The asparagus that got away

Yesterday I was driving in the car with Jaime, when he spotted an asparagus growing on the verge. We were travelling at 30kmph so Lord knows how he caught that, but I started quietly cooking up plans to go on my own wild asparagus hunt. This morning, as the sky broke and the sun shone through, I thought, I’ll just take a walk. My mind flickered to the asparagus, whether I should take a bag with me for my findings, but like not wearing matching underwear to jinx a possible romance, I left the bag in the drawer. Two minutes from my flat and I saw a man emerge from the pine forest greedily gripping a large bunch of wild asparagus. I cut my route to the sea short and immediately dived into the dense green jungle from where he had appeared. I walked along a sandy path, trying to adjust my eyes to differentiate between the heap of green shoots, twigs and plants that lay underfoot. I walked slowly and swayed from right to left like a metal detector. No asparagus yet. I looked at the footprints in the sandy path; it made me nervous, so many had passed before me this morning. So I took my hunt off road, clambering through brambles, my head in a cloud of midges and dodging near misses with wasps. Crouching down, I scrambled through tumbling weeds, looking like someone on a deranged hunt for a lost contact lens. I found some dandelions, wild rocket and lots of snail shells, but no flipping asparagus. I only want one, I bargained with the universe, at the same time trying to imagine where I would grow if I were an asparagus. Desperate. Then like with the lottery, I started to think about what I would do with it, boil it with butter, grill it, or make a tortilla de asparagus. Also like the lottery I realised that one wouldn’t do and to be really happy I would need at least five. Then I started to think, I don’t even need them anyway, look here I am in Spain taking a nice walk in the sun, doesn’t the forest smell nice, all the while my eyes fixed on the floor searching like mad, who was I kidding. As I walked my way out of the forest empty handed and my socks full of scratchy grass seed, I met Sofia in the street. I told her about my failed morning and she laughed, you have to keep practising or find a Granddad.

I am also very bad at mushroom picking. On a mushroom hunt in Mallorca last autumn I collected a grand total of none. So for this I am thankful that Spain celebrates its produce by having festivals where you get to buy them and eat them without disappointment. Here are some pictures from the beautiful stone village of Mancor de Vall in Mallorca where they were celebrating the arrival of setas (wild mushrooms) in particular el robellόn. The meaty orange mushroom pictured, is also found in pine forests and is best when cooked on a grill over the fire. At this festival you could by a plate with various cuts of pork and robellόns, barbecue them yourself over an already flaming brassier and then eat them sitting on a straw bale. The mushroom is slightly bitter, has an aroma of the forest and meatiness to it. A thoroughly rustic and enjoyable experience with guaranteed satisfaction.

My parting thoughts are I am so pleased there is still exciting wild food to be found in Spain but can somebody please show me where it is. 

Desperately seeking sobrasada

This year my totem of pork was toppled. Spain boasts an abundant array of pork products, from the masterful iberico jamón to fruity longanizas de pasca. Each region makes its own speciality, like morcilla from Burgos or chorizo from La Rioja. You could make an amazing travel itinerary based around embutido. Whilst picking olives in Mallorca in November, I stumbled across one of the greatest ever sandwich fillers, sobrasada. This magic meat has shot to the number two spot in my life, let’s face it, nothing ever will beat jamón.

Mallorca has got it all going on. Forget Magaluf and think more Michelin starred. Almonds, olives, vegetables, wine and pigs are some of the local specialities. The Mallorquin Black Pig is a breed that has evolved throughout history and is native to the Balearics. During the matanza (slaughter of the pig in winter) it’s customary to blend a mixture of meat, fat, salt and pimentón (paprika) to form the highly coveted sobrasada. Different parts of the pig are used as linings such as the intestines, stomach and bladder, making varying types of sobrasada. These different forms are carefully designed to supply a family with a years’ worth of sobrasada from just one pig. It is deep red, smoky and gloriously rich in taste. The soft spreadable nature means it is popular on toast with honey or I like a salad of poached egg, Mahon cheese (cow’s milk cheese from Menorca), lettuce and sobrasada. It really is the egg of the embutido, good both hot or cold and with both sweet and savoury accompaniments.

