“The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom.”
- William Blake

Have you ever thought, as you sit red-faced, breathing shallowly, “just… one… more… bite”? Have you ever then taken that extra bite and thought to yourself — in your blood-starved brain — “maybe, after all, I could manage another one”? And, finally, upon swallowing said final mouthful and feeling a previously unknown thickness on your tongue, have you ever thought, “perhaps I’ve overdone it”? It is at this point, as your mouth slowly stops salivating, your breath becomes labored and characterized by sharp exhalations and sighs intended to revitalize your flaccid organs, and your belly feels so tight and distended that if it weren’t for the shocking quantity of food you’ve just ingested (and several other flabby bodily areas), you might resemble a starved Ethiopian child, that you begin to understand why gluttony was included among the seven deadly sins.

Such was my state of mind as I sat, gravely concerned that I might actually suffocate myself internally as my stomach pressed up hard on diaphragm and lungs, at Casa Portal restaurant in Madrid, after a meal that would make a man’s recommended weekly caloric intake appear somehow unlikely to provide sufficient nourishment. The culprit you ask? Well, apart from my own greed, gluttony and propensity to exceed normal physical boundaries, the culprit was fabada. Fabada Asturiana to be precise. The famed bean and pork stew of the Asturian mountains (Picos de Europa) in northern Spain.

As earlier posts have described, I passed a vacation several years ago traveling in northern Spain and found it to be a formative experience. The food, the landscape, the culture and the climate had a profound impact on me and have kept me returning to Spain as regularly as possible given the intervening years in which I’ve gotten married and moved to the United States. Enjoying fresh seafood, doused in garlic, parsley and olive oil, and washed down with non-carbonated local cider in the beautiful, secluded harbor town of Luarca is one particularly evocative memory. And so it was that when we were in Madrid recently I wanted to recollect these memories, so we spent most of a morning walking across the city in search of an Asturian restaurant that had been recommended to us.

Our meal began with a selection of Asturian appetizers, including a tunafish and tomato empanadilla, a whole steamed morcilla, and a large cooking chorizo simmered in cider, accompanied by chewy bread and a liter of Asturian cider. My wife was then presented with what can only be described as a pond-sized bowl of fish bisque, that we shared but could not finish. Thankfully, a pause of fifteen minutes offered some digestive respite to our already extended guts and allowed our moistening brows to cool. However, when the final assault came, it was one that an hour-long intermission would not have adequately prepared us for.

My fabada arrived in a bowl of similar proportions to my wife’s soup course, and in it, along with the delicious softened, yet still toothsome, large white beans, came half of ANOTHER cooking chorizo, half of ANOTHER morcilla, and an entire pork chop. Maternal warnings of eyes-bigger-than-belly swam in my head as I plowed in, loosening my thickly greased palate at regular intervals with an excellent Crianza from Navarre. The beans were, well, like butter, and the various pork products, each delicious and flavorful in their own way, but the star of the dish, and indeed the entire meal, was morcilla.

This blood sausage, sometimes made with rice, sometimes with grains, which we Brits would class as black pudding, is common throughout Spain and, I’m sure, is widely derided by most tourists — even those with gourmet aspirations — for being disgusting. As I began to labor through the final mouthfuls, it crossed my mind just what levels of dietary deprivation had forced the inventors of morcilla to collect an animal’s blood and congeal it with fat, salt and grains, and fashion it into a sausage for preservation and sustinence later on. In the same way, I often try to imagine the back-breaking work of so many grape-pickers during the annual vendanges as I take my first sip of a newly-opened wine, in order to better appreciate the effort and craftsmanship that goes into the things I enjoy most. However, in this instance, my reverie for Spanish food culture was interrupted (and would not return for a while) by a lack of blood to my brain, as it flooded south to my upper intestine to begin absorbing the porky appetizers of the previous half hour.

