Towards the end of what is, in my opinion, his finest work, Homage to Catalonia, George Orwell tells of the bitter street fighting he witnessed in Barcelona during the Spanish Civil War when the delicate alliance between communist, socialist, and anarchist factions of the Republican army finally collapsed. While certainly not the bloodiest scene in a war that cost around a million lives, it was one of the most significant, sounding, as it did, the death knell for the Republican cause against Franco’s Fascists. Never after this internicene strife were the respective Republican parties able to trust one another enough to wage a successful war.

Even prior to the Spanish Civil War, anarchist and regional-nationalist groups in Catalonia were making trouble for the shaky Spanish state (then under Republican rule). Indeed, it was during this period of the early 20th century that Barcelona became known as la rosa del fuego, the rose of fire. Modeling their destabilizing tactics on the exploits of Italian anarchists and revolutionaries under Giuseppe Garibaldi, the weapon of choice for Catalan anarchists came to be a round iron ball stuffed with explosives ignited with a string fuse. [Anyone who has ever seen a Tin-Tin or Felix the Cat cartoon will immediately recognize what I'm describing.] In Barcelona, anarchist activity centered around the-then hard-scrabble, now beautifully redeveloped waterfront, neighborhood of Barceloneta, where the mazy streets and crumbling slums provided ample cover for clandestine activity and proximity to the port offered easy access to contraband goods and shady characters.

It was during these unsettled years of the 1920s and ’30s that a Barceloneta bar owner by the name of Maria Pla, during a moment of whimsy with mashed potatoes to hand, created what is now the signature tapas dish of Barcelona, la bomba, the bomb. Potato croquettes with aiolli or a spicy dipping sauce is about as common a tapa as you can name, but Pla’s genius was to shape the croquette and plate it with these two sauces in a way that resembled the anarchists’ favorite weapon.

Today, la bomba can be found in tapas bars and tascas throughout Barcelona and beyond, and its origins in that murky political underworld are mostly forgotten. In fact, we ate it first at Tapa, Tapa a rather touristy tapas bar on the Paseig de Gracia in Barcelona knowing nothing of its fascinating history.

More than its political significance, la bomba is remarkable both as a relic of a turbulent time in the city’s history, and as a statement of the enduring gastronomic playfulness of Catalan chefs. Where today their creations run to rather more extravagant creations — like Ferran Adria’s trick olives (in which olive oil is sealed inside green agar-agar shells, set using a chemical reagent, and served in a ramekin looking for all the world like a simple tapa of olives) — Pla’s invention was just as, if not more so, adventurous, because it was poking fun at the potentially hazardous world of political terrorism.

Perhaps this quality of not taking life too seriously and finding time to play with ones food even in periods when one might be blown-up at any minute speaks to the broader philosophy in the Iberian peoples that George Orwell found both frustrating and alluring in equal measure — and this is not to reduce Spaniards of any stripe to the caricature of gluttonous Sancho Panzas, but rather to celebrate that such is possible even under the greatest duress — that, though they may cling tenaciously to opposing political viewpoints, which in that era, they fought tooth and nail for, nothing is taken quite so seriously as eating and drinking.

I remember the night in Madrid Jonny and I thought it would be a good idea to do a tapas crawl after having many, many drinks. We weren’t yet at that “I’m so drunk I must shovel food in my mouth now” place, but were maybe a few bottles of Mahou away. It was a great idea at first, but as the drinks piled on, the tapas were looking smaller and smaller and smaller to me. This girl was getting hungry!  But we had to soldier through. We had to follow the pact we had made after that bottle of rioja that we would have a drink and a tapa, then move to the next bar and have another drink then a tapa.  We would never surrender to buying dinner that night.  Tapas and drinks. Tapas and drinks only.

After the fourth “drink and tapa” run I began to have that feeling in my stomach. You know how it goes. The feeling that if a whole pizza was put in front of you you’d eat it all in one sitting. Or that you could die for some double crispy fries with a vat of blue cheese dressing (as a dipping sauce, of course… come on, it’s good!). Or maybe, just maybe, you’ll get to that next tapas joint only to find that the raciones are four times as large as they usually are?

