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September 2007

Twenty-Two Things to Tell About Traditional Spanish Food

1080 Spanish Recipes

Simone and Inés Ortega

The bible of Spanish cooking
A bestseller in Spain for over 30 years, this is the guide to the entire range of Spanish cooking and had finally been translated into English in a beautifully illustrated edition from Phaidon. It's due in early October but we'll have a single precious advance copy in the Deli in September and we'll be taking orders. Oh, and we'll also be hold a drawing to give away that coveted advance copy at the Paella Party on September 16.

Paella
In a way this is where it all began. We did our first ever paella-making demonstration on the patio at the Deli back in... and we've been going ever since. This year on Sunday September 16 at 11am-3pm, we'll do I've written volumes — well, at least chapters on — paella: what it is, where it came from, why I love it, how to make it, ... Suffice it say here that it's near the top of my top twenty-two. Most paella served in most restaurants isn't really all that good (sorry, it's true even in Spain). Why? Too many shortcuts and low cost/low flavor ingredients. Too much so-so technique. But when you do this dish well, it's just so good. And it's so NOT hard to do. OK. Enough said for this limited space. Well-made paella that uses great ingredients (don't skimp on the rice) and good process (get it in a paella pan!) tastes soooo good!
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Fideua
In a nutshell, fideua is pretty much "just" paella made with noodles instead of rice. And — dare I say it — I actually like even more than I like paella. OK, since everyone's culinary truth is his or her own, I'll just put it out there, because it's true — I do. I suppose it makes good sense that I would because it's fideua way that I can combine my current (and past and future) passion for Spanish food with my long-standing love of Italian food and my favorite part of that which is, of course, pasta. I could go on for pages about it — oh, I already have! Essay available on request. Dish on fideua on demand by going to www.zingermans.com
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Jamon Serrano
Righ up front, this is NOT the best ham Spain has to offer. That is the Iberico Bellota ("acorn") ham which has been so close to getting clearance to come over here to the States that I can almost taste it... there've been so many holdups and holdovers and delays and whatnot that I'm not going to count by hams before they're sliced. In the mean time, if you're not in Spain with easy access to Iberico, Serrano is the stuff you want to be buy. It's true that this is a dry cured ham like prosciutto or American country ham, each is of course a ham unto itself just as varietal olive oils, wines or cheeses are going to be different from one area to the next. While Prosciutto di Parma is mellow and sweet, Serrano stands up straighter; not strong in the least, but definitely cured to be a bit bolder, a bit bigger in flavor. I'd suggest serving the two together so that your guests can enjoy the contrast (throw in one of the American country hams we have in from Kentucky, Virginia or Iowa and you'll really be rolling.) Small slivers go a long way, whether you eat 'em on their own, or drop them, as the Spaniards do, to add complexity of flavor to all sorts of vegetable dishes. Everything may well be better with bacon but it's pretty darned sensually good with dry cured ham too!
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Piquillo Peppers
These have been at the top of every food list I've made — Spanish or otherwise — for ages. They're very special roasted peppers from Navarre, in the Basque Country in northern Spain. Grown in only 7 villages up in Navarre in the Basque Country, they are, I think, more flavorful, than any roasted pepper I've ever had (with one exception, below). Eaten on their own, Piquillos are pretty amazing experience; the heat starts softly at the tip of your tongue and spreads out from there. I love these things and I use them constantly — in salads, on pasta, on sandwiches, on pizza, on pasta, with rice. In the Basque Country they stuff them with fish (fresh or salt cod) which is excellent (and also available on our shelves, made in Spain and ready for immediate eating). I like 'em stuffed with goat cheese from the Creamery (recipe in "Zingerman's Guide to Good Eating"). Omelets too. Laid out on a white plate in a pool of green-gold olive oil, they make for an hors d'oeuvre that's as good to look at as it is to eat. Haven't tried them for dessert but maybe I'll add that to my to do list. As you can tell, I like them. A LOT. Piquillos are, I think, fast food at it's best. Open the jar and eat.

You can of course taste the difference. It's not like lesser Piquillos are going to taste "bad" — it's just that they'll be lacking some of the depth of flavor and fine character that make these things so darned good. If you doubt the difference, come by and ask for a taste of the real, wood roasted, things.
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Crystal — The Foie Gras of Peppers
In one of those good parts of globalization, I actually discovered these for the first time last year when I was in Australia. (So, let's see, peppers came the Central America, went to Spain with Columbus, perfected their over many centuries, exported to Australia where they're found by an American from Ann Arbor, who goes to Spain to learn about them then brings them back to the American Midwest... ). I'd never heard from them even though we've been buying from the exact same supplier my Aussie contacts were for something like... twenty years! Let me tell you... if I were into regret and worrying (which I used to be as a youth but no longer am now) I'd expend a seriously enormous amount of energy feeling bad about how many jars of these incredible peppers I've missed out on eating over the last two decades. Granted, they're extremely expensive so they're probably not for everyday eating; like the really good tinned tuna, it's hard to imagine wanting to spend $$ on a jar of roasted peppers. But if you want to treat yourself to something really good...

