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).

P-p-p-pick up a pimiento de padrón

I loved overhearing conversations about food in Spain. From grannies on the bus, meticulously noting recipes, to barmen boasting the best tortilla, it felt like everyone was at it. In Galicia, the conversation dominator is pimentos de padrón. So much so, it’s one of the region’s top ten topics of discussion. As we Brits enjoy speculating about the weather, the Gallegos relish in sharing theories as to why uns pican e outros non (why some are hot and others not). You see, eating a plate of pimientos de padrón, is a game of gastronomic Russian Roulette. There’s one little pepper hiding amongst the others, that will knock your socks off. It’s near impossible to know which. Grown in Herbón, a tiny village in Padrón, A Coruña, Galicia, these little bright green peppers are delicious and dangerous. Roughly ten percent of each crop will be extremely hot, whilst the others delectably mild. Theories bandied about by my Galician friends, guess that it’s the smaller ones that burn, or those with thicker skins. My friend Xián’s mother (who grows her own in Galicia), believes if you don’t honour them with sufficient care and attention, they will become spicy in spite. I can just about see some logic in her notion of chili karma.

The beauty of these little gems, lies in their easiness to prepare and interesting flavour. Simply get a pan nice and hot, pour in a generous splash of olive oil and cook the peppers until the skins blister and blacken. My advice is not to move them around so much, give them time to get a good bit of heat. Once ready, let them have a rest on some kitchen paper, then liberally sprinkle with rock salt. And that’s it. They are ready to be eaten with fingers, using the stalk to guide them to your mouth. They have a slightly nutty flavour with an enjoyable bitterness. They can stand alone as a tapas dish, but work marvelously well on the side of tortilla de patata. My friend Juan’s wife serves them with a fried egg sunny side up, so you can dip them in the yolk. However, my favourite way to eat them is with my aunt, watching her scream, as every time she picks the head-blowingly-hot one. 

An aperitivo to remember

There was one thing I had to do before leaving Spain this summer. Return to El Saler. It was here I entered the Spanish family kitchen, sat down at the large table, and really learnt how to eat. Like a first love, it has a special place in my heart, and for good reason.

I returned to find the whole village chatting under the shade of trees, trestle tables lined with food and cerveza chilling in buckets of ice. The Dasi Dasi sisters had organised a special aperitivo event, where for one euro fifty, you got a drink and a racion of food.  This is warm up eating, an hour of eating and drinking before you actually eat lunch. Exactly why I love Spain. The local restaurants offered their best dishes for sampling. For a village that is made up of a few streets, it has a long list of regional specialities. My friend Maria Jesus handed me a tray and herded me to Bar Leo, where I waited patiently but happily for fish to be fried.

Boquerones are a popular tapas dish in Spain. They are fresh anchovies, white and delicate with a hint of the sea, and nothing, I repeat, nothing like the salty suckers you get on pizzas. In Bar Leo they roll them directly in flour, using a colander to shake off any excess. Then they are deep fried in hot clean olive oil. The result is spectacular. The feather light coating gives a little crunch to the succulent tasty fish. You can eat them whole, like a seal would a fish, or fillet them with your teeth. Carrying the heaped tray of them back to the garden, without eating the lot, was harder than you’ll ever know. 

With my cold cerveza, and a handful of tickets, I worked my way through the array of dishes. First up, Clotxinas (Mediterranean mussels). These beauties are hauled in from the Mediterranean sea. Much smaller than their Galician cousins, they are a joy to eat and bursting with flavour. They are always cooked al vapor, which means without any water. Simply clean and put in a deep saucepan over heat. Add a few garlic cloves and chunks of lemon, followed by a liberal dousing of white pepper. Cook with a lid on until all the shells are open. You will find a miraculously fragrant broth appears, spiked with pepper, it's exquisite. My four year old friend Ferran adores them. He offered me the final one as if it were the last chocolate in the box, his face aware of the sacrifice he was making. On the other table, I spied his younger cousin Olga wolfing down caracoles (snails), and taking the time to make sure she had got all of the caldo (broth) out of each one. It’s a real heart warmer to see kids enjoying the dishes, which are so much a part of their culture.

