can achieve the most skull-crushing hangover for the least amount of money. Botellones used to be a widespread occurrence throughout Spain usually taking place in public parks of major cities. But alas, Spanish authorities began clamping down on these parties because amongst other reasons the kids failed to remember what their parents had taught them: Always pick-up after yourself.

Botellones still happen, of course. But they’ve moved to more discrete venues like the cornfields up the street from my house. Perhaps I can drive these kids from the cornfield by erecting a scarecrow in the form of an angry Robert Parker.

Or better yet, an angrier Robert Hess.

One of the most popular liquors here in Spain is Anís

By the way?that?s pronounced, ?ah-NEES.? Not ?AY-nis.?

Anís a clear, stong liquor?ranging from 80 to 90 proof?that is flavored with anise seed. It?s licorice-like profile is similar to that of Ouzo in Greece or Sambuca and Anisette in Italy.

But unlike the Greeks and Italians, Spaniards don?t drink Anís as an aperitif. Rather, they drink it as a digestif after a good meal.

And, yes, sometimes that good meal is breakfast.

[Author’s Note: If Greeks and Italians serve it before the meal and Spaniards serve it after the meal, then surely?there must be some Mediterranean country that serves anise-flavored liquor as the meal itself. If so, then book me two tickets!]

The method for drinking Anís in Spain is simple enough. It is typically served on the rocks in a small snifter?with the water produced by the melting ice cubes turning the liquid from clear to milky-white.

Anís  is also, occasionally, used as a component in cocktails, the most common being the disturbingly popular ?Sol y Sombra.

Anís comes in two varieties: dry and sweet. Sweet Anís is, based on my observations over the past seven years, preferred by Spaniards. It is also, based on my observations over the past seven years, likely to cause the more excruciating hangover.

The more popular brands here are Anís  de Chinch (produced near Madrid) and Anís de Mono (produced near Barcelona); the latter of which is an inferior product, but has a much nicer label.

The good people of Navarra, i.e., the region bordering northern Spain’s Basque Country, have given the world more than just the annual spectacle of drunken men being gored in the ass at Pamplona. No, the Navarre have also given the world Patxaran (pronounced paht-chah-RAHN).

Patxaran is a sweet, fruity, aromatic digestif produced by macerating sloe berries in anis (i.e., Spain’s version of Ouzo or Anisette). It has a fruity yet licoricey flavor and is quite sweet. It is also, in my humble-yet-warped opinion, Spain’s prettiest liquor. It has a deep, reddish, purplish hue that I would love to see painted onto a Corvette in my driveway.

Patxaran is drank cold here in Spain. Most bars serve it on the rocks, but it obviously tastes best when the bottle itself is chilled and the drink is free of the diluting effects of ice cubes melting under the blazing Iberian sun.

I decided to do a bit of Internet surfing in order to expand my knowledge of this noble drink because, with gasoline at $6 per gallon in Spain, I sure as hell wasn’t going to drive to Navarra.

Aside from a bunch of silly nonsense about Patxaran being served at the wedding of King Carlos III’s son in the year 1415, a fact that I cannot verify because the King didn’t send me an invitation, I did stumble upon one very relevant fact: Patxaran’s sweet flavor makes it hard to stop at one glass, yet excessive consumption can lead to a nasty hangover.

Silly me. I thought that was true of all liquor.

But a Patxaran hangover is far more dangerous than those of other liquors. Why? Because it isn?t limited to a throbbing headache and nauseous stomach. No…a Patxaran hangover can also (and often) includes a 40 centimeter-deep horn wound in the buttocks.

There comes a point in a man�s life when he just can�t face another paella. And in my case, that point came after my sixth year of living in Spain. So I was beyond thrilled when a family of Romanian friends living in nearby Guadalajara invited me over to their apartment for an authentic, old country meal.

And as I sat in their living room fantasizing about the imminent arrival of pork-stuffed cabbage rolls, I was taken aback when the father, Viorel, approached me carrying a plastic, two liter Coca-Cola bottle filled with a liquid that clearly wasn�t Coca-Cola.

�This question frightens me, Viorel, but…what are you about to make me drink?� I asked.

To which he barked, �Romanian oil!�

But it wasn�t oil, at all. It was Tuica (pronounced, chew-EE-kuh).

Tuica is a traditional Romanian liquor distilled from plums. It smells and tastes like…well, like plums. But surprising to me, at least…is isn�t overly sweet. Only faintly so. And it�s strong�around 80 proof, in my best estimation.

The Tuica we drank was�like most Tuica in Romania�homemade. This particular batch was artfully crafted by the father of Viurel�s daughter-in-law, Catalina.

I asked Catalina how her father makes his incredibly tasty Tuica. And although much was probably lost in translation, she broadly described the process as follows. Her father packs ripe plums into a wooden barrel and lets them sit for a month. Then he distills the liquid using a fire-powered brass still. Then�because he�s a proud man who likes his liquor on the smooth side�he ages the freshly-distilled Tuica in a wood barrel for at least another month before �bottling.�

Catalina�s explanation surprised me a bit. I had naively assumed that her father made the Tuica by simply macerating the fruits in a neutral grain alcohol. This is, after all, how many do-it-yourself Spaniards make Patxaran. But no…the Tuica that Viorel and I enjoyed was no mere alcoholic tea. It was full-fledged, Romanian moonshine. And I doubt that Uncle Jesse could make a better one.

I�ve since surfed the Internet to learn more about Tuica, and read that, in Romania, a single shot is typically served as an aperitif. But my host, Viorel, seemed to be reading from a different best-practices manual. We did indeed have one shot of Tuica as an aperitif�followed by at least three more.

Then, after dinner, what did we have as a digestif? That�s right…more Tuica! But this time, it was served hot with sugar and whole peppercorns.

Virgil once warned the world to beware of Greeks bearing gifts. But as far as I�m concerned…Romanians bearing plastic, two-liter Coca-Cola bottles is a reason to rejoice.

Yet don�t just prep Manhattans
Or mix a large Negroni
Try some straight
And on the rocks
But hold the pepperoni!

�Hold the pepperoni?� On behalf of myself and The Spirit World editors, I must apologize for the unspeakable silliness of that poem. But its point nonetheless remains valid.

Sweet, red vermouth�which is typically used as a cocktail ingredient in the US�tastes pretty darn good all by itself. And in fact, that�s the way that we drink it here in Spain.

For those of you unfamiliar with sweet, red vermouth, it�s a fortified wine that is flavored and aromatized with various (and typically secret) herbs and spices. I can say with some degree of confidence that it is both sweeter and redder than the vermouth used to make Dry Martinis.

The most famous (and abundant) brands are Cinzano and Martini & Rossi. But in Spain, many bars carry obscure local brands�and these are often served on tap.

A glass of sweet, red vermouth (or �vermut� in Spanish) is often taken during the daily �aperitivo��which is that sacred ritual of having a quick snort at the local bar before going home to a large, lengthy Spanish lunch.

In some parts of Spain, in fact, the apertivo event is referred to as �un vermut.� As in, �Let�s meet for �un vermut� at 1pm.� This phrase is used regardless of what the attendees are planning to drink.

So how exactly do we prepare a �classic� glass of Spanish-style vermouth over here? It�s very simple.

Just add ice to a tall, thin �tubo� glass. Fill the glass with sweet, red vermouth. Garnish with a slice of lemon or�as I and many other Spaniards prefer�a couple of olives skewered with a toothpick.

But please…do not garnish with a slice of pepperoni.