‘Come, come.’  I stared doubtfully across the table at the robust red headed woman with green eyes and round, determined features.  Even with my precarious grasp of the Spanish language I understood her words, uttered midway between an injunction and a threat.

Eva reached out a long, suntanned arm and picked a small, purple-black orb from the plate and popped it in her mouth. ‘Come,’ she urged in a voice muffled by the mastication of olive flesh, echoing her mother’s threat, ‘son buenissssimas.’ The s in buenisimas seemed to go on and on and on.

I was 16 and newly arrived in Granada, in the heart of dusty Andalucia. I was to spend three weeks with a Spanish family, ostensibly to extend my cultural and linguistic education. In celebration of my arrival, or perhaps to break the ice with this odd American, mama and papa herded me along with their four teenager children to a tapas bar. We sat down, papa fired heavy southern Castillano to a waiter, and soon the table was laden with plates of shellfish, montaditos, and olives.

I had tried olives only once before at a young, impressionable age.  Expecting something along the lines of a grape, I’d been disgusted and violently spat the offending object from my mouth, vowing never to be duped again.

But here I was, dazed, jet lagged, and overcome by a profound shyness impounded by a near total incomprehension of the language. I crumbled, politeness triumphing over aversion I reached for the smallest olive on the plate and took a tentative bite. Pungent, intensely aromatic and delicately fruity it flooded my senses.  I took another, daring this time to go for a large, pump green specimen.  This one was entirely different, dense and meaty with a bright, citrus tang. After a pause, so as not to seem greedy, I reached for a third; I was hooked. It was the beginning of an obsession. 

 

Fresh Mantequilla olives

 

Spain is the world’s most prolific producer of table olives. Generating over 500,000 tons in 2008, it far outstripped other large producers such as Turkey, Syria, and Morocco. Olives contain a bitter compound called oleuropein which makes them inedible when plucked from the tree. First they must be treated with an alkaline solution and then brined, fermenting and transforming the fruit’s sugars into lactic acid.  The specifics of this practice vary greatly depending on the variety of olive, the region, and ripeness of the fruit when picked.

There are over 300 varieties—far too many to list here. This guide, however, covers the most common and popular varieties of table olives. From tiny, fruity Arbequinas to jumbo, meaty Gordals, Spain is home to a wonderful assortment of olives. Whether green or black, the olive variety and region has a great influence on the flavor of the final product.  

We have a wide array of olives at The Spanish Table, from juicy Gordals and aromatic Arbequinas to smoky Empeltres from Aragón. Not limited to the Iberian Peninsula, we have some choice offerings from Morocco and Greece as well. Here is just a sampling of what we have:

• Arbequina olives
• Basque mix with peppers
• Black oil-cured olives
• Cuquillo olives
• Farga Aragon black olives
• Gordal or ‘queen’ olives
• Green manzanilla olives stuffed with anchovy, boqueron, tuna, manchego, piquillo, or lemon
• Herb-brined mixed olives
• Mantequilla or ‘butter’ olives, fresh
• Manzanilla olives
• Mixed olives packed on olive oil with pickles, caperberries, and red pepper

- Rachel Adams

Introducing Sole Clavería and Sole Sips

Soledad Claveria

Soledad, or Sole for short, is a Chilean wine maker and a new face here at The Spanish Table. We are excited to have her vinicultural expertise and knowledge of the wine making process from the ground up. She will be contributing to this blog in a weekly column entitled Sole Sips. Here she will discuss various wines, giving us  information on the region and winery, varietals and vinification, and of course her tasting notes!

Pssst…..we have raw Ibérico de Bellota!

If you are a hispanophile, a foodie, or both, chances are you’ve tasted the delights of jamón Ibérico, dry cured ham from the famed Iberian or “Black Foot” pig. Rich and succulent, with a distinct sweet-nutty flavor and melt-in-the-mouth texture, jamón Ibérico is an outstanding cured meat. And while we have a gorgeous array of cured Ibérico products for you to choose from, we’re thrilled to announce the arrival of raw Fermin Ibérico de Bellota at The Spanish Table. For a birthday, holiday or any other special occasion meal our cuts of Pluma or Secreto provide a superb centerpiece for your feast.