An uncomfortable period followed (I know not how long), during which my wife was kind enough to gently pat my limp hand and fan my flushed and fevered cheeks with a napkin, before I was able to even contemplate the short walk to the bathroom — the pressure having eased above was now pressuring a full bladder below. Even upon staggering back to the table and slumping ungraciously into my seat, I was unable to consider taking a glass of refreshing water so full was I. Apparently, until this point, I had been unable to articulate my suffering, but chose this moment to confess that not only might I have overdone it, but that I might also be experiencing a previously unheard of “pork overdose” that could turn out to be prejudicial to health. My wife replied pithily that at least I was advancing medical science by my gluttony.

Eventually, my bloatedness subsided enough for me to leave the restaurant and lurch slowly around the shopping district near the Goya metro stop, ashamed everytime my sagging and pallid features were reflected in a store window. And, lest, you think, gentle reader, that you might be prepared to risk a similarly harrowing experience in the daring pursuit of local specialties, you should know that as a result of my over-indulgence at lunch, I was unable to eat anything for the rest of the day and so missed an entire evenings’ worth of tapas.

If these were the immediate penalties of gluttony, the medium term ones have been even worse. I try in vain to shake off my fabada-induced weight gain each midday at the gym and, so far, I see no change in my girth. Yet, in spite of all this (self-inflicted) suffering, I still feel that it might well have been worth it. One only learns one’s limits by testing them, no?

Unsurprisingly, we have not yet had the courage to make our own version of fabada since returning to the States, though we intend to do so before winter is out. In the meantime, our good friend Nuria at Spanish Recipes Pic by Pic recently posted an authentic fabada Asturiana recipe on her site, which we will be putting through its paces just as soon as we can face it.

THIS IS AMY (the wife) TO SAY SOMETHING: The story you have just read above is not only true, but not even exaggerated. I really have never seen this man react to overeating (which we too often do, unfortunately) the way he did after consuming the fabada this day in Madrid. It was mildly hilarious, but kind of scary as I didn’t know how to say “Where can I get his stomach pumped” in Spanish. We hope to make our own fabada soon since we finally were able to find morcilla for sale in a speciality store. I’m just hoping it doesn’t have the same effect on the man this time.

If you are interested in reading more of our posts on Spain, please check out:

• The REAL Cocido of Spain
• Jamon, Jamon
• Pictures of Madrid
• Unusual Tapas We Ate in Madrid
• Tame Tapas We Ate in Madrid
• Cabrales Cheese: It’s a Bit of an Animal
• Vermut (Vermouth): Rediscovering an Old Classic
• CHORIZO, CHICKPEA AND POTATO SOUP

As we lay around feeling unwell, we debated for some time over what kind of food to order and why. We finally settled on Chinese food. The combination of flavors, textures and saltiness, combined with its relative economy, winning out. But, at other times we’ve gone for a full English breakfast, pizza, Mexican food, Thai food, and very occasionally, sushi, depending on how we were feeling.

Apparently, there has been some research in the UK into what will fix you up best after a heavy night out, but, the findings of this research are widely disputed because being hungover is such a personal (and frequently horrific) experience. So, we’d like to know what your favorite food hangover cure is and why.

As the final day before Lent, Shrove Tuesday is also traditionally a day of feasting before the Lentern abstinence or fasting that evokes Jesus’ 40 days and nights in the desert. The pancake bit comes from the fact that in order to find it easier to abstain, one should use up all ones flour, milk, sugar and eggs on Shrove Tuesday, and while a lot of things can be made from those basic ingredients, the Brits – long ago – decided pancakes were the thing to make. And, since the combination of these ingredients makes for a high calorie experience, Shrove Tuesday (it’s such a puritanical idea – shriving, isn’t it?) is known as Mardi Gras in French, or literally, fat Tuesday. Those Catholics have all the fun, don’t they?

British pancakes have more in common with the a French-style crepe than they do with the thicker, but smaller pancakes common in America, although the recipe is largely the same. On pancake day it’s quite common to have a mixture of both savory and sweet pancakes, though the sweet versions are the more popular. (We had both savory and sweet – see savory filling recipe below.) Typical fillings are very simple and are often limited to powdered sugar and jam or nutella, or just a squeeze of fresh fruit juice. My family’s favorite filling is granulated (plain, white) sugar and lemon juice. The less stuff you have in the middle, the more pancakes you can have, see…?

