“Reach out your arms, as far apart as possible – one high, one low – then just bend your wrist, but do not look!”, instructed the waitress. “Oh, and beginners like you must stand over the barrel,” she added. I followed her advice exactly but still ended up with a soggy shirt-front and damp shoes, wasting half a bottle.

Even though the cider was cheap, learning to pour it like a local wouldn’t be and accepting I could be thirsty for a long while before I acquired the knack, I invited my hostess to demonstrate proper form. Sure enough, her aim was perfect and my glass was soon two inches deep without the loss of a drop. “Now, drink it! Fast!” she cajoled. “Before it goes flat!”

I hadn’t counted on necking shots of cider at lunchtime, and wondered if I was playing the straight guy in a game of haze the foreigner, but as foamy, appley goodness cascaded down my gullet it started to make sense. Then, after taking my order for broiled razor clams and hake in cider, the waitress turned on her heel for the kitchen, leaving my glass empty. Now eager to drink some more, but reluctant to soak myself further, I reached for the bottle. “No lo mueva!” warned a finger-wagging old guy to my left. “She will pour for you when she returns. And, you should leave a drop in the bottom of the glass. It’s good luck.”

Thanking him for his advice, I sat back and looked around the white-washed room from my seat against the wall. Cut-off barrels half-filled with sawdust littered the blue-tiled floor between tables, along with the usual jumble of crumpled napkins, discarded toothpicks and cigarette ends. Through the open window, small gaily-painted fishing boats bobbed up and down, and their creak and bump as they nagged at their moorings offered a pleasant counterpoint to the hoarse cries of seabirds.

Luarca, on the Asturian coast of northern Spain is still a working port and, the tasca where I sat, the place to enjoy the morning’s catch. From the ruddy faces surrounding me, it was entirely possible that my hake had been landed earlier in the day by a fellow diner. The globe is so well traveled these days that it’s virtually impossible to find anywhere you’re the only foreigner, but in this place, during the off-season, I had managed it. In fact, I was the only guest at the only open hotel in town. An anomaly I was quick to appreciate, because it allowed me to slip into the natural rhythms of local life and prompted me to assume the most humble status, that of being nobody at all. Sure, it removed me from many things, but there’s an advantage to that when all you want to absorb is atmosphere – the feeling that five hundred years could pass in this place and the faces wouldn’t change. What Cees Nooteboom described as “the feeling that everything except time has stopped.“

My razor clams arrived, redolent of garlic and spicy with piperade, followed by tender hake with softened apples, their acidity perfectly balancing the sweetness of the reduced cider sauce. A side of fried potatoes appeared as another two inches of cider found its way neatly into my glass. Lazily enjoying it, happy and relaxed, I barely noticed when it was all gone and the waitress returned. “Postre?” she asked. “Hay queso de cabrales, flan, y frutas frescas, o si usted prefiere, un poco de cada uno.” I opted greedily for the latter, along with a nip of orujo, she returned quickly with a little of each – blue cheese, stick to your teeth caramel pudding, and a pear. “Ningunas manzanas?” I smiled. “Haven’t you had enough apples yet?” she joked back.

Chicken in cider is not necessarily a traditional Asturian preparation, though it might as well be, so while this dish is modeled on the hake in cider I had that day, it is cooked for much longer. Asturian cider is produced from small, tart crabapple type fruit that are no good for eating, the juice of which is fermented for up to six months in oak barrels. It typically registers only 5% alcohol, compared to the seven or eight degrees common in French and English ciders and is rarely carbonated, hence the habit of pouring from a great height to aerate, followed by swift consumption before the froth disappears. Spanish ciders can be found in the US, but domestic varieties like Woodchuck are perfectly acceptable for cooking with. The chanterelles were added to balance out the sweetness of the sauce with an earthy, autumnal boskiness and some slices of eating apple dropped in with five minutes to go offered some crunch and acid to what is a very satisfying dish.

Almost seven years ago I journeyed from Santillana del Mar to Santa Maria de Lebaña via San Vicente de la Barquera. So many saints, so much devotion, that it was little surprise to learn that beyond the monastery of Santo Toribio de Liébana and through the Picos de Europe lies the hallowed ground of Covadonga.

