How to Make a Good Tortilla de Patatas, or Spanish Omelet, or Omelet with Potatoes and Onions, or Scrambled Eggs with Potatoes and Onions - Depending on How it Turns Out, or Your Point of View

The first thing you have to understand is that your first attempt at making this Spanish staple, will be a complete disaster and utter failure and you will most likely end up with dry scrambled eggs, soggy potatoes, and burnt pieces of onions. I’ve been making these for the last year, and half the time they come out in a mess, and make me want to smash my frying pan against the wall and then throw the crappy eggs, potatoes and onions out the window, as if it were a Spanish holiday and I were celebrating by festively tossing out the cornerstone of their cuisine.

Its history is disputed and not really relevant, but I’m going to talk about it anyway. At some point in the 19^th Century, Spanish people were fighting a war against other Spanish people, somewhere in Spain. The armies didn’t have a lot of food, but they had an abundance of eggs and potatoes, so they got pissed off and really desperate, and decided to get crazy and throw their two ingredients together. The result would go on to be served as free appetizers with tiny bottles of beer all over Spain two hundred years later and spawn countless impersonators all over the world.

Before coming to Spain, I thought a Spanish omelet was what anyone in North America would consider an omelet but with the addition of some onions- as it appears in any typical breakfast joint; or maybe an omelet with onions, peppers, and hashbrowns if you frequent a classy breakfast place where girls go to have brunch and the meal is finished with a slice of cantaloupe or some other fruit that isn’t preserved in some variety of Del Monte can. Well, that’s not a Spanish omelet. That apparently, is simply an omelet with onions that diner proprietors throw ‘Spanish’ in front of to sound classy and cheat ignorant people like me into ordering it, and it works, because I see and ask for it to make myself feel cultured and worldly. Sometimes, a touch of class is necessary, especially when you’re sitting in a diner at 1 o’clock on a Saturday afternoon in your sweatpants because you woke up a half hour ago and are too hung over to make yourself some breakfast to soak up the alcohol from the night before. An omelet with onions does nothing for your self-esteem. A Spanish omelet makes you feel a little less ashamed of yourself – as if you’re growing, maturing, developing, and the sweatpants and hangover are simply blips on the radar.

The real Spanish omelet, or Tortilla de Patatas, resembles more of a really thick omelet - or egg pie, if you will - with softly fried potatoes and onions embedded in it. It sounds really simple and bland, but it’s fantastic. The first time I tried it I wanted to ram my fist into it in anger; in anger because I had not been exposed to its deliciousness sooner and had been wasting my time with stupid Denver omelets.

A good Spanish omelet is moist and salty. It possesses a soft and gentle texture where the onion adds sweetness and the potato retains the flavor of the olive oil it is fried in, giving it the taste of a French fry, but the texture of a mashed potato. The egg is browned on the outside but moist on the inside, without an overpowering eggy taste. When all these components are combined into one mouthful, the result is a delicious and delectable Spanish party in your mouth, but without the sexual connotations that come to mind when I say, ‘delicious and delectable Spanish party in your mouth’. However, as simple as the ingredients and final product must sound, producing a good Spanish omelet is one of the most difficult, frustrating, and exasperating cooking challenges you will ever undertake. It’s almost as hard as boiling eggs well, or making pizza dough from scratch, which I have entirely given up because it’s stupid and impossible and I can just buy my pizza ready made and save myself the headache and the smashing of things in my kitchen.

Each person has their own backwards and confusing technique to cooking a Spanish omelet. I’ve asked anyone willing to listen and answer, and they all tell me a different method, which makes me feel like they’re lying to me, or unwilling to reveal their personal tricks, or waiting until I leave to laugh behind my back. Nevertheless, out of all the information, tips, secrets, and countless failures I’ve endured, I’m going to share with you the limited and unreliable expertise I have amassed.

You need to approach cooking a Spanish omelet with a strategy - almost as if you were playing a game of chess, or if you’re like me and don’t like chess, approach it as if you’re playing connect four…or even hungry hungry hippos, because it’s not about strength and smashing the knob as fat and furious as you can; only the clever and cunning end up with all the marbles, and leave the rest of the four year olds to wallow in their shame, defeat, and snot dribbling down their nose because they have not yet attained the sensation, ability, and self-awareness to know it’s there and wipe it off.

First, you need to slice the potatoes into half-centimeter chips and slowly fry them on a low-medium heat. Now I only say fry because you’re using olive oil. It’s really more like you have to boil the potatoes in oil on low-medium heat.  You cook it on a low temperature because you don’t want the potatoes to crisp or brown on the outside - you want to keep the starchy bastards nice and soft to maintain the same texture throughout. This should take about 15 minutes of wondering why they’re taking so long, repeatedly asking yourself if they’re ready to be taken out, and whether you should just scrap the whole idea and make some chicken noodle soup from the can. As soon as you can softly put a spatula through the frying/boiling potatoes and they split easily or crumble away, you can drain them from the oil.