Of course, you don’t have to wait another year before making some pancakes, though. They make great desserts, first courses, or even main meals depending on the filling and the size of your pan, and they are dead easy to make. So, go ahead, treat yourselves tonight, unless you’ve given up pancakes for Lent, that is.

Here’s how they’re made.

SWEET AND SAVORY BRITISH PANCAKES

Pancake (or Crepe) Batter Ingredients:

• 1 1/2 cups milk
• 1 cup plain flour
• 1 egg and 1 egg-yolk
• 1 pinch salt
• 1 tbsp melted unsalted butter (optional)
• 1 stick unsalted butter (room temperature)

SAVORY (SMOKED SALMON, ASPARAGUS AND CREAMY TARRAGON MUSHROOMS) BRITISH PANCAKE FILLING

Creamy Tarragon Mushrooms Savory Filling Ingredients:

• 2 cloves garlic, finely chopped
• 1/2 shallot, finely diced
• 1/2 leek, finely sliced
• 3 button mushrooms, slice thinly
• 2 tbsp tarragon, chopped finely
• 4 tbsp light cream
• 1/2tbsp butter
• salt & black pepper

Other Savory Ingredients:

• 6 oz. smoked salmon
• 6 asparagus spears, cut into 2” pieces and either sauteed or steamed till cooked but still crunchy

SWEET (BLOOD ORANGE, LEMON AND SUGAR) BRITISH PANCAKE FILLING

Sweet Ingredients:

• 1 blood orange (or a regular orange will do)
• 1 lemon
• 1 tablespoon white sugar

What to do:

To make batter, combine flour, salt, melted butter and eggs together in a bowl. When well combined add milk slowly, whisking all the time. Continue whisking until mixture is smooth and frothy. Batter is ready. Cover and set aside.

Now it’s time to make the savor filling. Melt butter in small saute pan over medium heat. Add shallots, garlic, leeks and mushrooms and sprinkle with salt and pepper. Saute mixture for 3-4 mins or until mushrooms take on some color and the leeks wilt nicely. Add cream and tarragon and reduce heat to low. Cook for another couple of minutes. Adjust seasoning. Allow to keep warm on low until pancakes are ready to be filled. In another pan saute or grill your asparagus, or just put them in a bowl with a little bit of water, cover with plastic and microwave for 2 to 3 minutes. Slice your smoked salmon.

Time to make the pancakes…

Heat a 12inch non-stick skillet over medium high until the pan is too hot to touch. Toss in a knob of butter and allow to melt almost completely before adding a ladle-full of batter to the pan. Tilt pan in a circular motion so that batter covers bottom of pan. Allow pancake to “solidify” (cook) until almost all of the moisture has gone before tossing it, about 30 seconds – 45 seconds depending on how hot your pan is.

“The Toss”

The toss is the tricky bit and there have been many times when my kitchen ceiling has been festooned with bits of partially-cooked batter on Shrove Tuesday, so be careful with it. In fact, the lower the toss, the easier it is to do it right and have the pancake land without folding over on itself. Alternatively, you could use a non-stick, plastic spatula and give it a quick flip. It’s much easier and safer, though less fun.

Put pancakes on a plate and separate with parchment paper, and keep in a warm oven until you’re ready to eat.

Assemble your savory pancakes…

Spoon in a bit of the creamy tarragon mushroom mixture into the center of your pancake. Add some smoked salmon and asparagus, roll, up and dig in!

Ready for dessert?

After you’ve completed eating your savory crepes, go back to your heated pan and make a few more. When done, sprinkle your crepe with 1/2 a teaspoon (or more if you’d like!) of sugar all over. Squeeze some orange down the center and then some lemon. Roll up or fold into a triangle and enjoy.

