Calcotada-The Onion Festival

     "There's an art to eating the calcot," Helena instructed us. Plastic gloves, like those of a cafeteria worker, covered her manicured nails. A white bib was strung around her neck to protect her designer jacket. "You must dip and then swallow it whole." She unwrapped a spring onion-like calcot from newspaper, peeled the charred outside with her fingertips and dunked it in the rust-colored pepper and almond sauce in front of her. She tipped her head back and dangled the long flame-grilled snack above her open mouth. With surprising grace, she swallowed nine-inches of the onion before biting off the green top.
      I looked over at Patrick. He was visibly impressed. He had been hesitant about attending the Calcotada; something that was described as an onion festival, but once he was there he had enjoyed himself. How could he not?
     We had arrived to find the fires roaring. Flames danced high above the grill. The vines and hard woods crackled as the coals began to glow. Dirt from the field still clung to the long white onions as they were placed in large batches over the fire to roast. Beers were poured as fast as we could drink them. Laughter filled the air. In the courtyard, families gathered around tables laden with the discarded tips and charred outside of the calcots. This was a winter festival enjoyed mainly by locals. Our English voices were the minority. In fact, even Spanish was minimal. This was a Catalan festival.
     A man with long dark curls brought a clay roof tile filled with blackened calcots to our table. They had barely been put down when Helena ripped open the newspaper and demonstrated the correct--somewhat erotic--technique for eating them. It did not take us long to dig in.
     I donned my own gloves; happy to avoid the mess the charred outside would make. Holding it by the tip, I submerged my calcot in the sauce and held it high above my head. Sauce dripped onto my cheek. I laughed self-consciously. I lowered the onion. My aim was off and I hit my chin with the calcot; smearing more sauce on my face. I could hear Patrick laughing and Helena cheering me on.
     Erotic, it was not. I cheated and bit the white of the onion in half. Soft sweetness swirled in my mouth. There was no bite or sting of onion; it was silky smooth. I smiled wide and wiped my face with the bib. This was not first date food. This was messy fun. Laughing, I reached for another.