Looking at the scenery here, it is easy to see the connection between the surroundings and what is on your plate. To the left is the sea, bringing the clotxinas, calamari, pescado, marisco (mussels, squid, fish, seafood). Turn to the right, and the albufera (fresh water lake) delivers the rice for the paella and eels for the all I pebre. The countryside that stretches off into mountains, is hunting ground for caracoles, cornejo y pollo (snails, rabbit and chicken). It also makes a bed for the hundreds of fruit trees and rows of vegetables that grow in abundance nearby.

El Saler is a gastronomic dream masked behind the guise of another seaside village. It might be modest, but it is rich in food culture. As the neighbours ate and laughed together, it was clear, that the way to the heart of the community, is through its stomach.

Fork notes:

• Top 5 El Saler Dishes: Paella Valenciana (paella with chicken, rabbit, beans and snails). All-I-Pebre (eel stew with garlic and chilli). Clotxinas (mediterranean mussels, only in summer). Bogavante (brothy rice dish with lobster). Calamari y cebolla (sweet squid and onion soup).
• Don’t miss the fun of the apertivo. Have a quinto, which is a tiny bottle of beer, the perfect accompaniment for a little something something.
• Lunch should take you a long time, enjoy every moment of it.
• If you are in El Saler don’t miss Casa Carmina for arroz (rice dishes) or Bar Leo for pescado frito o a la plancha (fish both fried or grilled) .
• If all that eating takes it out of you. Opt for a café carajillo, an espresso with a shot of brandy. That ought to cut right through it.
• Failing that, take a siesta my friend. 

From small acorns (comes great jamon)

You cannot underestimate the importance of jamon in Spain. Rafael (the farmer I worked for) once said, no hay jamon, no hay nada (no jamon, no nothing). What a relief it has been to find the pigs of the famous Jamon Iberico 100% Bellota (the best spanish ham in the world), trotting merrily across the spectacular Sierra de Aracena. It's like meeting your favourite actor and finding out they are a really nice guy.

I'm farming in the province of Huelva, the home of jamon. Every street, bar and shop you look in, reaffirms how proud they are of it. In the farmhouse, legs of jamon, worth over 250 euros each, were kept hanging under lock and key. The curing room was separated from my friends bedroom by a locked door, but the beautiful smell of jamon permeated through. It was our little jamon narnia.

On my one day off, I pilgrimaged to the Museo del Jamon in Aracena, and what a treat that was. I learnt that four factors make the jamon iberico so special. Sumptuous natural grazing, the breed of pig, quality of air, and knowledge of curing passed through generations. Between November and March, acorns fall from Oak trees and the pigs fatten on these natural treats, a process known as montanera. During these winter months, I too begin a montanera, starting with mince pies and ending with mini eggs. Acorns are poor in proteins but rich in carbohydrates, which transforms into fat. As the pigs roam to find the acorns, the shuffling helps the fat distribute evenly. The pigs eat three different types of acorns, and here is the science bit:

To put on 1kg of fat, a pig would need to eat 9kg of Holm Oak acorns

To put on 1kg of fat, a pig would need to eat 14kg of Cork Oak acorns

To put on 1kg of fat, a pig would need to eat 18kg of Portuguese Oak acorns

Grades of jamon de bellota (ham from pigs raised on acorns) vary depending on whether enough Oak trees grace the farmers land, providing ample grazing. If not, they will have to supplement their diets with animal feed, which devalues the quality of the jamon and lowers the price at market. I am beginning to be able to taste the difference, the 100% bellota is ridiculously delicious.

In the pre-supermarket era, almost every family in the Sierra would have had a pig. The concejil (a pig shepherd) would go from door to door, collecting and then leading the pigs to graze the communal pastures. When winter came, families would, and still do, get together for La Matanza (the killing and curing of the pig). As an important source of protein, no part of the pig goes to waste, a perfect example of nose to tail eating. Economically, if you sell the two jamones (back legs) then you cover the cost of raising the pig, and then technically you eat the rest for free. Though I'm not sure I could ever sell the best bit.

The jamones are covered in salt and then left to hang for two years (or if the leg is particularly big, sometimes longer). The air in the Sierra is, as with the cheese, perfect for curation. Here they cannot use artificial conditions, only opening and closing windows to alter the temperature.