 CHECK OUT SOME OTHER POSTS YOU MAY ENJOY:

• PAPPA AL POMODORO (Tuscan Tomato and Bread Soup)
• San Gennaro Festival, Little Italy, NYC – Ain’t What it Used to Be (Girl’s Version)
• European Roast…? (Why Coffee Taste Better There)
• Rachel Ray – Maybe Hate is a Strong Word?
• JAMAICAN JERK CHICKEN
• TORTILLA SOUP
• Free Lunch for Inner-City Kids – If It’s Free Does It Have To Be Crap?

Indeed, is even equating the blue haze of cigarette smoke in a tiled and mirrored cafe with French-ness anything more than just a cheesy cliche?

While we examine the state of our national stereotyping and the extent of our nostalgia, let us know what you think.

For another reflective look at French health-consciousness, click here.

The film was shot in the dry, scrubby hills surrounding Zaragoza and a lot of the landscape shots include a large metal bull (the Osborne sherry insignia) sitting among a forest of radio and TV antennae – a view that is quite common in Spain. In one scene, Cruz’s other suitor, a wannabe bullfighter swings from the bulls cojones and accidentally pulls them off, castrating the beast. The sexual meaning of this is, of course, implicit in the movie, but being someone who marvels more at the wonder of pork products than at the chemistry of on-screen lovers, I find the dual motifs of ham and bulls very interesting.

You see, bull bumper stickers are found throughout Spain and the meaning is linked to Spanish culturalism (yes, including, bullfighting) and, in a country with several semi-independent regions, centralism under Madrid. In Catalunya, you often see donkey bumper stickers, as a statement of Catalan identity — the humble donkey being the symbol of that region. Anyway, if the bull is the “official” emblem of Spain, then the unofficial emblem should be the ham, for nowhere else I have ever been holds that cut of meat in higher esteem. I mean, quite apart from naming an award-winning movie after it, the Spanish are quite literally mad for their ham. In Madrid, for example, there are several Museos de Jamon, which aren’t exactly museums — they’re shops — but the idea is that ham is of such great importance to the people that such a store name isn’t overblown in the slightest.

As far as I am concerned, they are right to love it so. For me, there are very few things in life as delicious as a racione of cured Iberian ham (jamon iberico) split between as few people as possible. The taste is almost indescribably good. It is unquestionably porky, but in an intense, almost gamey way, and the fat, oh the fat, is well, like acorn flavored pork butter, if that even conveys anything. If not, rest assured that jamon iberico (or the lower grade, but still exceedingly delicious, jamon serrano) tastes absolutely nothing like the boiled, sugar-coated, artificially-preserved, ready circle-cut ham legs sold in the US. Whereas US hogs are factory farmed in the backwaters of Tennessee in giant filthy sheds and the run-off from the pig-sties pollutes local rivers, the Spanish hogs are a noble, almost-wild breed of pig that are nearly as famous for their intelligence as their tasty limbs.

Fed primarily (though not exclusively, depending on the producer) on acorns, Iberian black-footed pigs (yes, they leave the trotter on the leg so you tell) come from the region of Extremadura bordering Portugal in the central west of Spain, and are allowed to roam freely around under the same cork oaks that have for centuries produced the stoppers for European wine-bottles. It would not be wrong, I don’t think, to compare jamon iberico to other world-famous delicacies like kobe beef (waygu) or beluga caviar or the famed blue-footed chickens of Bresse, France, because it is simply beyond compare. And yes, I ate plenty of prosciutto di Parma and prosciutto San Daniele last year in Italy, and while they are very, very good, jamon iberico is just a richer, more intense, less salty experience. For more on the pigs that produce this delicacy, click here. If you understand Spanish, then you should check out this YouTube video, which demonstrates the correct way to prepare a platter of delicious jamon.

And, by clicking the first link, you’ll be heading to La Tienda who now import bone-in legs of jamon to the US for your delectation. We’re saving our pennies hard right now for a whole leg.