When the potatoes are drained, dump them in a bowl and stir in the eggs until the mixture is runny but you can still densely feel and see potatoes. I usually use 6 eggs for every 2 mid-sized potatoes, but like I’ve said before, I’m not a scientist. I guess I could use more specific measurements but that would require more work, precision, and of course measuring, and there’s no real reason, but I just don’t want to do that.

When the eggs have been mixed into the potatoes, literally throw in a fist of salt. No, don’t throw in a fist of salt. Start adding in pinches of salt, and when you think you’ve put in too much, throw in another one. Trust me. Or don’t. You do whatever you want. It’s your omelet. Don’t even use potatoes. Read this and make me look like an idiot by making fried eggs instead, I don’t care.

If you’d still like to continue making the omelet, take another frying pan and add two tablespoons of oil onto medium-high heat. When the pan is hot, add the egg and potato mixture. Be sure not to burn yourself because that would be stupid and painful. As soon as the eggs go in, turn the heat down to low-medium heat. Why would you do that? Because the Spanish, just like their grammar, like to make things difficult. You also do it to let the omelet cook evenly so you don’t burn the outside and leave the inside raw and runny like the aforementioned 4 year olds’ noses.

After about 5 minutes (and I’m seriously estimating here and not sure at all about the timing because I looked up in the air, thought about it for a second, and nonchalantly agreed that 5 seemed like a good enough number) or when shaking the pan slightly, you can see that the bottom’s firmed up a little and the top is still runny, place a large plate on top of the frying pan that’s big enough to extend beyond the rim of the pan, flip the omelet over onto the plate, and slide the runny part down, back into the pan. You should probably do this over the sink, because in all likelihood, the omelet will probably end up in there, as it has with me…once…every three times I try to make it.

With the heat still on low-medium, let the omelet cook for another 5 minutes (I’m using the same logic and lackadaisical measuring I did earlier).  By touching the middle of the omelet, you should be able to gage whether it’s done. If it’s firm, it’s pretty much there, but if it still feels soft, lacks density, and your finger dips into it as easily as it does when you pick your nose, the eggs are still runny and it’s not ready yet. Leave it on there and relax. Or if you’re really hungry and you want to see what a mess you’ve made, pierce the omelet at the center with a fork so the middle cooks a little faster, but don’t go crazy, because too many piercings and too much heat will leave it drier than the prunes your grandfather eats to keep him regular.

When the middle has finally firmed up, slide the omelet onto a plate and celebrate in triumph or cry in shame, depending on the outcome. Wait a few minutes before you carve it up and eat it. It should taste really good. If it doesn’t, you fucked up.

I generally use 2 potatoes and one small onion for every six eggs. You should have enough olive oil to cover the potatoes while frying them. An omelet of this size should feed 4, or if you’re really hungry, 2, and if you’re sad and an emotional eater or just really really hungry, then it will comfortably feed 1. If you try it and don’t like it, just stick to Denver omelets. 

10 Things That Really Piss Me Off In No Particular Order of Degree or Logic

10) Raccoons

I hate raccoons. Not because they’re pests. Not because they have those dark, sadistic circles around their eyes. I don’t even hate them for those awful screeching sounds they make when they’re fighting that sound like they’re getting their intestines ripped out and tied around a tree.  I hate them because they’re arrogant, deluded bastards.

Too many times, I’ve found myself walking down a dark quiet street at night, only to have a raccoon lurk its head out of a garbage bin, and look at me with contempt and condescension. They scornfully stare at me as if I’ve impeded on their privacy, taken them away from their feast of trash. They disdainfully ogle me as if I’m the strange one - as if I’m the one doing something wrong. FUCK YOU! You’re the one eating garbage! And it’s not even your own garbage. You’re eating someone else’s garbage. Now if the raccoons I stumbled upon were to see me approach, and hang their heads in the appropriate shame and embarrassment that such a sight calls for, I would have a very different perception of the fat furry fucks. But they don’t. They just stare and judge.

A lot of you might think that their attention to my presence in such scenarios is a survival instinct – a cautious measure to protect their food, territory, and safety – it’s not. They’re deluded, inappropriate jerks.

9) People that send mass holiday greetings

It’s cheating. It’s not consideration or personal thought – it’s convenience. I find it insulting, I really do. I see it as though I’m not even worth the thirty seconds or one minute it takes to send me a personal email or text message. I’m only worth the time it took to write “Merry Christmas” or “Happy New Year” divided by the number of people these impersonal jerks have on their contact lists.

Do yourself a favour and don’t do it. No one’s looking at this message thinking, you’re a thoughtful, kind person. They’re thinking, “Wow, how caring? This wally typed in ten characters and clicked on send all.”