Well, we stumbled upon the next bar and my prayers were answered. There on the tapas menu was everything I was searching for – a bit greasy, a bit spicy and a bit crunchy with a bit of starch and plenty of protein. Soon a rather large cazuela was placed in front of my salivating mouth containing Picadillo de Carne con Huevos y Patatas. Happy happy joy joy, happy joy joy.

Like two rabid dogs attacking a carcass, we dug in. It was amazing. A flavor sensation. But as quickly as it was put on the table it was just as quickly  lapped up and in our bellies. I still remember that day well and we love to make our own version of that tapa at home. Of course, we eat it as a Saturday brunch dish instead of a drunken bar snack. We substitute the beef picadillo for minced chorizo and use the rendered fat to cook the potatoes in. Yes, not the lightest meal to start a Saturday, but you’ll definitely smile while you’re eating it (and then crawl back into bed to sleep it off).

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.

Neither Jonny nor I have ever been to the Canary Islands and we were excited to try some of its indigenous foods even though we were over 1700 kilometers away. As Jonny and I took a seat at the bar, we got comfy and ready to wile away the night with a few bottles of wine and a vast selection of Canarian and Madrileños treats. The wonderful hostess of the restaurant helped us order some of her favorite dishes, one being a specialty of the Canary Islands called Papas Arrugadas. A steaming plate of small white potatoes with a white coating on their extremely wrinkled skin was placed in front of us. Next to them, dipping sauces. My face lit up with joy – carbs AND dipping sauces on the same plate? This could be my version of heaven! Those who know me well know how much I love to dip anything into anything. In fact, in eighth grade I was often made fun of for foregoing the school lunch and instead going to the salad bar “fixings” tray and eating a bowl of crutons dipped in various salad dressings as my lunch. Healthy, huh? I ended up earning the title of “Condiment Queen” (not Condom Queen, folks) for my love of dipping. But I digress…

Why are they not called patatas, like in Spain but instead called papas like the Latin Americans call potatoes? Well, because this is a specific type of potato that it is believed to have been brought over to the Canary Islands from Peru.  These are always small, between 2 and 5 inches in length and grown in a mountainous region. The papas come in three colors: pink, bonito, which is pale yellow, and black. The bonito and black are the more prized type, especially the black because it slightly resembles a truffle.

The wrinkled outer skin of the potato comes from boiling them in heavily salted water. Originally this dish was made using seawater, so keep that in mind when adding the salt to your boiling water. Because we didn’t have any of the potatoes the specifically grow in the Canary Islands, we used small white potatoes (baby creamers) and small red (new) potatoes, which worked just fine. This popular Canarios dish is often eaten on it’s own as a tapa or as a side dish to meat of fish.  Papas Arrugadas aren’t always served with both the Mojo Verde and Mojo Rojo (also known as Mojo Picon), but I liked the choices of dipping sauces.  Both sauces went perfectly well with our grilled loin of lamb.  The Mojo Verde reminded me of a version of salsa verde. 

This dish would even be great as finger food at a party.  Don’t be afraid by the amount of salt used in the dish because the final result ends up being perfectly salted.  So pretend you’re in the Canary Islands and give these Papas Arrugadas a try.

PAPAS ARRUGADAS  (Serves  4)

Ingredients for Potatoes:

• 2 pounds of small potatoes (either red/new or creamers or a mixture of both)
• water
• 2 to 3 cups of coarse salt

Ingredients for the Mojo Rojo/Picon:

• 1 to 2 cloves garlic, minced and smashed into a paste
• 1/2 teaspoon cumin
• 1 small to medium red pepper, roasted, skin removed and deseeded
• 1 teaspoon smoked paprika (pimenton)
• 1 teaspoon salt
• 3/4 cup of olive oil
• 3 teaspoons of sherry vinegar or white wine vinegar

Ingredients for Mojo Verde:

• 1 to 2 cloves garlic, minced and smashed to a paste
• 1/2 teaspoon cumin
• 1 big bunch of cilantro (with stems) – maybe two handfulls
• 1 teaspoon salt
• 3/4 cup of olive oil
• 3 teaspoons of sherry vinegar or white wine vinegar

What to do:

1. Boil enough water to hold the potatoes and add the salt. When the water comes to a boil, add the potatoes and allow to cook uncovered for 20 minutes.
2. While the potatoes are cooking, make your mojo rojo.  Add all ingredients except the olive oil into a food processor or blender.  With the motor going, slowly add the olive oil and taste for seasonings. Some people like thier mojo more acidic and others don’t – add more seasoning if you would like it and olive oil if it seems too acidic for you.
3. Clean out your food processor/blender and make your mojo verde by following the same instructions as Step #2.
4. After the potatoes have cooked for 20 minutes, drain the excess water and put the potatoes back in the dry pan and turn the heat on up to medium – high.  Allow the potatoes to “dry” the excess water off in the hot pan.  Swirl the pan around so that the potatoes don’t stick.  Do this for about five minutes.  You should see the potato skins get a white film on them and the skin will wrinkle a bit. 
5. Serve the potatoes with the mojos in bowls.  We served ours with some grilled lamb loins that were marinated in some garlic with a sprinkling of salt and pepper.  Enjoy!

It’s nearly a year now since we were in Madrid, and while during that time we’ve managed to shed some of the excess poundage we gained there, we’ve lost none of our longing to be back there. And, it’s a strange thing about longing that all your memories become more vivid, and you remember even the smallest details.

So, on Sunday morning, we sought to recreate what, while in Madrid, seemed like a comparatively minor facet of our stay – breakfast. In Spain, as in other parts of southern Europe, a typical breakfast is characterized by three things: sugar, caffeine and nicotine, but it would unfair to suggest there is no greater variety than the, admittedly delicious, combo of pastries, coffee and strong cigarettes.

Roommate Mario (our hotel, not an actual person), in the Opera district of the city (not far from the magnificent Palacio Real – see above), was a small, boutiquey-type place and not, by any means, the type of hotel we’d commonly stay in. And, apart from the unusually reasonably-priced room, what convinced us to pick this hotel was its renowned “free” breakfast.

Research suggested that not only was it sumptious and delicious, but that it was served until noon, which, given that we like to sleep on vacation and would be eating and drinking later than normal to fit in with the insomniacal Madrileño lifestyle, was another bonus. I’ve always found it despicable and somehow mean that most hotels only serve breakfast until 10am, so that people who actually on vacation nearly always miss it.

Our typical breakfast at Roommate Mario was, of course, a tongue-tinglingly powerful cup of café solo or “capuchino”, a tiny glass of freshly-squeezed and enjoyably sour orange juice, and several triangles of the most perfect tortilla española layered on fresh, crusty bread with slices of manchego and lomo – cured loin of pork delicately flavored with pimenton – and topped with a drizzle of golden Andalucian olive oil and, our new favorite condiment, grated tomato. I know it doesn’t sound like a wildly exotic or even a very exciting breakfast (especially to our Spanish readers), but to us, who usually only shove down a slice of toast before hurrying out of the door of an average morning, it was out of this world.

So, this past weekend, as you can see from the pictures, in a flood of nostalgia, and flush with many of the requisite ingredients, we recreated our Madrid breakfasts in our Brooklyn apartment – courtesy of a very kind deli counter worker at Union Market (69cents for six slices of jamon iberico!) and through the good graces of our friend Nuría Farregut at Spanish Recipes and the miracle of vacuum-packing. In fact, so thoughtful and kind is Nuría that yesterday, just as we were mourning the last of the chorizo de bellota she sent us from La Boquería over the summer, another package arrived with some magnificent-looking dry salami/salchichon! It’s as if we managed to telepathically transmit our longing for Spain to Nuría in Barcelona. I mean, we’re still desperate to return, but at least our stomachs are temporarily satisfied! Thank you so, so much, Nuría! Una amiga en jamón, es una amiga por la vida!

The first time I ate pulpo a la gallega was at a very disreputable-looking food stand not far from the Estadio Balaídos in Vigo, Spain, before watching a soccer match between Celta de Vigo and Racing Santander (it finished 2-2). It was served on a slightly wilted plastic plate with a toothpick that looked suspiciously blunt at one end, as if it had already been used. I was absolutely sure I was going to have raging diarrhea because of this lack of hygiene, but ate the whole plate anyway. Sure enough, two hours after the end of the match, I rushed back to the hotel holding on to my bowels for dear life.