P.S. – just to add one final note to how deeply ingrained Spanish culture is with jamon, there is a childrens’ word game — a tongue-twister — in which the word jamon is repeated quickly over and over. Before long the player starts to say the word monja instead of jamon, which means nun, although you might have to be a Spanish kid to understand why that’s funny…

To read more of our posts about Spain, check out:

• Fabada: A Mortal and Corporal Sin – But Worth It!
• The REAL Cocido of Spain
• Pictures of Madrid
• ENSALADA DE CABRALES (Thin Sliced Apple with Cabrales Salad)
• HORNAZO (Spanish Sausage-Stuffed Easter Bread)
• Unusual Tapas We Ate in Madrid
• Tame Tapas We Ate in Madrid
• Cabrales Cheese: It’s a Bit of an Animal
• Vermut (Vermouth): Rediscovering an Old Classic
• CHORIZO, CHICKPEA AND POTATO SOUP

The lack of a cheesy profile on this blog is probably caused by the fact that cheese isn’t something that we use as an ingredient very often. Most of the time, we consume cheese unadulterated and alone (well, by itself, rather than us eating cheese in solitary confinement…) except for a glass of wine and the occasional touch of jam or chutney on the side. Indeed, I still believe that given the amount of time, energy and care that goes into the creation of delicious, artisanal cheeses, it is almost wrong to do anything to the cheese except accompany it with good bread and wine.

Of course, there are cheeses and then there are cheeses. Limburger, a ripe tallegio or a stinking bishop are examples of the latter kind. The dairy equivalent of a “big wine” – think barolo or barbaresco. Big. Blue cheeses are often afforded this kind of reverence, and often, in my mind, it’s unwarranted. Roquefort is unquestionably delicious and does have a tang to it, but it’s not a big cheese. Stilton and gorgonzola are also powerful blues but again, are usually less impactful than you are led to believe.

Mario Batali’s oft-heard phrase about parmigiano-reggiano – that it is the “undisputed king of cheeses” – is, in my humble opinion, not fair to the many less well-known cheeses out there, and, quite apart from that, it’s just simply not got the character of a real hardcore, stinker of a cheese. Spanish cheeses, particularly manchego, and to a lesser extent, zamorano, are becoming better known and more popular in the US, but these, while excellent in their own right, are not big cheeses.

Enter cabrales. This is the big cheese you’ve been waiting for. In his excellent, funny and almost unbelievably epic book Clear Waters Rising, which records his walk through all the mountain ranges of Europe from north-west Spain to Istanbul (he walked non-stop for nearly 17 months), Nicholas Crane describes eating cabrales thus:

After a few mouthfulls I had a numb nose and a locked epiglottis… (and) I was woken in the morning by a gangrenous pillow.

Cabrales is a crumbly, grey cheese made from a mixture of cow, goat and ewes’ milk that is left to mature in caves in tiny mountain villages in the Picos de Europa in the far north of Spain. The combination of the three types of milk and the aging/maturing process creates a cheese that, according to Crane, is “the world’s most extreme example of lactic putrefaction.”

Hardly an appetizing prospect, huh? Well, yes and no. Of course, it’s a matter of taste, but me and my wife happen to like it and particularly enjoyed it served in what might be to some palates, the world’s, or at least Spain’s, most extreme tapa/pincho – spread thickly on a round of crusty bread and topped with, wait for it, salted anchovies.

In spite of my appetite, the olfactory assault of the cabrales and anchovies was still something else and I’m glad I was sharing it with my wife, otherwise I doubt I would have escaped without getting seriously high. The sheer tanginess of the cheese really does numb the roof of your mouth and almost instantly clogs your nasal passages. This, combined with the saltiness of the anchovies, caused all moisture in my mouth to instantly disappear. Fortunately, timely introduction of beer to the equation (the delicious and ubiquitous Mahou), loosened things up and made chewing and swallowing possible again, after which the cheese’s enormous and wonderful aftertaste took over, causing me to break out into a sweat. As I said, this is not a lightweight cheese, nor is it a cheese for lightweights – you have to suffer a little while you enjoy it.

