I never really had much use for sangria, which I thought was Spanish for crappy wine. That was until one July afternoon, when I sat down at a café in Altea, a small town north of Alicante on Spain’s Mediterranean coast. I was seated at the outside bar with my wife, Eleanore, as I watched a young man putting wine, fruit, etc. into a glass pitcher. Naturally, I made the same Smart Aleck remark about the English translation for sangria to the barman.
Being a terminal wise guy can get you beat up or it can get you free drinks. In this case, it was the latter. The barman laughed politely and poured Eleanore and me two large glasses of his concoction; they were on the house. Needless to say, they were delicious. We ended up having a couple more glasses and wheedling his remarkably simple recipe from