It was at the battle of Covadonga in 718 that Christian Spain under Pelayo, King of Asturias, began the reclamation of Iberia from the Muslim Moors. Nestled deep within the Asturian mountains, Covadonga is as important to the Spanish national myth as Hastings is to the British or Lexington to Americans. However, history defies such over-simplification – the linear narrative of one thing followed by another – and it is too easy to say that simply because certain events turned out the way they did there were no other possibilities. Indeed, a sentence stating that the defeat of a Moorish army by a Spanish king at Covadonga began the reconquest of Spain – which culminated in Ferdinand and Isabella vanquishing Boabdil, Emir of Granada, in 1492 – encompasses more than 700 years and glosses over seven whole centuries of war, shifting borders, switching alliances, inter-marriage, suffering and grief.

It is with this in mind that I wonder if it’s an exaggeration to suggest that had the battle at Covadonga ended differently the whole course of western history, and therefore of the world, would have been affected. Spanish historian Claudio Sanchez-Albornoz does not believe so. “Si los musulmanos no hubiesen conquistado el España en el siglo VIII, los españoles no habrian conquistado America en el XVI.”* For him it follows that what began there in the 8th Century resulted in a militarized and battle-hardened Spain conquering much of the New World.

For me, and my own personal sense of history those seven years ago, a dinner of beans, pork belly, chorizo and morcilla suggested just as plausible a theorem: that had not the Asturian armies under Pelayo feasted on fabada in preparation for the fight the next day, there may have been another outcome. And while personal experience suggests that after a hearty meal of this kind one is utterly disinclined to remaining awake, let alone to feeling lively enough to bum rush a horde of scimitar-brandishing Berbers, I still feel that this notion has validity. After all, how could one’s sense of local patriotism and desire to defend one’s homeland fail to be stirred by such a dish? That the culinary use of saffron arrived in the far north of Spain via these same Moorish invaders and the integral ingredient smoked pimentón wasn’t to be discovered for another eight centuries following the conquest of Mexico doesn’t disprove this hypothesis, rather it merely serves to highlight, once again, the non-linear path of history.

(If the Muslims had not conquered Spain in the 8th century, the Americas wouldn’t have been conquered by the Spaniards in the 16th.”)

Those of you who raised your eyebrows at the very idea of lentils mixed with chocolate might be forgiven for thinking that we have lost our tiny minds, that too long around infant children, cooing and a-goo-goo-gooing, has softened our already mushy brains beyond repair. Indeed, had we not gone out on a limb ourselves and given this a bash, I daresay we would be right there among you sucking our teeth and rolling our eyes, but, like many foods that turn out to be extra delicious, a small leap of faith is necessary.

Rather like the sensation you experience shortly after realizing you put on your underwear inside out, eating lentils with chocolate is initially unsettling. That something as earthy and savory as lentils can work with luxurious chocolate is certainly a surprise, but a very dark, high cocoa-solids chocolate does have a distinctly savory quality, and I don’t have to remind you that until some bright spark mixed it with milk and sugar, chocolate was an exclusively savory product for centuries.

The origins of this unusual dish are unclear, or at least we were unable to discover them using Google Translate, and we cannot lay claim to being its inventors, but a recent flick through some old photos reminded me that I had been intrigued by it a while ago. Those among you with long memories, may remember that back in the fall of last year, when we made the traditional Argentine dish locro de mondongo, we mentioned having eaten some Buenos Aires’ favorite empanadas at La Cupertina, a charming little cafe in the Palermo Soho district of that glorious city. And the especially keen-eyed may have noticed that in a photo illustrating said post featuring the window of said cafe the specialties of the house were listed, including lentejas al chocolate.

Certainly not a common dish anywhere, lentils with chocolate can be found on both sides of the Atlantic in northern Spanish, especially Asturian, and Portuguese cuisine, as well as throughout Latin America. The lentils are usually served soupily with a humble garnish of fried, garlicky croutons and a good glass of red wine, but in our own unique, whimsical manner, we paired them with a monster pimenton-spiked pork chop, and attempted a strange kind of winter scene as a garnish, decorating the plate with steamed asparagus tip “Christmas trees” gaily adorned with festive ribbons made from roasted red pepper strips. In quite what role the roasted pearl onions were cast remains uncertain. Perhaps they resemble over-sized tree ornaments, perhaps not. Maybe we are going soft in the head after all.

Many of European countries have a one-pot dish into which odds and ends of the beast and various cheap vegetables are thrown, and cooked until all components sit fall-apart tender in a rich broth. Examples include Lancashire hot-pot in the UK, the famed French pot-au-feu, and the various cocidos of Spain.