Even in Spain, the Crystals are hard to come by. "Everyone makes Piquillos," one local told me. "But only a few do the Crystal." I guess that's sort of a given since I've managed to do twenty years of studying Spanish food and hadn't ever heard of them. Their high cost is, not surprisingly, tied to the rarity of the pepper, and even more especially so, to the labor involved in making them. "When it's roasted the flesh is so thin it's like paper," explained one producer. "We use tiny little knives to scrape the skins off." And it's a lot of scraping — each little jar contains an entire kilo (over two pounds) of raw red peppers.

Although they come from the same area (Navarre), the Crystal is a completely different pepper from the Piquillo. In their fresh state, the Crystal are actually larger, with four little bumpy points up at the top. After being picked each autumn, they're roasted over beechwood as they have been for many centuries.

To get to the heart of the matter, to my taste, the Crystals are basically the foie gras of the pepper world. They're so super rich, so delicious, so good that I ate a whole jars worth in one sitting while in Spain. Basically I ate 'em with a spoon, a touch of sea salt and a bit of olive oil. Slices of toast if you like. That's it. Although I had them served to me in a nice bowl, you could honestly eat them right out of the jar with a loaf of warm Paesano bread alongside to tear pieces off of. They're smoky, rich, very buttery, and very good. Something special to grace any table, Spanish or otherwise.
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PX Sherry Vinegar from Southern Spain
I've been in love with this vinegar since we first found it ten years or so ago. So much so that I start to doubt myself and I start thinking that it can't really be as good as I think I remember it to be. But I just went and re-tasted it yesterday and... low and behold, it's still incredibly excellent. It's not inexpensive, so the PX is probably not something you'll end up using for your everyday eating. But, hey, when you try it you might want to.

PX is an old tradition in sherry country, one that's only recently become known outside its home region. It's made by adding a small quantity of very old (and very famous) Pedro Ximenez (hence the initials, "PX") sherry to already great, well aged-sherry vinegar, then aging the two in tandem still further. If you're into vinegars, which I obviously am) you really have to taste it.

While there are now other brands of PX vinegar showing up from Spain, I still stand by this particular one because it just tastes better. It was first released to us in limited quantities by the firm of Sanchez Romate who's vinegars we've been buying for nearly twenty years. They've won numerous awards over the years for their sherry, vinegar and their Cardinal Mendoza brandy. Don Juan Sánchez de la Torre, a well-known businessman and philanthropist, founded Sanchez Romate in 1781. The company's wine and vinegar have long been held in high regard — they have supplied prestigious people like the British House of Lords, the Royal Family of Spain and the Vatican. We actually got the chance to sell this it here because one of the top folks at Sanchez Romate saw a copy of "Zingerman's Guide to Good Vinegar" and saw their label recommended in there. So he wrote and offered us the chance to sell this amazing stuff for the first time in the States.

Made using the unique solera system that helps to make traditional sherry so special; it's a method of continual blending (not unlike that done for traditional Balsamic) of younger vinegars with older ones. This limited release of PX vinegar comes from a solera started in the around 1920; the wine which was added to it is from a solera started at the turn of the last century. You read that right — the wine is over a hundred years old, the vinegar over 80! I'm not joking when I say that this stuff is very special. Deep, rich, velvety vinegar flavors. Very slightly sweet I suppose but mostly almondy, interesting, excellent. Long, long finish. Lush. Lovely.
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Pimenton de la Vera paprika
It's basically little more than an afterthought in North America but paprika is an essential element of regional cooking inmany parts of Spain. I love it cuz it's such an easy thing to use to add life to just about every kind of savory food you can think of.

It's funny these peppers have become such integral elements of Spanish cooking when there were of course no peppers existent in Europe before Columbus' voyages at the end of the 15th century. But then I guess the same is true of tomatoes in Italy or paprika in Hungary or... . So let's just appreciate the transfer for agricultural products and the great flavors that came out of them. Paprika, if you don't already know, is made by merely drying fresh red ripe peppers, then grinding them into a powder. The quality of the paprika is, obviously, dependent on the quality of the pepper variety and skill of the growers and then on the grinding and handling work.

The two best-known paprikas of Spain are produced on opposite ends of the country. Pimenton de la Vera, which has gotten to be quite familiar to American cooks over the last decade or so, comes from the west — it's dried over smoldering oak logs and hence has a lovely smoky flavor. It really is pretty great; deeper than deep, compelling to its core. Because of the smokiness not everyone loves it but those of us who do are pretty hard and fast fanatics. If you're into getting hooked on powders of any sort, this is one that you can healthily and happily get addicted to.

The other paprika comes off the east coast, from the region of Murcia to be exact. It's a lot less known in this country, probably because it's subtler in flavor and because — since it's neither smoked nor spicy hot — it's a lot less glamorous than the above-mentioned Pimenton de la Vera. But it's really good and it's unique. And I love it for mashed potatoes, fresh fish, rice and just about anything else you can think of. Great with olive oil on toasted bread from the Bakehouse. It's also a key ingredient in one of my favorite Spanish dishes — polpo gallego. Despite the fact that it lies at literally the farthest corner one could get from Murcia and still be in Spain, this is the most famous dish of the region of Galicia is polpo gallego — octopus boiled, drained and then dressed with good olive oil, a touch of salt and lots of Murcian paprika.