The second time, things improved considerably, reclining, as we were, in some old oak chairs in a tapas bar in Madrid earlier this year after a morning in El Museo del Prado. The only unpleasant feeling came from our sadness when the generous racione was finished. While pondering these feelings, Amy and I came to the conclusion that it’s one of the world’s greatest snack foods. Chewy, salty, sweet and filling, healthy and satisfying, pulpo a la gallega is simply chopped boiled octopus in the Galician style – dressed with sea salt, olive oil and sweet pimenton – and in Galician pulperias is commonly served on a wooden board with toothpicks. Like so many tapas, and Spanish dishes generally, it is achingly simple, and yet unbelievably good. Add anything to it and it becomes something else, take something away and it’s missing a key element.

That said, this, the signature dish of the region, is sometimes made with potatoes and when it is, is normally cooked on a hot plate and referred to as pulpo a la plancha. Another variation, pulpo a la feria, or pulpo a la feira in Gallego (the local dialect that sits somewhere between Spanish and Portuguese) is traditionally cooked in a copper kettle which gives the purple (when cooked) octopus a more orangey color and interesting minerally-taste. When such traditional vessels are unavailable (like virtually everywhere), a copper coin is often tossed in to the boiling water.

In an effort to do it all in one dish, as we only had one octopus – we boiled the ‘pus with a copper coin and boiled some potatoes separately, then combined them on the plate with the salt, pimenton and olive oil. It was delicious. The texture of octopus might be off-putting for some, as it’s kind of chewy on the outside and “crunchy” on the inside, but I love it, and when cut into inch-long chunks it makes a fantastic finger-food, if your guests are adventurous enough to try it. Not only that, but it’s easy to prepare and octopus is pretty reasonably priced.

Pulpo a la Gallega

Ingredients

1 pre-frozen medium octopus – around 1lb, pre-cooked (if not pre-frozen, freeze it for 24 hours)

2 quarts/ (roughly) 2 liters water, boiling

1 bay leaf, 1/2 onion, 1/4 cup vinegar (optional)

2 medium waxy potatoes, peeled and balled (using a melon-baller)

2-3oz extra virgin olive oil

1 tsp pimenton dulce/sweet paprika

1/2 tsp coarse sea salt

Recipe

Gently boil octopus in 2 quarts/2 liters salted water, remembering to add a copper penny, for 1 hr. (Some recipes call for bay leaf, onion, and vinegar, some not, in the water. Our experience tells us adding a 1/4 cup of white vinegar helps to tenderize the ‘pus a little)

Allow to cool before slicing into 1inch/2cm chunks.

Dress with olive oil, and sprinkle generously with pimenton and salt.

Serve with lots of crusty bread and a bottle of something cool and white, perhaps a Galician Albarino, Ribeiro, or a Portugese vinho verde.

Note: our friend CanaryGirl has also made Pulpo a la Gallega and her technique for boiling the octopus is rather different from ours. Check her out and feel free to tell us which you think worked best.

Check out some other posts you may enjoy:

• Truffled Butter: A Prince Among Ideas
• Pernil (Roasted Pork Shoulder): Low and Slow
• Grilled Rainbow Trout with a Romesco-esque Sauce
• Jamaican Jerk Chicken

Not long ago our good friend Nuria at Recipes Pic by Pic offered to do a food exchange with us, knowing both how obsessed we are with Spanish food and their comparative scarcity over here in the States. In return she asked that we send her some typical American products of our choice as well as a Cuisinart food processor. We were delighted to oblige.

Nuria wasted no time and recently posted about a hummus she made with her shiny new toy and including a photograph of the rather idiosyncratic selection of foods we sent her. Amongst them Franks Hot Sauce, two kinds of dried Mexican chiles, Reeces Peanut Butter Cups (cause you know how much Americans love Peanut Butter) and, perhaps most amusingly, a packet of Silvia’s seasoned fried chicken coating.

Her package to us, however, contained rather more sophisticated ingredients: jamon iberico de bellota, chorizo de bellota, and some piquillo peppers. Those of you who read our Jamon, Jamon, Jamon, Jamon post back in January when we had just returned from Madrid will know how we feel about iberico ham – the finest grade of the wonderfully delicious range of Spanish cured hams made from black-footed pigs raised amidst the statuesque holm oaks of Extremadura in central west Spain near the Portuguese border. So you can imagine our delight at having a generous racione of it arrive vacuum-packed from the famed Mercado la Boqueria in Barcelona.