Depending on where you’re eating one of these stews, you may find it all served together – the pot placed in the middle of the table for diners to dip a ladle into and fish for the tastiest morsels – or in a series of courses beginning with a soup course of the broth (caldo), followed by a vegetable course, and finally the meat.

With the long-awaited advent of spring, we realized that our opportunities for making such a dish were melting away with the last rimes of dirty snow. So, armed with a foot of fresh morcilla found at the (ultimately rather disappointing) Essex Street Market, a pound of dried chickpeas, and several large slabs of pork belly (courtesy of the very magnificent Mitsuwa Japanese supermarket in Edgewater, NJ), we decided it was now or not until the fall.

Everything we’d read suggested making cocido took both a long time and wasn’t easy. Happily, neither of these proved to be entirely true, and if you’ve got a couple of hours to spare one weekend, you can, with minimal preparation, make yourself a wonderfully flavorful three-course meal for 6 people without even breaking a sweat.

Though research suggests it doesn’t conform exactly to a typical Cocido Madrileño, this preparation closely resembles the cocido we ate in Madrid last year, and, ingredient-wise, is very similar to an Asturian-style Cocido Montañes with the exception of using chickpeas (garbanzos) instead of white beans.

For us, in spite all the porky deliciousness of the meats, the broth was the best part of this dish. It was incredibly delicious and was so infused with the flavors of all the ingredients that it was impossible, even in taking a small bit of each meat and vegetable in a mouthful, to get the same flavor.

Ultimately, the best thing about this cocido was not just the great satisfaction derived from a simple, peasant dish, but that it made us feel oddly wistful about the departure of winter. A feeling we did not anticipate at all.

A Picture of My Meal in Madrid

There is a difference between rabo de buey (oxtail) and rabo de toro (bull’s tail). I’m sure I do not have to spell it out for you, but I will – one is the tail of an ox, the other is the tail of the bull. They are both beef (bovine), but the main difference is the size of each animal (oxen are usually bigger and stronger because they are used for work purposes) and the fact that a bull is always male.

In Spain it is not rare to eat bull’s tail. It is almost like a perfect pairing of cultural events and food. In the bull-fighting ring, the toreros (or matadores) begin the first of the three stages of the corrida de toros (or running of the bulls). When it is all over, and if the matador has done his job well, they will choose to spare the life of the bull if it has fought nobly or the bull will be killed. You can understand why this very old tradition is controversial. Up the street from the ring you’ll find many restaurants serving various parts of the bull, connecting the Spanish sporting culture with its food culture.

Our Recreated Meal Made in Brooklyn

Since we could not find bull’s tail in our local grocer, we settled for oxtail. As you can imagine, oxtail has been eaten for ages. Back in the day, there was a time when no bit of the animal went to waste (I feel like we’re starting to come back to that way of cooking here in America). Did you know that oxtail is offal? I didn’t, until my husband let me know. I think this is possibly because there’s so much meat on the bone. When I think of offal I usually think of bits of the animal that are either inside or parts like ears, feet and neckbones that do not contain much meat. I am happy to report that oxtail is delicious and meaty with bones that have so much flavor, they make an excellent stock. Because oxen are stronger and more muscular, slow cooking is best to tenderize the meat.

Without a recipe, I recreated the dish I ate at Casa Portal in Madrid from memory. Without getting too big of an ego here, I have to say, I nailed the shit out of this dish. It was one of my most favorite home-cooked meals of the last six months. It did take some time to cook, but the prep is very easy. It’s all about getting it into the pan and letting the flame do the work. The sauce was a bit thicker than the one I ate in Madrid, but I kind of liked it that way. With the spring and summer months ahead, this is one of the last winter-like meals I will prepare for awhile. I really advise you to give oxtail a try, you will not be disappointed.

ASTURIAN OXTAIL WITH SMALL FRIED POTATOES (serves 2 to 4)

Ingredients for Part 1 (Braising the Oxtail):

• 4 lbs oxtail (about 6 pieces)
• 1 onion, cut in thick slices
• 2 carrots, cut in thick slices
• 1 stalk celery, cut in thick slices
• 1 bay leaf
• 1 teaspoon thyme
• 2 sprigs of parsley, roughly chopped
• salt and pepper
• water

Ingredients for Part 2 (Making the Sauce):