You can use either of these paprikas with pretty much any kind of food you can think of; pork, potatoes, fish, eggs, rice, paella, salads. Hard to go wrong on any road you go down with these two. Stock 'em and sprinkle at will.
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Tinned Tuna — Red, White, Blue and Yellow
Well, the fish isn't really those colors, but the colors are in fact in the names and so I'm going to use them here to get your attention and then to review the tunas at hand.

In order to understand why I'd put tinned tuna on my list, you have to get out of the canned tuna mindset that most all of us were raised with here in the States. Because, while in this country it's at the bottom of the purchasable prepared food list in terms of prestige, in Spain tinned tuna is pretty the cat's meow in a good way — a good grocery will have an entire aisle of the stuff!

All of these terrific tunas are coming to us courtesy of the Ortiz family whose offices are in the town of Ondarroa on the Cantabrian Coast of the Basque Country. They're a fifth generation fishing family that's tinning some of the best tuna and anchovies around. There really is a difference — while quality may not be immediately noticeable based on visuals alone but it's very much apparent when you to get to eating. As with all fish, freshness is huge. The Ortiz folks are on the docks daily in season to buy from the best boats. All the tuna are line caught. All are excellent. The cooking, the packing and the entire operation are done with high attention to detail and very flavorful results. Here's the rundown:

Bonito is the top pick of almost every Basque I've ever asked. It's albacore, white in color, mellow in flavor. Yellowfin is less highly prized in Spain but I actually like it better because the flavor is bigger.

The "red" and the "blue" are actually one and the same. It's a special, one-time only, Ortiz family offering of bluefin tuna, which is known in Italian as Tonno Rosso (or literally "red tuna"). Bluefin is almost completely unknown in Spanish tuna tinning. This stuff is available really only because two years ago this past summer a couple big bluefins seem to have wandered out of the Mediterranean into the Cantabrian Sea. Local fisherman caught one, brought it in to the docks and the folks at Ortiz smartly snapped it up. If you like tuna, you'll definitely want to check this one out. To me, tonno rosso is the top of the top of tinned tunas, the one that you want to eat when you want to eat something superbly special. It's richer, meatier, mavelouser. It's particularly good because it's actually been aged for two years, meaning it's even richer and better now than when it was first released. We liked it so much we bought everything they had.

Speaking of aging, we've also got hold of a special Vintage Bonito. Few folks realize it but tuna (and sardines, but not anchovies) actually gets better as it sits in tins or jars — the oil gradually penetrates the flesh of the fish further and further as it ages making for ever richer, more tuna inside. After a series of pep talks — as in, "we really want to buy this from you!" — The Ortiz family started to pack for sale what they'd previously just done for themselves, and put up some of the best Bonito tuna each year to mature. We got the first batch in this past winter and it's already excellent. The cool thing is though that it continues to get better. Jacopo Múgica who's worked for the Ortiz family for a long time now, says it will continue to improve in flavor for 14 or 15 years so if you like it buy it now and set it aside for special occasions down the road.

Lastly, but definitely not least, we also have ventresca, which is a cut of the tuna — in fact it's the richest part of the fish, the belly, a big delicacy in Spain, something most American have no idea even exists. But it does and it's good and... put it on toast — skip the celery and the mayo.
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Revueltos; Scrambled Up Eggs Spanish Style
Hardly anyone over here knows what revueltos are but we ought to — it's another of those seemingly simple, but I think, significant dishes from Spain that are really good, yet have gone pretty much unnoticed over here. Most Americans, I think, miss out on revueltos because recipe writers translate the name of the dish as "scrambled eggs" which isn't real likely to get much attention. Granted, it's true that you do scramble eggs to make revueltos, but they aren't scrambled eggs the way my mother used to make them.

The biggest difference is the proportions of any added ingredients to the eggs — if you're making revueltos the ratios are pretty much reversed from what we're familiar with. So, for instance, here in the States, if you add some, say wild mushrooms to your scrambled eggs, your dish is still likely 2/3 egg to 1/3 mushrooms, at most half and half. By contrast, if you make reveultos with mushrooms what you've you'll have is a good quantity of sautéed wild mushrooms coated with lightly cooked scrambled eggs. To put things in context I found recipes that call for as much a pound of wild mushrooms to six eggs!

You can make revueltos with almost any "filling" — sautéed zucchini, asparagus, chorizo, seafood or just anything else. In Cantabria we had a great version with wild mushrooms and another with morcilla, the Spanish blood sausage. I know that eggs and blood sausage aren't going to get onto any low cholesterol diet (it is low-carb though!) but, for some reason I can't really explain, the flavor of the sausage blends beautifully into the eggs. I've tried it back at home with the morcilla sausage from the Deli and the dish is still really super good. I've made revueltos a few times since I've been back — once with squash blossoms and goat cheese, once with asparagus, another chorizo (like the morcilla, the fat in the chorizo somehow is a perfect foil for the eggs). All were excellent, all were easy, all make me want to make them again.

