The Conde Fritos originated in the Pyrennes 
bordering with France,
and they had an innate disgust for the French,
particularly their saucy food and chivalric customs.
Near the mountain pass of Col du Pourtalet,
at a French monastic celebration of Holy Mass,
Rodrigo’s proud ancestor Raúl became so incensed 
with the snide, 
over-the-nose taunting glances of Count Fromage,
that, lurking in the cypress trees near the necropolis
he blew the nobleman up with cannons and firecrackers
screaming——que te vayas al carajo, conde frito!
                                                                              Fried count!  
Since then, it has become something of an insult
across Spain to curse saying conde frito.  
If someone utters this, it might be the last thing 
you ever hear.

He was simple.  He worked hard.
He liked spiced lard scraped over bread
for breakfast, a fried fish and salad 
for lunch, and a puchero—carrots and celery,
onions and potatoes floating in a turkey stock
for supper.  The egregious family motto 

was Caedite eos. Novit enim Dominus qui sunt eius—
Kill them now, God knows those that are his own.
Nights, he guarded his mountain pass,
contemplating family history
but no one knew what he was really doing.
There was a time in the light, but no longer.
Nobody knows there was a story.  

His most divine study was a most sacred pastime
comparable to the rabid enthusiasm 
of blue haired widows playing 
primetime bingo for Barry Manilow tickets,
or to jaleo, that uproarious fervor of flamenco—
he drank.  He drank like a field surgeon leaving 
a botched procedure—but with a difference, 
stewing himself from the inside out 
with only very special brandy wine.
With the ambrosial amber taste of flowers,
fresh and dried fruit, and tangy citrus zest,
brandy is similar to cognac 
except that it can be made anywhere.  

The French will tell you 
all cognac is brandy– 
but very little brandy is cognac.
Rodrigo de Conde Frito refused to drink anything French.  
He never drank cognac.
He could never forgive the French for being French.

Antonio de Conde Frito gave me my first snifter.
Darting across the room with a cigarette dangling 
something dangerously from my seven year old lips,  
I cried “Yes!  This is what men do!  Yes!  More!”
I would drink until it filled my soul.
I fell worshipping, prostrate under Antonio’s seat,
like a priest singing Mass in cackles.