About the Ibérico pig
Descended from the wild boar that roamed the forests of the Mediterranean for thousands of years, the Iberian pig is still a free-ranging animal. It has black, bristly hair, strong yet spindly legs, a pointed snout, and short, meaty neck. The pig’s distinctive, dark colored hooves give it the nickname pata negra or ‘black foot’.

Traditionally all Ibérico pigs fed of a woodland diet of acorns, grasses, herbs, and roots. Today there are several grades of meat dependent on the pig’s diet.  The two main types are Ibérico, fed on a modern diet of grain, and Ibérico de Bellota.  The latter are free-ranging and consume a traditional mixed woodland diet. During the last few weeks before slaughter, they are fed solely on acorns, lending the finished meat a sublime flavor and texture.

Pluma
Taken from the shoulder section of the loin, this cut is even more sought-after than loin itself. Pluma means ‘feather’ in Spanish and this cut is named for its feather-like shape and diminutive size.  The meat stands out for tenderness, juiciness and flavor. We sell it by the piece, ranging in size from ¾ to 1 ¼ pounds each. 

Secreto
Hidden between the shoulder, ribs, and fatback, secreto means “secret” in Spanish and gives this cut its name. To extract this piece requires precise butchering in order to keep the perfect amount of fat intact. Small and highly grained, this piece offers outstanding flavor and melt-in-your mouth texture. We sell it by the piece, ranging from ½ to 1 ½ pounds each. 

Pasta from scratch

Here’s a basic egg pasta recipe, adapted from the fine, absorbing tome Pasta Classica, by Julia Della Croce. I have given directions for rolling and cutting using a machine. It is possible to complete the whole process by hand, equipped only with rolling pin and knife, but my congenital indolence protests such a laborious endeavor. 

Ingredients:

4 cup unbleached white flour
6 medium or 5 extra large eggs
1/4 teaspoon salt
1 tablespoon olive oil 

Preparation:

1. Secure your machine to a counter or table top. Choose a surface where you’ll have as much space as possible to toss sheets of dough about. 

2. Have a large knife ready, along with a sieve and a damp dish towel. Also, keep a bag of flour on hand to add to the dough if necessary.`

3. Next, decide where you’re going to hang the pasta, either to dry it completely before storing, or simply while you’re rolling and cutting the remaining dough. This is where you may need to get creative. I like to use my indoor clothes horse as a drying rack, it works perfectly!

Pasta on the clothes horse, ready to be cut into fettuccine.

The Dough:

1. Measure the flour and salt onto the work surface, forming a little heap. Make a well in the center. Crack the eggs into the well and then add the olive oil and salt. Mix the ingredients in the well with the fingers of one hand, very gradually incorporating flour from the sides of the well. Use the other hand to support the outer sides of the flour “wall” where necessary to prevent the egg mixture from running out. Think of it as a sand castle reservoir. As the mixture becomes thicker, it will stop attempting escape and you can begin kneading it more freely with your hands. 

2. When you have a ball of dough, scrape the work surface clean of the remaining flour and crusty bits. Remove these to a sieve and then sift the flour back onto the counter. Knead you dough for five to ten minutes, adding more flour if necessary, until it forms a soft but not sticky dough. Cut the ball into four pieces and cover three of these with a damp cloth. 

Rolling and Cutting:

1. Set your machine’s rolling wheel on the widest setting. Press the chunk of dough flat with your hand and thread it through the rollers with one hand while cranking the lever with the other. Fold the dough in thirds, like a letter, and roll it through again. Repeat this process several more times, ending with a smooth oblong of dough.

2. Move the rollers to the next setting (slightly slimmer) and pass the dough through. Repeat the process, each time moving to a progressively finer setting. The dough will become thin and long. Stop when you get to the desired width. For the minimalist adornments that sing so sweetly on fresh pasta, I like to roll it as thin as possible.

3. Finally, cut the dough into appropriate lengths (unless you want to be really eye-catching go wild with exuberantly long strands of fettuccini). Pass each section through the cutters, letting the pasta fall across your hand as it emerges. Lay it on your drying rack. Repeat this rolling and cutting process with the remaining balls of dough. 

Boiling and eating:

1. Bring a large pot of water to the boil with a good pinch of salt. Plunge your soft pasta into the water and boil for fifteen seconds. Taste; it will probably be ready. Drain it, although not too thoroughly; leave a hint of water in the pot. Then go wild with whatever additions you like. How about a sprinkle of coarse salt and freshly ground pepper? Some of those new asparagus, a lavish drizzling of olive oil, and a few shaves of of Manchego? Simplicity really shines with this stuff. 

