On the last day of the fair, I take a final stroll through the streets and find myself again in the Gypsy enclave. It's midafternoon, and the casetas are just opening for business. A woman wiping off tables gives me a warm smile, so I wander over to chat. Her name is Josefa, she tells me, and tomorrow she will make a traditional stew for the caseta workers. The ingredients will include the obligatory wild mint and fennel, along with pig knuckles and chicken feet. "We put in those special things the payos don't use," she tells me with a wink, "and it makes our food better." Since we're on the subject of Gypsy cooking, I tell her that I've been trying to learn the recipe for buñuelos, to absolutely no avail. She rattles it off so quickly that I barely have time to write it down.
"I thought that was a Gypsy secret!" I say, amazed at my good luck.
Josefa just wrinkles up her nose and laughs, shaking her head with a gentle mocking gesture. It strikes me then that although I've probably spent more time in the Gypsy world than most payos, I still know little of its inner workings. Gypsy Seville remains a place of mystery to me, a realm where what I think is true turns out to be false, and where even the nature of secrets is a guarded secret. I know I'll always be an outsider here. But for love of flamenco and of arte, I also know I'll keep coming back.
Pinterest