• 1 1/2 inch round of pancetta, chopped into 1/2 inch pieces (ask your deli man to just slice a big hunk for you) or 6 rashes of bacon, chopped
• 1 cup oxtail stock (made from part 1)
• 2 cups beef stock
• 1 1/2 cups red wine
• 1 1/2 tsp pimenton (paprika)
• 3 cloves of garlic, minced
• 1 onion, chopped
• Optional: 1 tablespoon flour (sieved into sauce) or cornstarch (mixed with some water and then stirred into sauce)

For the Potatoes:

• 3 large baking potatoes
• vegetable oil for frying
• salt

What to do:

1. Saute the outside of the oxtail in some olive oil in a deep casserole dish. After they are a bit browned on the edges, barely cover them with water.
   Add all the rest of your ingredients and bring to a boil. When it comes to a boil, cover and reduce heat to a simmer. Simmer for three to four hours.
2. After three hours, remove your oxtail carefully and place on a platter. Strain your oxtail stock so the liquid and the vegetables are separated. Remove the bay leaf. Skim some of the fat off the stock.
3. In the same deep casserole, saute your pancetta/bacon on medium in some olive oil. After about a minute, add your onion and garlic. When they have softened add your paprika and stir.
4. Add your wine and scrape up any bits from the bottom of the pan.
5. After scraping up the bits, add your oxtail stock and beef stock along with the oxtail and the vegetables that cooked in the stock in part 1. Stir.
6. Bring to a simmer and cover. Cook for another hour.
7. Twenty minutes before finishing the oxtail, heat up vegetable oil. Peel your potatoes and slice into 1/2 inch slices, lengthwise. Then, cut each of those slices lengthwise another 1/2 inch so you have what looks like a french fry. Cut all your potatoes into thin french fries then take the fries and slice them each into little 1/2 squares. When ready to fry, it will take between 4 to 6 minutes to fry until golden brown. You will remove from the oil and allow to drain on a paper towel. Salt while still hot.
8. Now, back to the oxtail. After the hour is over, remove your oxtail again to the platter. Using a stick blender or regular blender, puree your sauce. Put back into casserole to keep warm. Taste for seasoning adding salt if necessary. If you would like it thicker, add the optional flour or the cornstarch.
9. When your fries are done, you are ready to plate! Place the oxtail, one or two per person, depending on how meaty each is, and pour the sauce around it. Add your salted square fries and you’re ready to dine. Buon Appetit!

Regular readers will know that we are big fans of the phenomenon that is cabrales cheese (non-regular readers should read this post before proceeding any further with this one, as it’s important to know the ingredient you’re dealing with) but we’ve yet to include it in any of our cooking. Here was an opportunity to incorporate perhaps the world’s wildest cheese into a dish so cunning that, to mix a metaphor, you could cut yourself on it.

Seriously, you might think I’m exaggerating here, but quite apart from that not being what we do here at We Are Never Full (we keep it real, believe), I am not exaggerating one bit. This was the best salad I’ve had in a very, very long time. And, while we wouldn’t normally insult your intelligence by pretending to tell you how to put a salad together, we’re asking you to bear with us here and read on. You’ll be glad you did.

We’ve decided to submit this recipe to Kalyn at Kalyn’s Cooking (a most excellent blog) for her Weekend Herb Blogging series. This time around it’s being hosted by Jugalbandi, so head over there before 3PM today to submit yours!

Ensalada de Cabrales (for 2 people)

Ingredients

1 large apple – gala, fuji, granny smith, golden delicious, but not McIntosh type

2oz strong cabrales or your favorite blue cheese

3 hazelnuts (shelled, roasted, but unsalted)

1tbsp good cider vinegar

3tbsp your best olive oil

1 tsp finely chopped chives

salt & black pepper

Recipe

Peel and core apple, then using a mandolin (if you have one, otherwise your trusty chef’s knife will suffice) slice the apple to a uniform thickness of about 1/4 inch (1/2cm)

Arrange apples on serving dish however you like and crumble over the cheese. Feel free to use more, but you easily be over-generous with cabrales, so beware.

Combine oil, vinegar, salt & pepper (as a vinaigrette) and spoon liberally over apples and cheese.

Then, take your microplane grater or the fine side of your box grater and grate your hazelnuts. Sprinkle this “hazelnut salt” followed by the chives over your salad and serve immediately.