Lamb chops and Alconte

On the eve of our most voluptuous meal of the year might be an inauspicious moment to reflect on the pleasures of gastronomic simplicity. And yet, as much as I await this momentous feast, I know that as soon as the sun has set tomorrow I’ll be yearning of pared down, minimalist—one might say naked—cuisine.

Now autumn is descending into winter and the holidays are just around the corner, so by ‘naked food’ I do not mean to embark on a diet of lettuce. What I have in mind is good, earthy cold weather cooking. One of my favorite meals that falls into this category is a simple enough to prepare after a day’s work yet elegant enough for the finest of guests: a dinner of lamb loin chops, rosemary roast potatoes, something green and leafy, and a choice bottle of Ribera del Duero.

Reds from this region are particularly suited to lamb, which is raised in abundance on the rocky, ancient terrain. Although the formation of the Ribera del Duero denominación de origen took place in 1982, winemaking in this region dates back over 2,000 years to the Roman era, as evidenced by a recent discovery of a 66-meter mosaic of Bacchus, the god of wine, unearthed at Baños de Valdearados.  In the middle ages, new plantings by monasteries such as the Cistercians in Valbuena de Duero and the Benedictines from Cluny in Burgundy spurred a revival in local winemaking.  Ribera’s earliest underground cellars with their distinctive chimneys were built in the thirteenth century in towns across the region, and still serve to protect wines from the extreme climate.

Last week I made the aforementioned meal.  Outside it was inky dark by five o’clock and the rain battered against the windows with uncharacteristic ferocity. I popped a pan of potatoes in the oven, seasoned the lamb chops, and sunk into the sofa. There was little else to do but uncork a bottle and wait.

I chose a bottle of Alconte 2007 one of my current Ribera obsessions made by Viñedos Montecastro, a landmark project founded in 2001 by a group of Madrid professionals led by prominent publisher Alfonso de Salas, the Marqués de Montecastro y Llanahermosa. Modeled after the finest examples produced in the region, Montecastro has succeeded from its first vintages in creating wines unsurpassed for authenticity and breed.

First priority was the acquisition and planting of 55 acres in the heart of Ribera del Duero at high altitude and on poor, chalky/stony soils. Meanwhile, a small group of growers located in various sub-regions was carefully selected and placed under long-term contract. The mature plots range from 8 to 100 years old and are subjected to severe yield restriction. Vines are planted in a range of five distinct soil types at elevations varying from 2150 to 3500 feet, resulting in a multifaceted harvest essential for coaxing maximum complexity from mono-varietal Tempranillo. In each vintage up to 21 distinct terroirs are fermented and aged separately, allowing for an assemblage that achieves richness with subtlety.

The modern bodega emulates the traditional chimney (zarcera) feature of the area’s medieval subterranean cellars, serving the dual purpose of providing natural aeration and daylight illumination. Grape clusters are received in small crates and sorted before being transported whole on belts for stemming and crushing at the top of each of the temperature-controlled, epoxy-lined cement fermenters, avoiding pumping of the must.

Natural fermentation and skin contact according to vintage are followed by spontaneous malolactic and aging in 50% new and 50% second-year oak barrels, of which 70% are of French origin, 25% American and 5% Eastern European.

I sipped the result of all this labor. It was big and round with gorgeous velvet smoke, dark cherries, hints of vanilla and raspberries, dark spices, medium tannins and a lingering finish. At $22.00 it is an exquisite steal.

Classic Chestnut Stuffing

This classic chestnut stuffing is cooked inside the turkey. Although there are many proponents of cooking the stuffing outside the bird, which makes it technically a ‘dressing,’ this meat-rich mixture lends itself to the old school method of cooking within the cavity. As it roasts, the juices of the bird enrich the stuffing, while the stuffing infuses the turkey with aromatic depth. The result is utterly divine. Just remember that a stuffed bird cooks more slowly than an one without stuffing.

This recipe, adapted from 18^th century English food writer Hannah Glasse, makes enough stuffing for a 12-14 pound turkey.