However, we were cautious, looking for an opportunity to savor the ham and give it the attention it deserves, we had to wait until earlier this week for the moment to finally breech the packaging. Following Nuria’s instruction we allowed it to come to room temperature – yes, there is a right way and a wrong way to enjoy iberico – and laid it out on a plate just as we had had it in Madrid, accompanied only by a couple of pieces of pa amb tomaquet (see recipe below) in a Catalan homage to both Nuria and the ham’s provenance in Barcelona.

And, how was it, you ask? Well, it was bliss. The ham’s fat was soft and almost unbelievably buttery and rich, yet strongly flavored with the scent of the acorns on which the pig was fed. The ham itself was gamey and powerful while being at once smooth and calming on the tongue. It was, in all honesty, swoon-inducingly good and provoked tearful memories of our last taste of iberico in the fug of a bar in Madrid back in January when we had sighed and wondered aloud when we might eat iberico again.

Thank you so much Nuria – muchissimas gracias a usted – for both offering to do the exchange in the first place and then trusting two complete strangers to respond in kind. It’s not only reserved you a very special place in our hearts (and stomachs) but also made us think very kindly about the rest of this wonderful food community that we’re getting to know and the fascinating and generous people who inhabit it. Buen provecho y salud a todos!  Oh, and also, thank you for giving us the Blogging with a Purpose award – much appreciated!

P.S. – After the iberico we made another tapa with some of the delicious piquillo peppers Nuria also sent us. Riffing off something Jose Andres made on his show Made in Spain, we put thick slices of Manchego cheese (or you can use any other type of hard cheese that melts like Provolone, Cheddar, Piave, Gouda, etc.) into the piquillos and lightly fried them in good olive oil and served them with a sprinkling of pimenton dulce or sweet Spanish paprika. So easy and so gooey and delicious.

For other ideas for tapas and for a delicious recipe for Spanish tortilla, check out an older post of ours.

Pa amb Tomaquet (Catalan toasts or bread with tomato) – serves 2

Ingredients:

• 2 thick slices of hearty Italian or country-style French bread
• 1 fresh and very ripe tomato (this is key – it should be ruby read and soft)
• 1 clove garlic, sliced lengthwise
• some extra virgin olive oil
• salt

What to do:

• Grill the bread pieces until toasted.
• While bread is still warm from the grill, rub the openly cut side of half a clove of garlic on each face of bread. This allows the scent and flavor of the garlic to melt into the warm bread.
• Cut tomato in half and rub each face of bread with the tomato. Rub hard and don’t be afraid if you feel it’s a bit messy – you want all the juice and pulp of the tomato to get on the bread.
• Drizzle some olive oil on both pieces of bread and then sprinkle a bit of salt on top. You can add some optional toppings of anchovies or olives or tuna for fun and a heartier tapa. MMMMMMM – enjoy!

Check out some other posts you may enjoy:

• Unusual Tapas We Ate in Madrid
• Chorizo and Clams with White Wine
• Squid with Golden Potatoes
• MORCILLA (SPANISH SAUSAGE) STUFFED GRILLED SQUID WITH A SPICY SAUCE
• ARROZ MARINERO (SPANISH RICE WITH SEAFOOD AND SPICES)
• Fabada: A Mortal and Corporal Sin – But Worth It!

On our final day in Madrid, it was pissing down with rain. We spent about 4 hours walking around the Reina Sofia drooling over Picasso’s Guernica (the size of a giant museum wall) and the large amount of Dali and Miro works. We’re not really artsy-fartsy folks, but that museum made me wet myself with joy. The more we travel, the more I’ve been enjoying museums. But the second my stomach growled in the hallowed halls of the Reina Sofia, I knew it was only a matter of time till I either ripped a painting off the wall and attempted to eat it or I ripped off my husbands head just because he was there and I was annoyed. See, when Amy gets hungry she becomes a bit of a biotch. Ok, that’s an understatement according to anyone who knows me. When Amy gets hungry and can’t find food right away she is basically a total bitch. Even worse, when Amy is wet and hungry she will let you know that she’s pissed and take it out on who ever is closest to her. I know, I know, it’s not fair and it’s mean, but I think of my stomach the way a man thinks of his penis. Just as many men think with theirs, I think with my stomach and when I need it satisfied, it must be satisfied immediately.