CHECK OUT SOME OTHER POSTS YOU MAY ENJOY:

• SWEET ANISE-FLAVORED SALMON IN A POUCH (SALMON EN PAPILLOTE)
• CLAMS WITH WHITE WINE AND CHORIZO
• WINE-BRAISED LAMB SHANKS WITH ROSEMARY AND THYME IN PRESSURE COOKER GNOCCHI DI PATATE WITH A BROWN BUTTER, SAGE, BREADCRUMB SAUCE
• Fabada: A Mortal and Corporal Sin – But Worth It!
• Jamon, Jamon
• Vermut (Vermouth): Rediscovering an Old Classic

“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

Several years ago, on a trip to northern Spain I found myself in the small town of Santillana del Mar in the region of Cantabria on a cold and rainy night. Outside the hotel, a herd of dismal-looking goats shivered together in the lee of a thorn bush as it got dark, and all I wanted after a miserable day of traveling was a hot dinner and a bottle of wine.

Walking into the only restaurant in town, which had only one other diner, I went swiftly to the back in a vain attempt not to be conspicuous. The room was dimly-lit, oaky and very, very warm – the stone floor was actually warm to the touch, yet the other diner sat opposite from me in a jacket, scarf and an ancient beanie.

The menu I was presented with wasn’t much of a menu at all, being a small chalkboard with items handwritten in a spidery cursive that I couldn’t decipher a word of, except the “postres” section which offered a choice between flan and fruta. In fact, that was the only choice on the menu it turned out when the thick-set hostess took my order, but at 9 euros for three courses, including drinks and bread, choice might have been too much to ask.

Unsure as to what I was about to eat, I settled in to my complimentary bottle of red wine, jug of tap water and enormous loaf of bread. Shortly after, a deep clay bowl of “cocido” (see “The Real Cocido“) was placed in front of me. Stirring it, lumps of potato, carrot, chorizo, smoked ham and chick peas rose to the surface. Twenty minutes later, I was sweating, full, and only halfway down the bowl, as the proprietress circled, eyeing my attempt at the starter(!) and, with contempt, she pointed out that I had left the greens untouched at the bottom of the bowl.

Fortunately, she spied my desperation and whisked it away, and kindly gave me ten minutes grace before delivering the main course — a large pork schnitzel with a whole roasted red pepper on top. To my credit, I did finish this course, and washing it down with rest of my wine, I was looking forward to a nice fruit salad to finish.

The dessert was a pear. It came with a plate and a knife. That’s all. A fitting end to a simple, rustic dinner.

I’ve spoken highly of this meal regularly since then, and on days like today, when the rain is coming down like crazy and I’ve had an exhausting day at the office, I still crave cocido. Unfortunately, we can not make the traditional dish quickly – typical Castillian cocidos are supposed to simmer slowly for hours over a fire. We would also need some other Spanish sausages and various pork products to make it authentic. Since I don’t have a huge black cauldron and hours to prepare it, no morcilla (Spanish blood sausage) or pork belly and we use kale instead of cabbbage, we can’t dare call this a real cocido. Instead, it is a dish inspired by that wonderful meal in Cantabria – I will call it Chorizo, Chickpea and Potato Soup. Even though I use a ready-made stock, it does turn out well in a hearty, warming way.

CHORIZO, CHICKPEA AND POTATO SOUP

Ingredients

1 onion, thinly sliced

1 carrot cut into thin half-moons

5 cloves garlic, smashed and chopped fine

2 large potatoes, cut into 1 inch cubes

1/2 lb curly kale, roughly chopped

1 24oz can of chickpeas

2 tbsp chopped parsley

2 tomatoes, diced

2-4 chorizo links (Spanish-style not Mexican) cut into half-inch cubes

2 large smoked ham hocks

3 pints hot chicken stock

salt and black pepper to taste

Recipe

Sautee onions, potatoes and carrots until soft and potatoes become slightly crispy. Add chorizo and ham hocks and allow the fat to render before adding the garlic. Add chickpeas when you can smell the garlic, and cook together for five minutes, stirring occasionally, before adding stock.

Bring to a boil and simmer gently for 30 minutes before adding the kale. Cook for a further five minutes, and skim off orangey (delicious chorizo) fat before adjusting seasoning. Serve in deep bowls, topped with diced tomatoes and parsley, and if you like, some thick slices of rough, country bread.

CHECK OUT SOME OTHER POSTS YOU MAY ENJOY:

•  WHOLE FISH BAKED IN SALT
• CLAMS WITH WHITE WINE AND CHORIZO
• SQUID WITH GOLDEN POTATOES
• WHOLE FRIED SNAPPER WITH GARLIC AND PARSLEY SAUCE
• 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