In reward for my work, I was able to try some of the farm's jamon. The texture, colour and flavour were sublime, though it's when it melts in your mouth, that you know you are eating good jamon. It was like the finest of butters. Jamon is rich in proteins, minerals, vitamins, and helps the brain function. It's also good for the nervous system, and I can testify that when I eat it, I get crazy happy.

(pitch) fork notes

• In Ancient Greece, Hipocrates recommended the ingestion of jamon to sick people.
• Jamon was eaten on the voyages to the New World, and as new spices were encountered, new combinations such as chorizo were born.
• White dots that appear in the jamon are a few crystallisations produced by an amino acid. They improve the flavour, so don't fret and enjoy. 
• It's a lie that pigs always sleep on the same side and so one leg is better than the other. This is apparently the question everyone asks in the museum, doh.
• In Gallego (language spoken in Galicia), jamon is called shamon. This will never cease to make me smile. he he.

(the day we herded pigs through our garden)

Oi whey! this cheese is gouda!

I've finally paid my time, for all the bad cheese jokes I have ever told. I wrapped hundreds of wheels of queso (cheese) in clingfilm, whilst being serenaded by an Andalucian farmer, punctuating flamenco wails with shouts of "Ḿary Poppins!".  In fact he did have something of a cockney gent to him.

In a bid to eat more and learn more about what I eat, I am volunteer farming across Spain. I've started in the beautiful Sierra de Aracena, a mountain range in Huelva, down south and snuggled close to Portugal. The terrain is imperial. It's almost as if it were painted by Gainsborough and Reynolds on a country retreat. Majestic plunging hills, studded with valient Oak trees, and pasture licked with wild flowers. This is all very important for the taste of the cheese. The lush pasture is perfect grazing for the goats, whose mission is to eat, and whose milk is all the more richer for it. In fact, even the air here has a special affect on the taste of the cheese. The queseria (dairy) is perched high in the hills, where the air is cool at night, even in the most scorching of summers.

Maria Jesus, who inherited the finca (farm) is the business brains behind the queseria, her mini empire includes an organic farm shop, bar with montaditos (little rolls) for 1€ and she also runs cheese making workshops. I'd never considered how you make cheese, though I've certainly eaten my fair share. So I rolled up my sleeves, donned an apron and followed Maria Jesus around like a little sheep for two weeks.



Taking unpasteurised milk straight from the barn, we heated it on the stove until it reached 30 degrees. Then we took our pails outside on the terrace and added 4 tsps of cuajo (enzyme called rennet) and waited. The milk begins to solidify and seperate. After 10 minutes you can cut through it with a knife, a highly satisfying task, slicing it lengthways and sideways until you have a texture that resembles soft cottage cheese.


As the cheese seperates you are left with a lot of liquid, the same that you find on the top of a yoghurt. This liquid is rich with protein. Maria Jesus said a cup of this is equal to a fillet of beef, so you should always mix it into your yoghurt. However for cheese you need to strain it away, using a sieve.

 

Lump your cheesy mixture into a mould like a cookie cutter and begin squeezing out more liquid by pressing down with your fingers, turning it as you go. This action compacts it nicely, work on both sides to get a nice firm round of cheese that will hold when you remove the mould. Crumble a generous sprinkle of rock salt, top and bottom to preserve.



You can eat your perfect little queso fresco the same day, it's delicious, fresh and creamy like mozarella but soft as a cloud. Or leave it to cure, turning it daily so it doesn´t stick and for an even curation. The longer you leave it, the stronger it will be. We had ours with salad, on the side of huevos y patatas fritas (egg and chips). Who knew the Cockneys and the Andaluzs had so much in common.

• All their cheese begins life in the same way, just the length of curation changes the texture and flavour.
• The goats are milked every day and can produce 4 litres of milk each but in reality, each goat will give a different yield. 
• If you can get your hands on membrillo (quince jelly), a slice of this is the perfect partner to queso. 
• How do you make cheese? Put it passed-your-eyes.