8) Emoticons

If you need to send me a winky face to show me you’re joking or being sarcastic, the joke sucks and it’s not funny. If you need to send me a an angry red face to show that you’re upset, you’re an idiot and I’m not going to take it seriously.

7) People that wear glasses without lenses

You’re not fashionable. You’re a moron. It’s like walking around on crutches without a broken leg.

6) People that say, 'Guy'

Like, “Hey guy”, or “What can I get you, guy?”

There’s no reason or rational, I just don’t like it.

5) When I walk outside and it starts raining at that precise moment

Now I know this scenario is magnified in my mind just because I don’t like it, and I’m sure a much greater percentage of the time I walk outside and it’s a beautiful day, but I can’t help but feel as though this happens to me more than other people. Of course, there’s no way of knowing that and I realize that in all likelihood I’m wrong, and being a bit of a negative Nancy, or even a bitter Betty if you will, and that it’s just a coincidence that occurs to others just as much as it does to me, but I feel like it happens to me a lot. And I hate it.

When I walk outside to dry pavement and feel the first few drops of drizzle coming down, the logical thing to do would be to return home and grab an umbrella, but I can be irrational and a bit of an idiot. I feel like turning and punching a concrete wall and then doubling over in pain because I’ve just punched a hard concrete wall with my soft lady-like hands. I feel cheated and like the butt end of a joke – as if Mother Nature’s been hiding behind the clouds waiting for the moment I walk out of my door to piss on me with her acidy urine that makes me feel uncomfortably moist and stains the back of my pants because I kick up water on them as I walk. Then I picture her laughing at me as the rage lowers my brow and clenches my jaw. If she were a real person and I saw her at that exact moment, I would like to say that I would be bold enough to slap her or kick her in the shin, but I think hitting women is despicable and unacceptable. I’d probably just glare at her for a moment, and then look down at the sidewalk, muttering profanities under my breath. And if she greeted me with a smile, I’d probably respond with the same, because that’s just the kind of guy I am; some might call it chivalrous, others would say cowardly. I like to think I’m diplomatic and not confrontational, but cowardly is probably the most accurate description.

4) When my IPod doesn't get me

I wish there was some kind of mood sensor with the IPod shuffle feature. There have been days when I feel like absolute crap and days where I feel great and enthusiastic and really excited, and on those days, occasionally, I’ll put my iPod on shuffle, and it will randomly pick the worst songs. I’m serious. Sometimes it picks the worst possible songs that don’t change my mood or intensify it. In fact, it has a strange effect where I get really frustrated, defeated, and antsy. I’m usually forced to turn it off altogether and walk or do whatever I was doing in empty, boring, stupid silence.

Sometimes, when I feel down, I want to hear music that reflects that. Like many people, it gives me some kind consolation and reassurance, as though I’m not the only human that feels like shit in that moment and that there are others who have felt or feel like I do. Conversely, when I feel really good, I like to maintain that feeling with music that preserves and encourages my positivity, and more often than not, my IPod drops the proverbial ball or whatever other analogy that describes when something stupid doesn’t do what it should or you want the stupid thing to do.

There have been rare occasions where the complete random selection of songs has been able to increase the mood I was in, whether it be happiness or despair, or even change it for the better altogether, but they’re just too few and far between. I know I could just make playlists for such occasions, but sometimes, I get bored of what’s on my ‘Summer 2011’ or ‘Pick Me Up’ playlist and want to hear something that I loved two years ago, played forty times in a row, got tired of, but now am ready to be pleasantly surprised when it pops up randomly, but the shuffle feature just doesn’t come through and makes my day worse or ruins it altogether, making me want to throw my IPod at a passing bus, which I would only do if I had enough money to walk into the closest BestBuy and buy a another one, but money’s a bit tight, so I have to put up with its insensitivity and inconsideration.

3) Lines

I like to think I’m a patient person. My profession at the moment requires a lot of patience and I’m pretty good at demonstrating it, but when I’m in line, whether it be at a grocery store, a government building or coffee shop, I start to freak out. Maybe it’s because I spent so much time in lines throughout university, waiting to get into the places with the cheapest and thus, crappiest domestic beer on Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and occasionally Monday nights, because I wasn’t cool enough to know the bouncer from the gym or other places where all the cool kids meet each other and get to build a world that the rest of us are never a part of, but I don’t know, I’m not a scientist.

I’m not agoraphobic or antisocial, and I don’t get paranoid or anything. Instead, I just become agitated, twitchy, and really irritable. I start to hate everybody in front of me and delude the time they take to complete their transaction. In actuality, I wait in lines as much as anyone else, I think I just react to it differently. It’s gotten so bad now, that every time I approach an option of lines, like in a large grocery store, I try to deduce which line will move the quickest by judging the cashier or teller, the clients, what they have or the quantity I think they might have to do/purchase. For example, a young cashier/teller will probably move quicker and be less susceptible to inane small talk. Old clientele will be ridiculously susceptible to inane chitchat and move at the rate they are shrinking.