One key to great tasting revueltos is getting good eggs, which I'm happy to say what we have in abundance around here. The Deli is buying very nice organic eggs that come from cage free chickens from Grazing Fields in Charlotte and the RH is getting very good ones (also from cage free hens) from the Amish farmers in Homer. On a home cooking level, the farmer's market has got nearly a dozen different vendors with good eggs — including duck and goose eggs — to check out. I'm hardly an expert in eggs but I do know that the quality of the feed, the chicken breed, and the run range of the chickens make a huge difference. And we all know that, without the any question, you really can taste the difference between great eggs and the mass-market stuff.

Additionally I encourage you to cook the eggs quite lightly so you can really taste them and enjoy the softness of their texture. You have to keep the pan from getting too hot when you add the eggs or they'll be overcooked before you can do anything to stop the process (that's the voice of painful experience.)

Bottom line is that revueltos are an easy way to make traditional, fullflavored food without having to do a lot of work. Great summer dish since it's fairly quick cooking and not too heavy. A little salad or some new potatoes on the side, some toasted Bakehouse bread, and you're all set.
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Spanish Saffron
So much to say on this subject, so little space — see, everyone's heard of saffron, but I know that relatively few take the time to bring it into their kitchens, mostly I think because of the fear factor that's been driven into them over the years about it being too expensive and tricky to use and all that. But seriously, there's not a whole lot more to cooking with saffron than there is most any other moderately interesting ingredient. And there are few things that add the unique angle and flavor that saffron does. Really, for just dropping a few threads of it in a bowl of hot water and letting it steep for a few hours you can make saffron broth, season rice dishes, soups, stews, sauces, seafood or about fifty five hundred other things. Write this down — cooking with saffron is easy. Cooking with saffron is special. See Zingerman's Guide to Good Eating for much, much more on the subject.
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Spanish-Style Fried Eggs
If everyone's truth is their own then it's pretty safe to say that everyone's fried egg is their own as well. Not growing up as a egg aficionado I'm sort of latecomer to this one. Other people I know are totally adamant about 'em — they pour out their passions for fried egg sandwiches; fried eggs on grits, fried eggs with bacon; fried eggs over-easy, hard, medium or just about any other way you can imagine. Witness these words from Gauri Thergaonkar, manager of the retail area at the Deli: "I love fried eggs. Fried eggs are about as elemental as an egg preparation technique gets. I like 'em when the yolk is still almost runny. I think the best fried eggs are not swimming in fat but have been basted with fat during the frying. I like em in butter, duck fat or olive oil. The whites in a fried egg, should be slightly crispy where they made contact with the frying pan but silky on top. Like the yolks, which must always be silky. Which means I like my fried eggs sunny side up — a truth that is so obvious to me that I forgot to mention. Why would you have them any other way? If you're going to break the yolk," she adds with a passion for purity that I can relate to, "make an omelet."

I haven't really given fried eggs anywhere near that much thought. I just kind of like them. And because my favorite way to eat them is existentially, essentially Spanish; and because I think they're an underrated addition to the quick-to-make, great-to-eat traditional cooking style that I adhere to, they appear on this list. The formula for fried eggs Spanish style is really pretty simple:

Good eggs + good olive oil
+ a sprinkling of good coarse sea salt + a good grind of good Telicherry black pepper

=
really, really good Spanish-style fried eggs

Stick a couple of these babies on toasted good bread with more good olive oil and... it's a five minute meal that's hard to beat. Remember it's all in the oil and the eggs so don't try this with low grade versions of either.
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Oil from Marques De Griñon
Back when we started our relationship with Spain in the mid-80s, getting really exceptional olive oil from Iberia was no mean feat. It was there, of that I'm sure; it just was being blended in with other, lesser oils and sold off in bulk barrels never to be appreciated on its own again. Today there are probably a hundred decent-to-good oils coming over. A small but meaningful — and actually, ever growing, segment of those are really pretty amazing; oils to be considered on the list of the best the world has to offer right now.

This newly arrived oil from the center of Spain is, to my truth, one of those. Kudos to Carlos Falco and his family for making it so darned good on every level. The bottle is beautiful, it's got a big, big aroma and the flavor follows right along with big, bold notes. It's not overpowering in the least but lusciously smooth, eye openingly big, savory, green and very good. In truth, I think this one's got all those flavor notes that people look for (or, I could say, I look for) in big green oils like this one — raw artichoke, green tomato, olives of course, a bit of pepper. I don't want to get caught up in excessive adjectivization — just taste it. If you like big oils like I do... it's safe to say you're going to like it.