One Day (in Valencia)

It’s a week since I left Valencia, and my heart and stomach are still in mourning. It's the city where I fell in love, with food, and it's not surprising given the quality of sun kissed produce and the amazing food culture. When I was little, my cousin and I would get all the takeaway menus out, and imagine our dream meal. It’s a habit I’ve yet to grow out of. So with the help of these pictures my friend Iain took, journey through one perfect day of eating - blue sky, light breeze, palm trees and beautiful streets animated with friends eating and drinking together…

07:00: Mercado Central (desayuno - breakfast)

The Sistine Chapel of food, Mercado Central, is a hive of coffee fuelled activity. Before you, mountains are made of vegetables, jamon sliced and poultry pounded. Perch next to a truck driver at the ringside bar. He will most likely be tucking into a hearty lunch with wine. Valencia’s croissants are light, sugar glazed, sometimes toasted and always perplexingly accompanied by a knife and fork. They are perfect dipped in café con leche (nice milky breakfast coffee). In truth, desayunos here don’t differ much, but the atmosphere you can eat it in does, and this is the place to be. Afterwards take your second breakfast, the slices of queso (cheese) and jamon you are rewarded with whilst queuing at the amazing stalls. Leave as the sun rises and the flower stalls open for business. Perfection.

11:00: Bar Esmas (almuerzo - elevenses)

Right in the centre of town, this local bar is an absolute steal. For less than four euros they must have the biggest and most competitive almuerzo. A giant bocadillo stuffed with tortilla de patata (crispy tortilla filled baguette), a cold cerveza (beer), manzanilla aceitunas (olives), freshly fried cacahuates (peanuts) followed by a cortado (shot of coffee with a flash of hot milk). I love it that this isn't even lunch! It’s the type of place my dad would call ‘transport’, but get a table outside with the sun on your face and wait for the smug smile sweep across it, the one that says: 'I'm in Spain!'.

Cruz Nueva, 6 Valencia, 46002 
(open more or less from 8:00-22:00 daily)

14:30: Casa Carmina (comida - lunch)

Oh Paella, I miss you. Succulent grains of rice infused with the flavours of the countryside. It’s the dish that brings families together, if you can’t find a family to make it for you, go to Casa Carmina. It’s a family run restaurant hidden in El Saler, my favourite southern pueblo (village) of Valencia. They are made to order so call ahead. Walk up an appetite on the beach, then mosey through the pine forest till you arrive at the welcoming salon, where they are waiting to introduce you to your paella valenciana. One spoon of this and you’ll want to marry a local and stay forever.

19:00: Horchateria Santa Catalina (merienda - afternoon snack)

After a meaty paella, nothing is better than a cold sweet horchata and farton to revive you. Santa Catalina, with chandeliers, black and white floors and marble topped tables is a class act. Though trying to make your horchata last longer than one minute is mean feat. Dip your light farton into the elixir and slurp. Indulgent yet light, it cleverly leaves room for you to enjoy dinner later, but you’ll be feeling satisfied and like you’ve just taken part in a Valencian ritual.

22:00: Casa Montaña (cena - dinner)

An epic tapas menu awaits. In summer they have clochinas, tiny mussels from the Med and in early spring, habas, succulent stewed broad beans in a pork wonder sauce. It’s a dream. The jamon, oh the jamon, iberico 100% bellota which means the pigs have a diet of acorns making it deliciously buttery. It melts in your mouth just like the homemade truffles they have for desert. The casa is nestled amongst colourful tiled houses, in the fisherman barrio, glimmering with faded grandeur and plenty of edge. I haven’t even gotten to the wines, the decor, the charming service... Delighting in these exquisite morsels can’t fail but rouse the senses and prepare you for a late night, because it’s always a late night in Spain.           

Fork notes:

• Coffee notes; café con leche – milky, cortado – expresso with a little milk, café solo – expresso.
• Nostre Bar in Ruzafa was my equal choice for dinner. The owner/waiter/sommelier will lead you through stunning meat plates and wine in this cosy eccentric place.
• If you are hungry between these five meals, you often get free montaditos (toasts with a little something) when you buy a beer, so find your nearest cerveceria and relax.
• I've linked the titles of each eatery with the weblink, so if you are interested, click them.