What do you want, the roads always lead more to Rome than to Barcelona and Almodovar is not enough to erase Cinecitta.
So nobody to say it, even less to write it but, in secret, Spanish cuisine dreams of being Italian.
Not so much that she feels belittled, complexed, jealous or quarrelsome, but there is like a desire, surely a regret, not to see herself as desired.
So long has the Transalpine triumphed: its trattorias on every street corner in every city, its carpaccios everywhere, its pizzas always, its miles of recipe books, the whole world hanging on the lips of valpolicellas and chiantis… Until the spritz, to make the sangria old fashioned.
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To the appetites of everyday life, in recent years, the Iberian has certainly not spared himself in exporting his tapas and making us eat bellota but, as soon as it is a question of climbing in the treble, the pointed, the euros and palaces, success evaporates.
The peninsula rubs against it as regularly as it pricks itself
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