While the agriculture is old, the organized production of estate oil for sale under the Griñon name is relatively recent. Carlos Falco gets the credit for getting it going. An agricultural engineer who went to study oenology at UC Davis back in the early seventies, he did a lot of pioneering work with wine — you'll find Griñon wines on many a top list. More recently, he turned his attention to olive oil, with equally excellent results. Over his years in the wine world Carlos had befriended the Marchese Antinori, one of the big innovators in Tuscany for both high quality wine and oil. The Marchese encouraged Senor Falco to get going on the oil and linked him up with an Italian oil consultant by the name of Marco Mugelli. He talked Mugelli — who was reluctant to work with Spain — into coming to help him at the Griñon estate. Mugelli forgot to go and missed the flight and the meeting never happened. For many folks that would be the end of things; to their credit both parties kept going and I'm glad they did since the Griñon oil is so darned good.

The Falcos' drive for excellence combined with Mugelli's experience have resulted in an estate that's pretty much doing everything right. Minimal irrigation (fruit is smaller but the flavor tends to be more intense); old-style wide low density planting (you can get more trees onto the land using modern spacing methods but the flavor of the oil is generally not as good); picking the olives using a magic fingers machine that doesn't beat on the fruit; getting the olives to the mill in an impressive two hours. The family bought and uses a special new style of mill that flight-missing Mugelli designed — it works vertically instead of horizontally so that the mash sinks to the bottom and avoid air isn't mixed into the mash — the air is vacuumed out the top of the press while tit turns, the better to avoid any risk of early oxidation. Although it doesn't alter the flavor of what goes into the bottle, the oil is put up in very beautiful, embossed dark glass (to protect the oil from light) of the type that's used for Bordeaux wines, so if you're looking for something special or an early Christmas present put this one on your list.
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Oil from the Abbaye de Quieles
I can't say you're likely to bump into the Abbaye de Quieles by accident. It's up in the northern part of Navarre not too far from the French border and the Pyrenees mountains, not all that far from the village where those Piquillo peppers I love so darned much are grown. If you do get there though it's worth a stop — everything about the Abbaye is pretty darned impressive.

I should tell you up front that, unlike many of the people we buy from this is not an old-line family business. The project was put together by a handful of very dedicated folks whose background is not in food. In honesty it's the type of work I'm often wary of because so often the energy ends up being about everything other than the product; all flash and hardly any substance. But in this case, my fears were pretty quickly put to rest by our visit — the oil is excellent, the people are very sincere, the site is only one step down from sensational, and the whole thing comes together in an impressively, well-grounded, holistic sense.

While the Griñon land has seven centuries in the same family, the Quieles (pronounced "Kay-LESS") oil is all new. Through some real estate dealings the group found themselves holding title to this piece of land up in Navarre. They wanted to find a way to protect some of the old olive trees they'd inherited with the farm, and to do something sustainable on the land; olives and oil seemed an historically, ecologically, and financially sound way to do that. They're very much, I think, a Small Giant in the Bo Burlingham sense of the business world (see smallgiantsbook.com if you're not familiar with it). They have a very clear, inspiring and strategically sound vision. They want to make amazing oil, to preserve the land from a historical standpoint and also make it viable — both agriculturally and economically — a long ways into the future (hence the organic growing). They want to get their volume up to about twice its current level of 50,000 liters — large by the tiny standards of our friend Mariano Sanz, but still modest compared to the big boys who are out there on the oil market — but no more than that. They're seeking growth, but within the context of their vision and their values.

Navarre is a good place to do organic growing because its relatively dry and because of the winds — everything is oriented to the northwest so that the "Cierzo" — the name the Navarrese use for the strong wind that blows through and keep the bugs away. Throughout our visit everyone at the Abbaye kept telling us that the wind that day wasn't very strong, but by my Michigan, it actually really windy, so I can only imagine what it's like when the wind is really blowing. Aside from organics they're doing a number of other good, if less easily explained on a label, things to make their oil special. Low density growing; special stainless tanks to store the oil in that use nitrogen flush to force out any oxygen that could contribute negatively to the oil's quality; smoky gray glass bottles (to protect from the light, heat and air that are the enemies of good oil).