Sadly, we didn’t come across cabrales again during our tapas-hunt in Madrid, but next time we make a trip to the cheese store, I’ll be investing in some, and, just as a precaution, a waterproof cover for my pillow. I would encourage you to give it a try, but be careful, it’s a bit of an animal.

CHECK OUT SOME OTHER POSTS ON SPAIN:

• Fabada: A Mortal and Corporal Sin – But Worth It!
• The REAL Cocido of Spain
• Jamon, Jamon
• Pictures of Madrid
• Unusual Tapas We Ate in Madrid
• Tame Tapas We Ate in Madrid
• Vermut (Vermouth): Rediscovering an Old Classic
• CHORIZO, CHICKPEA AND POTATO SOUP

Now, of course, it’s not true. The British do not, as far as I know, eat toads, though, if frogs are edible, and taste a bit like chicken, then I might be prepared to try toads, if sauteed with a little garlic and parsley. However, the British do eat toad in the hole – a delicious, simple and filling dish that is one of my father’s perennial favorites. I, like my father, love this dish too and had been threatening to make it for my wife for months until recently, when the weather got cold enough to warrant a meal with sausages, eggs, flour, milk and gravy, I finally got around to it.

It went down very well, I’m glad to report, and it’s an easy, inexpensive and relatively quick meal to make on a weekday night. You should try it whether you like amphibians or not.

Toad in the Hole with Fresh Mushy Peas (serves 4)

For the batter:

• 1 1/2 cups plain flour, sifted
• 2 whole eggs
• 1 1/2 cups milk

Crack eggs and whisk yolks and whites together. Add to flour and mix into a paste before adding milk and whisking until smooth. Set aside, or refrigerate, until ready to use.

For the “Toad”:

• 8 sausage links (about 1 1/2 – 2 lbs), separated
• 1 onion, sliced thinly
• 3 cloves garlic, chopped finely
• 1 pint hot water
• 2 tbsp Bisto (or use some beef stock and thicken w/ cornstarch)
• 1 tbsp olive oil
• salt and pepper

Recipe for main dish:

Preheat oven to 425F. Heat skillet to medium-high and add oil. Brown sausages on all sides, then remove them. Lower heat to medium and add onions. Saute them until soft. Add garlic and pinch of salt. Combine water and bisto powder. Continue to saute for four or five mins, until onions are becoming translucent, before adding gravy mixture. Reduce heat to low and allow liquid to reduce by about a third.

Grease a 12inch baking dish with oil and place sausages in it. Pour the batter mixture around the sausages and slap it all in the oven for about 20 minutes or until batter is risen and golden-brown. Serve in portions of two sausages and pour onion gravy on top. Goes great with the peas but sauteed cabbage, collard greens, kale or broccoli rabe are also good accompaniments. Enjoy!

For the peas:

• 1 lb frozen peas
• 1/4 stick unsalted butter
• A dash of light or heavy cream (about 1-2 tablespoons)
• 1/2 cup water

Simmer the peas in the water for about 12 minutes until soft. Add the butter, cream, salt and pepper and then smash the peas, but make sure to leave them with plenty of texture. Serve on the side of the toad-in-the-hole.

CHECK OUT SOME OF THESE OTHER POSTS:

• HUNGARIAN GOULASH
• LEMONGRASS BEEF SHORTRIBS
• Pulling Pints: Not Small Beer
• A Bloody Delicious Time in England – A Recap
• JAMAICAN JERK CHICKEN
• PERFECT BROCCOLI DI RAPE WITH SWEET SAUSAGE

On our first afternoon in the city – at the same tasca we had the sepia a la plancha discussed below, in fact – we ordered some orejas a la plancha. Anyone who’s taken Spanish 101 will know that this means we ordered ears. Pigs’ ears to be precise, grilled or griddled and accompanied with a spicy tomato sauce the same consistency as ketchup or barbecue sauce. We did this knowingly too. Neither of us had eaten the ears of any creature before (as far as we knew) but decided that most meat products dipped in ketchup tasted pretty good. How were they, you ask? Well, very porky – like pork crackling, so crunchy on the outside – but also crunchy on the inside too, on account of the cartilidge that keeps an ear flexible but stiff. Oddly enough, they weren’t that chewy, but they were quite rich tasting and we found that with a racione (or large tapa usually for between 3-4 people) we had ordered more than enough. To sum up, I think we’re both glad we tried them and quite enjoyed their taste and texture, and would certainly eat them again, but we’re not raving about them, you know?

