On Sundays and the fiestas of the Valencian saints who for Uncle Caragol were the first in heaven,—­San Vicente Martir, San Vicente Ferrer, La Virgin de los Desamparados and the Cristo del Grao—­would appear the smoking paella, a vast, circular dish of rice upon whose surface of white, swollen grains were lying bits of various fowls.  The cook loved to surprise his following by distributing rotund, raw onions, with the whiteness of marble and an acrid surprise that brought tears to the eyes.  They were a princely gift maintained in secret.  One had only to break them with one blow and their sticky juices would gush forth and lose themselves in the palate like crisp mouthfuls of a sweet and spicy bread, alternating with knifefuls of rice.  The boat was at times near Brazil in sight of Fernando de Norona,—­yet even while viewing the conical huts of the negroes installed on an island under an equatorial sun, the crews could almost believe—­thanks to Uncle Caragol’s magic—­that they were eating in a cabin of the farmland of Valencia, as they passed from hand to hand the long-spouted jug filled with strong wine from Liria.

When they anchored in ports where fish was abundant, he achieved the great work of cooking a rice abanda.  The cabin boys would bring to the captain’s table the pot in which was boiled the rich sea food mixed with lobsters, mussels, and every kind of shell-fish available, but the chef invariably reserved for himself the honor of offering the accompanying great platter with its pyramid, of rice, every grain golden and distinct.

Boiled apart (abanda) each grain was full of the succulent broth of the stew-pot.  It was a rice dish that contained within it the concentration of all the sustenance of the sea.  As though he were performing a liturgical ceremony, the chef would go around delivering half a lemon to each one of those seated at the table.  The rice should only be eaten after moistening it with this perfumed dew which called to mind the image of an oriental garden.  Only the unfortunate beings who lived inland were ignorant of this exquisite confection, calling any mess of rice a Valencian rice dish.

Ulysses would humor the cook’s notions, carrying the first spoonful to his mouth with a questioning glance....  Then he would smile, giving himself up to gastric intoxication.  “Magnificent, Uncle Caragol!” His good humor made him affirm that only the gods should be nourished with rice abanda in their abodes on Mount Olympus.  He had read that in books.  And Caragol, divining great praise in all this, would gravely reply, “That is so, my captain.”  Toni and the other officers by this time would be chewing away with heads down, only interrupting their feast to regret that the old Ganymede should have skimped them when measuring the ambrosia.