While the Griñon oil is good and green, big and bold, this one is a bit softer, a touch sweeter, with a hint of apple, and a little pepper at the end. To me, the Quieles is the kind of oil one could happily use with most anything. It's particularly good with vegetables, which makes sense since Navarre, is known as one of the best vegetable growing areas in Spain. In fact, on our visit they prepared an entire meal of amazing vegetable dishes, all of course with local spring produce and all with the Quieles oil in and/or on the finished dish. Artichokes, amazing beans, peppers, bread, salad, cheese and dessert all with oil and really with no meat in sight. The oil has a bit of green banana and green almond. Soft but substantial never the less. A light saltiness almost on the top of the tongue to me.
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Mariano's Oil
This is an excellent oil from a Mariano Sanz, who's a good friend, a great guy and one of the leading lights of traditional foods in Spain. I've written a lot about the oil already so I'll leave this space for showing off new arrivals. But don't be deterred by column inches — this is a unique oil, made from a unique varietal (Cacarena), grown organically, picked by hand, pressed within hours of harvest. Golden green color, pretty big, full fruit flavor. Production is tiny — less than a 1000 bottles a year and other than what the family keeps for itself and friends, we're fortunate to get it all over here. Thanks to Mariano, his wife Teresa and the rest of the family for making it possible for us to get this great oil!
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Fresh Fish
Without a doubt, one of the best bits of the culinary experience on this most recent trip to the Cantabrian Coast was the incredible fish. I loved it for its simplicity and for its flavor — pretty much without fail it was just really good fish — usually bought at the dock that morning — grilled or broiled, sprinkled with sea salt and brushed with a good bit of olive oil. Oysters au nature. Squid and small fresh whitebait-related fish floured and deep fried. It's all incredibly simple — really more a question of sourcing great fish, then cooking it properly in simple ways that highlight the natural flavors of the fish. In truth this is really what we work to do at the Roadhouse with the fresh fish, oysters, clams, scallops and such. Get the best, keep it simple, eat and enjoy. You can do it at home too — good fish, good oil, and good salt make for a very good meal.
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Manchego Cheese Dehesa de Los Llanos
I'm slightly reluctant to use one of my twenty two top slots for Manchego because it's by far and away the most famous of Spanish cheeses; everyone's heard of it and the cheese is sold pretty much all over the US nowadays. That said, of course, there are about 142 levels of Manchego quality, made worse still if you include the "Manchego" being sold here that looks like, the real thing, but that would never get past the authorities in Spain but is quietly exported in ever larger quantities.With that in mind, I guess I could safely say that Manchego is probably the most misused of Spanish cheese names — because its Spain's most popular cheese and the Manchega sheep milk that must be used to make it somewhat limited, there's high incentive for less than scrupulous makers to fake it.

And while all this confusion is annoying (so many people who try it and aren't in love with it have never tasted a really good Manchego), we've recently gotten hooked up with a really good source for this cheese that can range so widely, from so-so to superbly special. What we've got on the counter right now is fitting squarely into the latter category. The beauty of it is that the animals are eating an exceptionally interesting and complex diet, grazing in the open pasture. And the result of that is that the milk that comes in from which to make the Manchego is far more interesting and complex. All of which is apparent in the flavor of the finished cheese. There are so many Manchegos out there on the market now and there are very wide ranges of flavor and texture. The quality of the milk and the make are of course the keys — poorly made it can be bland, or even barnyardy, texturally it can be a bit pasty. The Manchego from Dehesa de los Llanos, by contrast, scores high in both texture and flavor. It has a slight graininess on the tongue that I really like. Its flavor is lively, meaty, light but long in the finish, like a good cured ham almost; paired up with some really good Jamon Serrano it would be superb. This is a special cheese with a long-standing tradition behind it.
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Pa amb Oli with Fruit — Traditional Bread and Oil Combo from Majorca
This is just too perfect to pass up this time of year because there's so much great fruit coming into the market. And also because it's a great example of how the food of Spain takes simple, really good ingredients and combines them in accessible ways that we can all appreciate and prepare in not a lot of minutes.

Pa amb Oli is the Majorcan term for the bread and oil combo that most Americans have come to know by the Italian term "bruschetta" (that's pronounced "broo-sketta" with a hard "k"). Majorcans have literally dozens of different bread and oil recipes — with tomato, without tomato, ham, etc. The combination that really caught my attention though was the idea of eating bread and olive oil with fresh fruit. Although this pairing has become somewhat more obscure in modern times, it was apparently quite common in years past.

You can make Pa amb Oli with most any combination of bread, oil and apple variety you like. Personally I make it with either the Vea family's intensely flavored Les Costes oil, the softer but beautifully well rounded Olei Floris, or the interestingly delicious organic oil from the Abbaye de Quieles up in Navarre. All three are produced in Catalonia from Arbequina olives and carry that characteristic hint of green apple in their flavor that's ideal for this combination. In terms of the bread, Majorcans tend toward whole wheat so I recommend using the Bakehouse's Mountain Bread (Pain de Montagne) with its germ-restored flour, darker color and more intense flavor.

Once you've got the good ingredients, the dish itself could hardly be much simpler to make. Toast the bread, pour on a plenty of olive oil, sprinkle on a tad bit of coarse sea salt. Then just lay some nice slices of freshly cut apple, peach or pear or whatever you've got across the top. Strange as it may sound, the combination is really great. The sweetness of the fruit is an excellent foil for the savoriness of the oil and the bread, and the salt really does nice things to unlock all the flavors. So if you're looking for something easy but excellent to eat this fall, try out this old Majorcan flavor combination as an appetizer before dinner or as a snack at any time of the day, or better still for breakfast.
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Pa amb Tomaquet — Catalan "Tomato Toast"
If you go to most any restaurant in Barcelona, this is one of the first things you're going to be served. In some spots it will come by the platterful — piles of rose-colored, tomato-rubbed toast, redolent of garlic, topped with lots of golden green olive oil and a sprinkling of sea salt.