Ingredients:
1 lb vacuum packed peeled chestnuts
1 large onion, finely chopped
4 oz thick cut bacon, finely diced
liver from the turkey, finely chopped
1 oz butter
4 tbsp fresh parsley, chopped
1 tbsp fresh thyme, chopped
¼ tsp ground mace
8 oz ground pork sausage meat
salt and pepper

Method:
1. Melt the butter in a large frying pan and cook the onion, bacon, and chopped turkey liver for about 10 minutes, until the onion looks transparent and everything is turning gold.
2. Tip the contents of pan into a large mixing bowl and add all remaining ingredients. Season with salt and pepper and mix well.

For the love of Almonds

Strange, is it not, that so many countries have a national flower or tree as well as a national animal.  By default, each country is also branded with a national dish (which in turn leads to some rather undignified national nicknames; one need only mention sauerkraut, frog legs, or big macs to evoke some wonderfully unfortunate stereotypes).  But here is my question: why do we not celebrate a national nut? Clearly there are some obvious choices: pistachios are ubiquitous in Turkish cuisine and in America we have long been in love with the peanut. If Spain were to enthrone a national nut there would be not competition. It is the almond.

Spanish almonds are gorgeous – fatter and more luscious than American almonds, the best are Valencia and Marcona almonds. They need little adornment, simply roasted, salted, and served straight up, they are the perfect accompaniment to olives or a glass of sherry. Although almonds feature in many savory dishes, they really shine as the base to a multitude of Spanish sweets. Swirled into chocolate, pulverized into a paste for marzipan, or baked into the famous  Santiago almond cake, this nut is everywhere. However, Spain’s most beloved almond sweetmeat is probably turrón.

This iconic Spanish candy has Arabic origins. Moors introduced almonds to Spain, and along with them a tradition of nut-based sweets, such as halvah and marzipan. In fact, the main ingredients in turrón – almonds and honey – are the base for
many Arabic desserts and candies. As the tradition of turrón grew in Spain, two distinct styles emerged that we find today:

Turrón Jjona (“turrón blando“) –  Also known as “soft turrón.” From its groves of almond trees to its mountain wildflowers buzzing with honeybees, the small town of Jijona gives its all to the production of turrón. This rich, dense bar of ground almonds, sugar, honey and egg white is very much like an almond halvah. Slice it into bite-size pieces.

Turrón Alicante (“turrón duro“) – Known as “hard turrón”, the Alicante style is also made of sugar, honey, egg white and almonds, but the almonds are left whole and the mixture is cooked to the brittle stage. Very hard and crunchy, Alicante doesn’t slice – whack it with a big knife and eat the shards.

Turrón Yema - This is rather like turrón Jijona crossed with marzipan. The addition of egg yolks gives these golden bars the texture of a rich almond pastry. Yema tastes especially good with a cup of coffee.

And then there’s chocolate turrón, the product of further edible history. From Mexico to Europe and back again, all the world loves chocolate.

We have several brands of turrón including a whole range of textures and flavors from classic turrón makers Delaviuda and El almendo. Here’s a taste to tempt your sweet tooth: From Delaviuda we have turrón blando and yema tostada as well as chocolate pralines, chocolate covered marzipan, wafer thin almond cookies, butter crisps, truffles, and much more.

Delaviuda turron

From El Almendro we have turrón crujiente and blando as well as chocolate covered crunchy almond cookies, and flavored turrón including chocolate and caramel almond.

El Almendro turron

Anchoas

The anchovy has pride of place at the Spanish table. In America we tend to shy away from these oily little fish, as much as we love whisking them into sauces and burying them in a cheesy pizza. Across the Atlantic, however, anchovies are preserved in olive oil and served whole as the centerpiece in a variety of appetizers, tapas, and light meals, or they are bundled up and tucked into green olives, my favorite method of consumption. They are eaten cold in order to coax out the glorious ocean depth of their flavor. By the same token, they are rarely cooked since heat tends to bring out that forceful, unpleasant bite that makes so many people cringe at the mere mention of anchovies.

Most common in the north of Spain where they thrive in the cooler waters of the Atlantic, anchovies are often served atop pan con tomate. A thick slice of golden toast is layered with tomato, salsa escalivada – a sauce of eggplant and roasted bell peppers – and then topped with whole anchovies.  Another typical dish is an appetizer of anchovies and olives dressed with salsa l’espinaler, a simple sauce of vinegar, red pepper, and spices.

Anchoas are not to be confused with boquerones or ‘white anchovies.’ The latter have a far milder flavor and are generally fried or preserved in vinegar and eaten, pincho style, atop a round of bread.