I know everybody does this to some degree, but I think I do it obsessively and with too much concentration than what would be considered normal. Also, I feel like I pick the worst line every single time. I always get stuck behind the person who’s card doesn’t work or who wants to review the last two years of his/her account history or who isn’t sure whether he/she wants the laundry detergent he/she thought was on sale but isn’t, but will check his/her receipt three more times to verify the price and waist a little bit more of everybody else in the line’s life.

I get so pissed off that now, if I walk into a store and notice a long line, or the attendant is having a large conversation with a customer about trivial garbage (which happens all the time in Spain, where I live now, with complete disregard for anyone else in the store/office, but it’s nice, because it’s friendly and welcoming, but at the same time, all I want is a stupid carton of milk for my coffee and I have to sit there listening about how some guy named Jose has a sister who had a kid and she’s decided to name him Jose) I just leave and go to the closest place where I can purchase the same thing or complete the same transaction. I know this is illogical because I spend more time walking to the next destination than it would have taken to wait at my original place, and then there’s the possibility that the next location will have more of the same, but, I don’t know, I just hate lines.

2) Waiting for the plane doors to open once I arrive at my destination

It seems like there’s a common theme here, but really, I’m not an unreasonable idiot who can’t relax and be patient for particular things to happen. I just hating waiting in certain situations, and waiting for the plane doors to open once the plane has reached the boarding gate where we will disembark is just one of those situations.

It’s strange that after what at times has been a fourteen-hour flight, I can’t hold still and remain calm for another five to ten minutes, but I just can’t. I get restless and usually end up in this awkward half-sitting, half-standing position, strategizing my escape and how I’m going to beat the elderly couple in front of me to the overhead stowage. And then once the doors open and I see the first-class passengers exiting, I don’t feel a deep sense of relief or tranquility, I hate them because they’re disembarking before me and can afford to fly first-class and enjoy such luxuries, in addition to mint chocolate chip ice cream for desert as opposed to my plastic wrapped yogurt granola bar that tasted as bad as it did when I used to eat them at recess when I was 10. Then, I have to painstakingly watch as the other passengers file out of their rows, fix their clothes, fold over their jackets, slowly grab their carry-ons, and comment to anybody listening, “Wow, that was a long one, huh?” without any sense of urgency. Yeah, it’s been a fucking long one and I want to get off and walk on solid ground that’s not moving at 1000 km/h and breathe something other than recycled air. I don’t think I’m asking for anything unreasonable. Just a little more organization, pace, and the decency to not stretch when you stand up in the aisle and let the other 200 passengers behind you get off before they try to throw themselves out those ridiculously tiny thick cabin windows.

1) Not knowing what to do with my life and the people that know exactly what to do with theirs

When people achieve something significant, I am genuinely happy for them. I like to share in people’s happiness’ and triumphs, and as such, don’t become engulfed in envy or jealousy. However, I, like many others, have no idea what to do with my life. I love the people that are in my life. I love my friends. I love my family. I am madly in love with my girlfriend, but I have no idea what to dedicate myself to; what to devote my life to. I have a lot of interests and hobbies, but no real passion that I could realistically make a living off of, unless of course, I could make $60, 000 a year playing pick-up hockey but that’s probably impossible. I haven’t looked on monster.com, but it’s pretty unlikely I would find that there, or anywhere that isn’t an awesome imaginary place.

I think about doing something altruistic like working for some Nongovernmental Organization. Maybe the reward would be gratifying enough, but, I’m not willing to put in the work, years of interning, or time living in a Central American village digging a water well, as selfless and satisfying that work must be.  Then I think, maybe I could start a business, except, I lack the two most integral components of starting a business – motivation and an idea. In my youth I wanted to be a professional hockey player, and if I’m honest, would still like to, but that ship sailed a long time ago, along with the height and natural athletic ability I never received. Eventually, I decided to study education so I could save the world one maladjusted kid at a time, but I soon realized that it wasn’t for me. So, I’ve tried a couple things, probably not enough, but I have tried a couple, and thought about a bunch more, albeit briefly, but nothing sticks out.

And then there are the people that have found ‘it’. I’m talking about the people that loved biology all their life and then went on to become…I don’t know, a biologist of some sort, or someone who loved a particular sport, couldn’t play it professionally but became a part of it professionally in some capacity. These people love what they do, are happy going to work, and are really driven because they have dedicated themselves to something they enjoy, and while I am genuinely happy for them, and feel happy to see them happy, I kind of hate them at the same time. That’s a bit of an exaggeration. I don’t hate them. I just want that; that passion and enthusiasm for what I do, and I just haven’t found it, and that really fucking irritates me sometimes.