To make it, just cut thick slices of good country bread (say Farm, Rustic Italian or Pain de Montagne) and toast or grill them 'til they're lightly brown. Rub a cut clove of garlic along the surface of the bread. Cut a tomato in half and rub it right into the bread — the bread should absorb much of the tomato's juice. In their lust for the delicious flavor of this dish, some Spaniards dress both sides of the bread, so don't hold back. Pour on plenty of extra virgin olive oil, add a pinch of sea salt, and eat it while it's hot.

Since it is of Catalan origin, a Catalan oil (like the above mentioned , Quieles, Les Costes or Olei Floris) would give you the most authentic flavor. But of course, any great extra-virgin olive oil will be delicious. Pa amb Tomaquet can be topped with slices of Jamon Serrano (Spanish cured ham).

I like Pa amb Tomaqeut a LOT with anchovies. If you're entertaining you can use different colored tomatoes and serve slices of yellow, red and green tomatoes atop the toast too.
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Migas — Traditional Bread and Chorizo "Stew"
Migas is one of the best loved of family foods in Spain. This is one of those unknown elements of Spanish cooking, the sort of stuff that continually surprises me because even I forget about it. While Migas is probably totally over the edge for anyone on a low carb diet, if you like bread and olive oil as much as I do, then this is a dish you should very definitely try.

While there are hundreds of variations on this theme, the basic version of migas is really pretty simple. Some chorizo, bacon, onion and/or fresh garlic, plenty of old bread, some salt and a healthy dose of pimenton de la Vera (the smoky Spanish paprika). As you can tell from the ingredients, it's another one of those dishes of the poor — a way to take stale bread, flavor it with meat scraps, garlic and olive oil and turn it into a nice meal. In an American context, I guess you could say that a migas is like getting to eat a really good, spicy stuffing without having to roast a bird.

To make the migas, you should start a few hours ahead of time by slicing stale country bread (the Farm bread works well). Run the slices of bread quickly under water, squeeze a bit to dry them, then place them in a bowl to sit for three or four hours. When you're ready to start cooking, chop the onion and garlic and cook in plenty of olive oil 'til soft. Dice the chorizo and bacon and add to the pan. Stir well and cook for five minutes or so until the meats have given up some of their fat.

While the chorizo is cooking tear the bread into small pieces (about an inch across). Add the bread to the hot skillet and mix well. Be sure there's plenty of olive oil in the pan and that the pan stays fairly hot throughout. Continue to stir the bread so it gets coated with oil and the drippings from the bacon and chorizo. Sprinkle on a bit of salt and stir again. Then add some pimenton de la Vera. If you like things spicy, you can use the piquant version; if you prefer your food on the subtler side, stick to the sweet. Either way, the dose you use should season the bread cubes fairly liberally. Continue to stir the bread around the pan every few minutes so that it browns evenly on all sides. When the bread is browned the migas is ready to eat. The bread will have picked up the flavors of the meat, onions, and olive oil. A migas is typically served with fried eggs on the side. I like to put a bit of green salad out as well. It's great autumn eating — easy to make, great way to use up extra bread and it's sure to warm you up on a chilly evening.
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Picon Blue Cheese
I guess you could say that district where Cantabria and Asturias come together is to Spain what Roquefort is to France. It's the perfect environment — lots of rain to keep the pastures green, lots of pasture on which to graze cows, sheep and goats, mountains with craggy, rocky caves in which to mature the cheese.

There are three top-notch, traditional blue cheeses made in the area, each using essentially the same basic recipe, but each in its own, governmentally defined-district. Cabrales is the best known over here but Picon and, the third of trio, Valdeon can be excellent as well. I like all three but the Picon has, of late, been particularly good. Picon is produced around the village of the same name in the Liebana region of Cantabria on the north coast of Spain (up near the border with France).

There are fewer than a dozen producers left making the cheese. It's done with raw cows' milk, with, at times, the addition of some sheep and goat's milk. Unlike almost all modern-day blue cheeses, no mold is actually added to the milk — the bluing occurs naturally from mold spores circulating in the aging caves. Most of the makers don't pierce the cheese either (most blue cheese producers now do it to ensure more even blue veining). The survival of this ancient, all natural, "technique" led cheese master Mariano Sanz Pech to call Picon, "one of the 'last of the Mohicans' of the blue cheeses in the world." When it's ripe and ready, Picon has an enjoyable buttery texture, and a delicious, fruity flavor and finishes with a nice spicy nose. Goes great with fresh fruit and nuts of all sorts, on salads, on steak, melted on pasta or just smushed down on some warm Farm bread with a good glass of red wine.
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An Array of Anchovies
It's funny how many people don't like anchovies. I guess it's up there with goat cheese. So many people's first experience of these little fish was with being offered outstandingly BAD versions of them that they form their entire opinion from that understandably negative impression. I can't really blame them — there are a lot of bad anchovies out in the world. And it's safe to say the odds are exceedingly high that nearly every anchovy that the average American is likely to have had encountered wasn't a very good one.