We have a wide range of anchovies at The Spanish Table. I haven’t yet waded through all the brands, but according to the very knowledgeable Merecedes, our Catalonian in residence, Ortiz makes the finest anchovies of all. But there’s no need to take her word for it; come in and try some for yourself!

 

Pumpkin a la Española

Sometimes we cook with intention – pouring over recipes, shopping for obscure ingredients, carefully preparing the dish, and triumphantly serving it to a table of effusively complimentary dinner guests. But let’s face it, these occasions are rare. In my house, the majority of our meals are haphazard, scrounged together from whatever lies in the fridge and is in imminent danger of wilting or spoilage. If those carrots are beginning to lose their crispness, I’ll grate them into a carrot salad flecked with raisins and walnuts and slick with olive oil, lemon, and honey.  If that zucchini loses its luster, I’ll throw it into a frittata with a handful of sweet corn from the freezer and that last nub of craggy parmesan lurking in the depths of the fridge. Unglamorous perhaps, but the result is generally warm, tasty, and sustaining.

Occasionally, these haphazard dinners have truly gratifying results.  Yesterday my fridge was bare save for an aged pumpkin, a little chorizo, and a wedge of Manchego.  I also had a bag of paella rice in the cupboard. Hmmm, what to do? In no mood for culinary finesse, I simply stuffed the cheese, meat and rice into the pumpkin with a clove of chopped garlic, added some chicken stock, and shoved it into the oven.  Ya esta!

The pumpkin came out of oven soft, plum, and golden as a setting sun, brimming with a mélange of flavor-rich rice, melty cheese, and chunks of toothsome chorizo. Although it cannot claim any Spanish origins, I christened this dish ‘pumpkin a la Española’ in honor of its main ingredients.

Ingredients:
1 small pumpkin, about 3 lbs.
1 3oz. semi-cured chorizo sausage (such as Bilbao or Riojano), chopped into bite-sized discs
¼ lb Manchego, grated
½ cup bomba or other paella rice
1 garlic clove, finely chopped
1-1 ½ cups chicken stock (1 ½ cups if using bomba rice, 1 cup for other paella rice)

Method:
1. Preheat oven to 375F. Cut around the stem of the pumpkin and remove. Scrape out stringy center and seeds.
2. In a bowl, mix the rice, chorizo, Manchego, and garlic. Stuff into center of pumpkin, no more than 2/3 full.
3. Heat the stock to boiling and pour into center of pumpkin. Mix into contents with a spoon.
4. Replace lid and bake pumpkin until flesh it tender and rice is cooked, about 2 hours.

- Rachel Adams

The secret life of saffron

Saffron – a spice as fine as a thread of silk and worth more than its weight in gold. The high price of this spice becomes understandable when you realize the intense labor that is required to harvest it. Those delicate sienna colored filaments are the stigmas of the Crocus sativus, also known as the saffron crocus.  Each thread must be carefully removed by hand and an amazing 150 flowers are required to produce one gram of dried saffron. Originating in Southwest Asia, saffron traveled westwards and north to become the prized spice it is today in Spanish cuisine.

Apart from imparting that gorgeous burnished orange hue to paellas, stews, seafood soups and more, saffron lends each of these dishes a warm, complex flavor that, in winter, always tugs me back to the soporific warmth of a sundried meadow.

People often walk into The Spanish Table, sniff the air reflectively, and comment that the whole stores smells of saffron. Indeed, we have a great supply of this edible gold – enough in fact to see us through a nuclear war. One must stock up on essentials.

Given its high price, there is a lot of fraudulent saffron on the market. Many countries to not have sufficient standards, allowing substitutes and fillers to be exported to the US and sold as ‘saffron.’ So it is important to know the origin of the saffron you purchase. If the price seems too good to be true it probably is. In Spain, however, the government rigorously tests saffron to be certain it is authentic. And at The Spanish Table we only sell high quality, genuine Spanish saffron.

We have three sizes on offer: 1 gram, 2 gram, or 4 gram. In terms of how many crocuses required, that’s 150, 200, or 600 flowers worth in each jar! Although not a cheap purchase, a little saffron goes a very long way; a tiny pinch of threads is sufficient for a family sized dish. Also, this spice has a shelf life of at least two years, considerably longer if you store it in a cool, dark, and dry place.

- Rachel Adams