Later in the week, after spending the morning in El Prado (perhaps the greatest art museum this side of La Louvre), we had a selection of tapas/pinchos as a late lunch. (Pinchos are tapas served on toothpicks and often on rounds of bread.) Amongst these was one I remembered having seen on TV once – fried anguilas (baby eels) with garlic and oil, (in this case served on a round of bread with a slather of garlic/lemon mayonnaise.) – on fatty chinless Andrew Zimmern’s show Bizarre Foods. Actually, unless you know they are eels, you’d probably think they were very thinly sliced calamari (calamares) or something, because they have a similar maritime taste and familiar chewiness. Zimmern made out that these were one of the most expensive treats to be found in Madrid, but we only paid Euro1.50 for it, which was kind of weird. Still, you should definitely try them if you get a chance (and are a lover of calamari). Don’t be put off by what they are or how they look. They’re a far cry from the British jellied eels that used to terrify me every time I entered a chip shop as a child.

On our final night in Madrid, filled with sadness, at having to leave with only about thirty different tapas under our belts, and horror at how we would feel without jamon iberico readily available, we sought out a new neighborhood’s tascas to check out. Entering the first one, which was filled with purple-nosed old men and a thick fug of cigarette smoke, we ordered callos a la Madrilena, or tripe in the local style. I’m a big fan of tripe (the lining of, usually, a cow’s stomach) – I really like it’s slightly gelatinousness and the peculiar cross-hatched texture of it’s underside – but I had no idea how this would be served. It came in a big clay bowl together with hunks of chorizo and pork fat in a spicy, reddish sauce. It was absolutely delicious, although no doubt not recommended by any cardiologists. Sure, it was porky and fatty, but the sauce was addictive and the chunks of chorizo added a spicyness to it that cut through the fat and made it too easy to a eat a lot of. Visitors to Madrid should by all means try this if you find it on a tapas menu, but understand that you’re going to have a devil of a time working it off in the gym when you get home!

How do you feel about eating pig’s ears, baby eel or tripe? Do you know of any other interesting Spanish preparations using off-cuts?

Check out the post that was written on some of the more tame tapas we ingested during our time in Madrid… you may be more inspired to eat them again after reading this post!

Also, if you are interested in making a few tapas, check these out:

• CLAMS WITH WHITE WINE AND CHORIZO
• SQUID WITH GOLDEN POTATOES
• TORTILLA ESPANOLA

Also, check out our other posts about Spain:

• Fabada: A Mortal and Corporal Sin – But Worth It!
• The REAL Cocido of Spain
• Jamon, Jamon
• Pictures of Madrid
• Tame Tapas We Ate in Madrid
• Cabrales Cheese: It’s a Bit of an Animal
• Vermut (Vermouth): Rediscovering an Old Classic
• CHORIZO, CHICKPEA AND POTATO SOUP

That day, my friend and I popped into said pub and sought something warming to take the chill off. The specials’ board told of a “South African hot toddy” – something I had never heard of. I was familiar, as many of us are, with the typical hot toddy – whiskey or brandy, with hot water, sugar and lemon juice, (and there are many variations on that theme – some including tea, some not) but this one contained brandy, hot water, ginger, rooibosh (red bush) tea, honey and lemon juice, the rooibosh tea making it particularly South African. It was delicious, simultaneously intoxicating, soothing and warming. The ginger and lemon enlivened the sense and the palate, the red bush tea is a restorative, the honey offered energy, and the brandy rounded everything out with a boozy smoothness that engendered warmth and relaxation. After two, or was it three, of them, we were ready to venture home in the cold, but instead, and very mistakenly, decided to have a go at ice-skating. We didn’t break any limbs or endanger anyone with our drunken attempts at toe-loops and salcos (we were the only ones on the ice), but when the alcohol wore off and the bruises came through, it became clear that it had been a mistake.