As we walked around Madrid on our final afternoon of vacation, starving and cold (I know, poor me, right?), I thought I was going to die if I didn’t get some food in me. It always happens that when you want something you never can find it, but the second you stop looking, there it is. Well, the second I just gave up on finding an open restaurant, there she was – a warm, inviting, cozy and delicious-smelling Galician restaurant – Taberna Maceira. The menu offered an array of food and if I had my choice, I probably would’ve ordered the whole menu. But the thing that caught our eye was the Arroz Marineiro (that’s the Galician spelling for Arroz Marinero) which happened to be a mid-day special. The fact that the menu specifically told you, in so many words, to be patient because this dish takes at least 25 minutes to make, even as hungry as I was, made me smile. We ordered a huge cheese plate with five different types of Galician cheeses and a large jug of wine. Within five minutes I was warm, buzzed and happy. When the steamy hot cauldron of rice, tomato stock and various types of seafood came out, I started to realize that I could be happy sitting in that cozy Galician restaurant with the jug(s) of red wine, my husband and this steamy hot bowl of Arroz Marineiro for the rest of my life… or at least until the rain passed in a few hours.

This dish is similar in flavors to a paella but the main difference is the consistency. It should be like a soupy stew with a bit of the broth left on the top of the rice so you can get a bit of the broth with each bite. Most recipes have a variety of fish included in it. Kind of like the livornese fish stew we made ages ago – it all depends on what’s fresh and what’s available. The dish’s name translates to Marine or Sailor Rice. The small bit of history I could find about this dish told me that it was an easy dish for those that lived on the sea to make with what was readily available. We brought back some razor clams with us from Spain, so we used some of these along with whatever else I could pick up at my local store. Although we weren’t sitting in Madrid when we ate this fabulous healthy meal, it did bring me back to that afternoon.

ARROZ MARINERO – SPANISH MARINE RICE (serves 2 to 3 as mains)

Ingredients:

• 1 onion, diced
• 2 cloves garlic, minced
• 4 to 6 whole, peeled tomatoes (can be from a can), chopped
• 6 cups hot stock (preferably fish stock)
• 1 roasted red pepper, peeled and cut into 2 inch strips
• olive oil
• 2 tablespoons pimenton (paprika)
• pinch of saffron
• a variety of seafood: squid cut in rings, clams still in shell, shrimp with shells removed, mussels, white fish cut in 1-inch chunks
• 2 cups of Valencian rice (Arborio or Bomba rice would work – regular white rice would work only – ONLY – if you can’t find the other 3)
• some chopped parsley
• lemon
• Optional but not traditional: some peperoncino or a hot pepper to spice it up

What to do:

1. In a pot, saute the onions and garlic for a few minutes in some olive oil. After a few minutes, add the clams and mussels along with a bit of hot stock (like 3 or 4 tablespoons) and stir a bit. Put a lid on the pot and give it a few minutes to steam. Don’t let the onions and garlic burn. Lift the lid every 2 minutes to check if the shells have opened. Stir around if necessary and put lid back on. Keep doing this until the shells of the clams and mussels have completely opened. Remove to a bowl and hold until ready to plate.
2. Add the chopped tomatoes, roasted red pepper, squid and fish to the sauteed onions and garlic. Cook for a minute then add the pimenton and saffron. Stir for around for a minute then add the rice and stir, allowing rice to absorb all the flavors in the pot.
3. Add all the broth and stir. Bring the rice to a boil and then turn heat down a bit and allow the rice to cook in the heavy simmering liquid. You want in between a boil and a simmer. The rice should cook in about 20 minutes, but, like me, keep testing it for doneness every 5 minutes. About five minutes before the rice is finished cooking, add your shrimp.
4. When the rice is done, turn heat off, taste for seasoning and ladle rice along with some extra broth and plenty of seafood into a bowl. Top with some of the reserved clams and mussels. Squeeze some lemon juice on to the top along with some chopped parsley. Enjoy!