I will never forget my first deeply satisfying bite of a hot sobrasada sandwich. Whilst picking olives in the mountains, the farmer would make us the best almuerzo ever. Just before our morning break he would sneak off and make a fire of olive wood, then using the grill he carried around on his tractor he would cook longanizas of sobrasada (sobrasada in a sausage form). Pressed between slices of rough cut Mallorquin bread blotted with paprika stained oil, the soft meat melted in my mouth. I would have bashed a thousand more olive branches if it meant I could eat more sandwiches like those. I had a dream that farming in Spain would transform me into some kind of bronzed goddess, but then sobrasada happened.

Fork notes:

• Sobrasada can be made into 8 different forms, using the organs of the pig as linings. Generally the ones cured for the least amount of time will be eaten first, and the larger ones which have had longer to mature will be eaten last
• The paprika added is native to Mallorca
• Some people add a little black pepper to the ends believing it keeps the flies away
• Spreadable meat has always scared me, but this is naturally made, so fear not

An onion less ordinary

I’ve made a base camp for myself in El Saler, the gastronomic heart of Valencia, to start work on You Had Me At Jamon the book. My desk overlooks rice fields which seems an apt inspiration. The farmers have flooded the fields with water, so now the sunsets are doubled and thousands of birds swoop around to feed. On my first Sunday I was invited to join the Dasi Dasis on a family outing to eat Calçots. They know I can’t resist anything to do with food, I told them they should call me the seagull.

Over twenty of us piled into cars and drove north to Castellon. Calçots are most definitely a Catalan thing, but the trend has caught on and they’ve started cultivating them further south. After receiving my invitation I was watching a programme about farming. They showed a village in Tarragona, where locals and tourists were celebrating the arrival of Calçots, long white onions which are cooked over a wood fire and then eaten with a special romesco sauce. I love nothing better than a Spanish food festival. They are masters at celebrating locally grown produce and getting everyone eating and drinking together. These calçotades (calçot eating fiestas) are all go at the moment as we enter the season.

Unlike the television broadcast, we arrived at a go-kart track. They were offering a carrera (race) and calçot double combo. Whilst budding Alonsos whipped round the track, I kicked back with an ice cold beer, chomping on olives and warming up my appetite. Known specifically as Calçot de Valls, they hail from Valls in Tarragona. They are officially protected by a denominacion de origen, which Spain uses to identify their finest produce and acknowledge exactly where it comes from (like pimentos de padron or manchego). Though the ones we were about to eat had been grown locally and not in Valls, we were no less excited as we entered a massive barn with long tables set out before us. Each place is set with a bright orange bib and plastic gloves. We don are equipment feeling a little bit like doctors preparing for surgery. Then waitresses appear and set down large clay roof tiles filled with the charred calçots.

The calçots, like all good things in Spain, are cooked over a wood fire. When the exterior is charred and black they are bundled into groups and wrapped in newspaper for around half an hour to finish cooking. When they arrive they look almost like leeks. I am shown by my friends how to hold the calçot by its tail, peel a little of the outer leaves and then pinch the end to pull the blackened exterior away. 

You are left with a delicate, tender calçot ready to dip into a special romesco salsa. The white part of the calçot is long and fine and just right for eating. To do this you have to dangle it into your mouth, careful not to slap sauce all over your face. It is juicy and sweet with a hint of charcoal. Although a tiny bit stringy you can use your teeth pull away the young tender white flesh of the onion. The sauce is lovely, smooth and sweet. It is made with an interesting list of ingredients, tomatoes, garlic, almonds, hazelnuts, bread, dried nora pepper, rosemary, olive oil, jerez vinegar, salt and pepper. 

The slight nuttiness of the salsa works well with the freshness of the calçot and overall it is a delight to eat. My teenage friends who spent the car journey perplexed as to why they were driving all that way to eat onions, admitted they were rather nice.  So much so, that I munched my way through at least ten.

Considering I thought alliums were comprised of mostly water, I felt surprisingly stuffed. It seems nobody had remembered to mention to me that the second course would be a generous bbq of meat and embutido (cured sausages). The meat was cooked over the same fire that the calçots had been, and is the traditional way to follow them at the calçotades, along with a liberal dousing of cava. Plates heaped high with rabbit, chicken, beef, chorizo, longaniza (sausage) and morcilla (black sausage) were passed around. I was crazy to think this would have been a one course event. Luckily I live by the principle 'if you change the flavour I can keep eating', so I tucked in.

The wine flowed, children ran around and eventually we couldn’t eat anymore. There was one more race to be had, so I sat back in the last of the afternoon sun and nursed a strong coffee. These eating expeditions always take it out of me, but there is nothing better than being surrounded by good company and amazing food (especially when you get to wear a bib and gloves).