However, the drink really is a treat if you’ve got chill in your bones you just can’t shake, just please don’t go ice-skating afterwards. Before perhaps, but definitely not after.

South African Hot Toddies Recipe (serves two):

4oz brandy (doesn’t have to be good stuff ’cause you’re adding lots of flavor to it)
10oz boiling water
2 bags or 2tbsp red bush tea
4oz lemon juice (juice of 2 or 3 lemons)
4tbsp runny (clear) honey
2tbsp ginger root (stem ginger), sliced into thin rounds

Divide brandy, lemon juice and honey into two mugs. Toss in the ginger and red bush tea. Fill mugs up with hot water and stir vigorously until honey has mixed in and you can smell the ginger. Allow to steep for three to four minutes before removing red bush tea bags (or tea strainer with loose tea), put your feet up and enjoy!

P.S. – in case you were wondering, like I was, why it’s called a hot toddy, here’s what I found the explanation to be. During the British Raj in India, the British came upon a sweet sap, and a liquor fermented from the sap, from tropical Asian palm trees (the so-called toddy palm – genus Borassus), called toddy by the locals. The British then added this sap to their cups of tea as a sweetener, making it a hot toddy. In many cases, the fermented sap (which was alcoholic) was also added to these cups of tiffin. British sailors (who are not famous tee-totallers) picked up on this idea and began making their cups of tea in this way, substituting the sugar and their rations of rum for the toddy. Quite how whiskey or brandy became involved, I didn’t discover, but there you are, a little history with your recipe.

Vermut, or sweet vermouth (the red stuff made by Martini, amongst others), is a sweetish, but slightly bitter, dark red/maroon colored fortified wine that is very popular in Madrid, with several tascas (tapas bars) we visited having it on tap as they did beer. It is served in a tumbler or a hi-balls glass with a couple of cubes of ice and a slice of lemon. Vermouth is fashioned out of wine grapes (but only the very sugary ones) and various herbs which combine to give the drink a sweetness with a nice herbal astringency that means it’s not too cloying on the palate.

Neither of us had ever drunk neat sweet vermouth before last week, indeed, we’d never even thought of it as an option. I remember discussing with my wife, years ago, that in the UK it’s not uncommon for people to have a glass of dry vermouth either neat over ice or with a splash of soda water or sparkling lemonade (SevenUp etc.), and that in continental Europe if you order a martini, you’ll get a glass of dry vermouth and not a vodka or gin martini cocktail. She was surprised to learn this, but reasoned that it might just be a cultural thing – after all, the Martini cocktail often contains very little, if any, Martini products, so Americans have their own little peculiarities too. And so, with this in mind, we decided it would be rude, nay foolish, if we didn’t take advantage of this opportunity for a new kind of refreshment.

Several successive evenings of tapas led us to the conclusion that vermut, at the very least, should be afforded a place in the noble pantheon of our favored aperitivos, and we learned that approximately three glasses was the optimal number during an evening of roving between various Madrid tascas. Three being enough time to fully appreciate the drink’s complexity and ability to meld its flavors with a variety of tapas dishes, and for the alcohol to build to an appreciable level in our veins.

So, I say to you that you should consider purchasing a bottle of sweet vermouth for purposes other than combining it with whiskey in a “Manhattan” and try it neat alongside a selection of your favorite tapas (recipes for which you should keep an eye out for here at weareneverfull.com in the very near future.)

• • The REAL Cocido of Spain
  • Jamon, Jamon
  • Pictures of Madrid
  • Unusual Tapas We Ate in Madrid
  • Tame Tapas We Ate in Madrid
  • Cabrales Cheese: It’s a Bit of an Animal
  • CHORIZO, CHICKPEA AND POTATO SOUP

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