Check out some other posts you may enjoy:

• JAMAICAN JERK CHICKEN
• SHREDDED CHICKEN SOPES WITH TOMATILLO AVOCADO SAUCE
• FRITO MISTO DI MARE (FRIED MIXED SEAFOOD AND VEGGIES)
• SALAD NICOISE (Salad with Seared Tuna)
• PROVENCAL RABBIT WITH OLIVES AND CAPERS
• BRAISED PORK CHOPS WITH LIME AND OLIVES

“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

I know, guys… yet again, another Ray-Ray complaint. I just can NOT stop. I try, kids… I REALLY freaking try. I put her show on and within 30 seconds, I put her on mute. Within a minute, the channel is changed. I can’t do it. I try over and over again, and over and over again the result is the same – shivers, throwing things at the TV, tearing bits of my hair out. After seeing this mild bastardization of the delicious, and AUTHENTICALLY SPANISH dish of Cocido, I could not stay silent again.

In Ray-Ray’s defense, I immediately thought her recipe looked wrong and jumped at the chance to rip her apart. I thought to myself, minced meat?? Chicken “tenders”!? Adding nutmeg and cinnamon??!! Blasphemy! But, after much research, I have found that sometimes cocido can contain meatballs made of minced beef. The chicken tenders are pointless because you want the flavor of the chicken skins and bones. Nutmeg and cinnamon? Ya got me there, Rach. Maybe my trusty Spaniard friend, Nuria could weigh in on this? Regardless, I’m here to spread some knowledge on one of my favorite things to eat while in Madrid.

Cocido is one of the national dishes of Spain, has many regional variations (cocido madrileno from Madrid, cocido montanes from Cantabria and cocido maragato from Castile-Leon) and is often eaten midday. It should take a long time to cook (simmering away all night or all day) and, most importantly, contains various types of cured and smoked pork products and meat, bones, trotters, etc. On holy days or when meat should not be eaten, cocido can be made with bacalao (salted cod) or congrio (salted congereel). Long and slow cooking of the cocido along with it’s other elements; chickpeas, carrots, potatoes and cabbage (among other veggies), creates an amazingly flavorful and rich caldo (broth/stock). It is believed that cocido was introduced to Spain by the Sephardic Jews (Jews that chose to convert to Catholicism) who added pork and sausage to the stew creating the dish we know today. Work is not allowed on the Sabbath so, before it began, they would throw all the ingredients in a pot in order to cook slowly all day, only to be eaten at sundown.

Cocido will usually, and traditionally, be served in at least two courses, often three. The first course is always the strained caldo – pure, golden and rich, maybe with some rice or noodles. The second course could be all the vegetables alone or the veggies plus the meat (as we had it in Madrid – see pics). This would include morcilla (Spanish black sausage), chorizo, pieces of the meats (pork, chicken, pork belly etc.), potatoes, chickpeas, cabbage, carrots, leeks, etc. It is a very filling meal, but extremely tasty and satisfying. It took us about 2 hours to eat ours while we were in Madrid, and we rolled out of the restaurant with the top button of our pants undone and a big smile on our faces.

I also want to clarify something – there is traditional Spanish cocido and a Mexican version. The Mexican cocido may include corn, chayote green beans, zucchini and cilantro. They garnish with lime, salsa and/or jalapenos and Mexican rice and it can be served with tortillas. There is a HUGE difference in these dishes.

In conclusion, this is the best recipe I found for cocido on the web, although I would probably add some more cooking time to the recipe. Although my husband was inspired to make this soup after his first cocido experience during a trip to Northern Spain in 2003, it’s just not the real deal. I hope to order my morcilla and fresh chorizo from La Tienda, talk to my butcher about some pork belly and make this traditional version one day soon.

CHECK OUT SOME OTHER POSTS YOU MAY ENJOY: 

• HORNAZO (Spanish Sausage-Stuffed Easter Bread)
• Fabada: A Mortal and Corporal Sin – But Worth It!
• Jamon, Jamon
• LEBANESE-SPICED LAMB OVER CRISPY PITA WITH CHICKPEAS, PINENUTS, POMEGRANATE SEEDS SMOTHERED IN GARLIC YOGURT SAUCE
• WINE-BRAISED LAMB SHANKS WITH ROSEMARY AND THYME IN PRESSURE
• Pictures of Madrid
• Unusual Tapas We Ate in Madrid
• CLAMS WITH WHITE WINE AND CHORIZO
• SQUID WITH GOLDEN POTATOES