There is of course a really big difference, a great deal of which is, not shockingly, about the quality of the raw fish. You don't have to be an expert to figure out that if you start with not very South American anchovies (rather than the far more highly prized ones from Cantabria or the Mediterranean, pay less than top of the market prices to get something subpar (because "no one will notice"), and aren't fanatical about freshness, the resulting anchovy just ain't gonna taste too good. Period.

Northern Spain, by contrast is one of the anchovy capitals of the world. I ate more good anchovies in a week during this trip than I probably have in any week of my anchovy-eating life. It didn't hurt that we got to spend a day with the Ortiz family, who are, pretty much without question, the kings of the anchovy world. The Ortiz family buys only spring anchovies — there is a fall season but the fish's fat is different and the cured anchovies don't taste as good. And they buy the best fish they can get on the docks — and go immediately from purchasing them early in the morning (anchovy fishing happens at night) . They're immediately gutted and put under salt. "It's very important to get them under salt the same day they leave the sea," I learned from Jacopo Múgica, the long time export manager. The anchovies are then cured in coarse salt for about six months. We get great anchovies from Ortiz in the form of fillets — we opt for what they call their "old-style" — skin left on and packed with parsley. And we also get the traditional whole anchovies still in coarse salt. While both are excellent the latter are still, to my taste, the best if you a few minutes to filet them (it's very easy!) — they're bigger fish and those tend to taste better.

The bad news of the season is that the renowned and much relished Cantabrian anchovies for which Ortiz is most famous aren't available this year. The stocks are very low and the government has banned their fishing til next year. To their credit the Ortiz family actively supports the ban, working as they have for so long to do the right thing for the long term. To keep their supplies going — and to keep supplying those of us who need our anchovy fix — they went to the Mediterranean coast town of L'Escala (the other big area for anchovies in Spain), bought an anchovy plant. The fish are different, as is the cure — the Cantabrian fish and a bit of difference in the curing style — the cure is longer in Cantabria. Together these factors combine to make the traditional Cantabrian anchovies a bit firmer and drier, the L'Escala-style Catalan fish slightly softer in texture and flavor. Both are very good. I've continued my high consumption in the months since I've been back, eating them as is with a bit of bread and some olives before the meal, on salads and pasta, or with fresh mozzarella.
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Rosemary Honey from Joan Piñol
There are probably 2200 reasons why we should never have had the chance to even try this honey, let alone have it here in Ann Arbor to enjoy every day. Joan Pinol is anything but a proactive marketing man, he speaks no English, and is at the age where retirement is probably on his about infinitely more than building an export business; his production is very small; barely seen in Spain, let alone all the way over here, his labels aren't fancy, and they're all in Catalan and Spanish — no pretty pictures, just nice lettering that probably dates back fifty years to when he got this all going. But fortunately for us, we have the honey. And if you're going to try one new honey this month, at the least get a taste of this one before you make your decision. It's pretty darned good stuff, most definitely one of my favorites!

I met Joan (pronounced "Zho-anh," the Catalan for Juan) Piñol nearly ten years ago through Jordi Ballbe from whom we get the Olei Floris olive oil from Catalunya. Joan is about forty years older than Jordi and I think they're from opposite ends of the Spanish social spectrum, but they're neighbors and share a high passion for traditional foods and full flavors.

Joan has been working with bees since he was fifteen, so I'm guessing that's for over 59 years. He learned from his mother's father who also kept bees. He only has three varieties — in Catalan (as per their labels) they're "Romaní, Flor de Taronger y Mil Flors," — rosemary, orange blossom and thousand flowers in English. At the end of March and the beginning of April Joan heads out from his home village of El Perrelló and takes his hives into the hillsides of Tarragona in southern Catalunya. The rosemary honey comes first each spring and that's the honey that he brought us to eat with the paella. In May, he goes south into the orange groves of Valencia, then in July up to the Pyrenees to collect the Thousand Flowers honey. I like them all but the Rosemary is my favorite by far.

Being allergic as I am to bee stings, I'm always a little wary of getting too close the insects even though I know they don't really tend to bother people who don't bother them. I remember though asking Joan if the bees ever bother him. I remember him smiling and saying (though translation), "I would sleep with the bees."

Ten years later, the honey is still amazingly good. Eating it by the spoonful is, for me, a great dessert that's hard to match for convenience and complexity of flavor. It's also great in that really delicious combination of olive oil and honey (see Zingerman's Guide to Good Eating for the recipe), on toast, or just about any other way you can imagine. It's got this incredible texture that's somewhere between flowing and crystalline — really velvety, really amazing, almost the texture of a nut butter. The flavor's very complex, with hints of almonds, a touch maybe of anise, a really little bit of pleasing bitterness. On hot buttered toast it would be pretty amazing. Or let me suggest you implement the "eat honey for a great fast food dessert" campaign and have a spoonful or two right out of the jar after dinner. And, of course, with Rosh Hashanah on the horizon, this is an ideal way to start the New Year off on the right, very sweet and flavorful foot, by serving your guests some of Joan's honey along with heirloom apples from the Farmer's Market.
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