Monday, May 20, 2013
A cocido comeback, finally
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Sunday, May 5, 2013
You know you're in Murcia when...
 |
| Locals get their kicks by serving paparajote to out-of-towners, and watching them try to eat the sugary fried dough without taking the lemon leaf out first |
Thursday, May 2, 2013
You know you're in Murcia when..
 |
| You go to a seafood restaurant and walk by this on the way to your table |
Monday, April 29, 2013
B.Y.O.S.
With everything from salt cod to patterned pantyhose on offer, El Palmar's outdoor market is set up and ready for business every Tuesday morning. The nearby town of La Alberca hosts theirs on Mondays, but the locals don't have to wait all week for access to a wide range of vendors in one place. Their indoor mercado, a single level brick building with a decidedly institutional appearance, is open almost every day. Butchers, fishmongers and bakers, purveyors of produce, olives and tinned seafood each have their own established space and it isn't orderly lines but clusters of Murcianos who gather around the most popular stalls.
After realizing that the saffron in our cupboard had a "best by" date of 2004 I had plans to restock, and already in La Alberca for a weekend English class I headed to the mercado to visit one of the spice sellers. The vendor inside shook out a tablespoon of red threads onto a heavy piece of paper and talked up her selection as she folded the edges neatly and secured each with a staple. Although inviting, I declined a scoop from her big jar of powdered orange food coloring, an ingredient many folks here have told me is indispensable for cocido and paella. Unlike saffron, Yolanda had an ample supply of colorante on hand to give those dishes the same golden shade she grew up with.
I tucked the paper packet into my bag and turned to head home, having shelled out a fair portion of my 5€ that day on the contents, but peering around the corner I saw a hoard of people gathered around the cantina in the mercado´s back corner. Counting out my change it appeared that a little glass of beer and a marinera were still within my budget. The opportunity to commemorate my first saffron purchase on the peninsula and rationalize spending at the same time was too tempting to pass up.
Murcianos love their cafe con leche just like other Spaniards, but they're particularly fond of a drink called the Asiatico which was created in the nearby city of Cartagena about 65 years ago. Made with coffee, condensed milk, cognac and cinnamon (and sometimes embellished with Licor 43 and lemon zest), legend has it that the drink has its origins with local fisherman who stretched poor quality coffee with sugar, fat, alcohol and spice to keep them warm out at sea. Others say the proprietor of a popular local bar just wanted to come up with something new and exciting for his clientele. Either way it's a staple in Murcian cafeterías, and the one near the mercado is known for proudly using what some might call an inordinate amount of time to prepare each one. Our barista was a little rough around the edges and her conspicuously revealing top was a touch jarring in the fluorescent lights. But even with one hand on her hip she maintained a look of complete concentration as she carefully flamed the cognac and wielded the squeeze bottle of leche condensada like a natural extension of her arm.
After realizing that the saffron in our cupboard had a "best by" date of 2004 I had plans to restock, and already in La Alberca for a weekend English class I headed to the mercado to visit one of the spice sellers. The vendor inside shook out a tablespoon of red threads onto a heavy piece of paper and talked up her selection as she folded the edges neatly and secured each with a staple. Although inviting, I declined a scoop from her big jar of powdered orange food coloring, an ingredient many folks here have told me is indispensable for cocido and paella. Unlike saffron, Yolanda had an ample supply of colorante on hand to give those dishes the same golden shade she grew up with.
I nudged my way into a small space next to the register and reached into my bag for a Murcian cookbook now overdue from the library. People snacking on potato chips and bowls of Spanish-style nut mix (which here, incidentally, is the only style available) were grouped all throughout the hall. There was lots of laughter, kissing of cheeks, slapping of backs and a general sense of merriment. The scene had all the convivial trappings of a block party with none of the annual blowout feel. This wasn't a planned event. This was just what happened on Saturdays.
I realized people weren't only sitting around bar tables. Many had brought their own. They had also brought lawn chairs, bags filled with fresh fava beans, plastic containers loaded with sweets and an impressive quantity of Fanta. My hands were still flipping through the cookbook but I hadn't read a thing since sitting down. Instead, I realized I was staring, and that I had stained the first few pages with anchovy oil thumbprints. I turned back to the section on the region´s famous agriculture but my attention quickly turned to the patrons and staff reaching across the counter to my right, to my left and over my head.
Seeing empty ice buckets being turned in, replenished with typical Spanish half-sized beers and doled out was expected, but then I noticed customers were also handing over bags of just-purchased seafood to the woman behind the bar. After scrawling on a name in thick black marker she would set them down next to the grill cook before picking up another set of dishes to distribute. As I finished off my beer I saw a man and woman leaving one of the fishmonger stalls and walking my way with a bag of their own.
With a longing for fruits of the sea I resolved to recruit a friend to come back the following week and started packing up my things. I was backing out of my choice spot at the bar when the woman, who had squeezed in beside me, asked what I was reading. When she realized there was an English speaker in her midst, and one interested in her native Murcian cuisine, she broke into a wide, nose-crinkling smile and introduced me to her companion who was a good foot taller than her and at least three shades more pale. He was from the Basque Country and both were eager to practice their foreign language conversational skills. In a mixture of Spanish and English they asked how an American girl had found herself in such a little-known region of the country and slid their plate of freshly griddled shrimp towards me as I explained.
Conditioned to politely decline generous offers of food on the first pass my refraining reflex kicked in, but they waved it off with hardly an acknowledgement. This wouldn't be the like the cordial date night dance that takes place against the backdrop of stereotypical gender roles: girl makes token reach for purse, boy insists on paying, brief back and forth ensues, boy foots the bill as both knew he would from the start. It wasn´t that they were offering to share. The sharing was a given, no gracious tug-of-war needed.
Soon there was a pile of prawn heads on the floor, a half empty napkin container on the counter and another round of beers on their way. Plus a dish of clams. And then a bowl of mussels. Over the pile of shells the Basque man recounted his journey to Murcia, when he ventured South in pursuit of a girl. They broke things off soon after his arrival but he decided he had left his region for good. Whereas the North is known for its rainy weather, here schoolchildren routinely forget storm-related English vocab because they're so conditioned to seeing the sun. And while Pais Vasco certainly has access to fantastic fish, their cantinas don't typically let their customers do the picking. Between Murcia's favorable temperatures and bring your own seafood norms, he had all the compelling reasons he needed to stay.
We finished up the last of our bivalves and the pair herded me directly to the other mercado bar, owned by a friend of theirs. There was no griddle, less commotion and a huge silver basin filled with ice and bottles of red wine. Along with the Jumilla came pieces of bread layered with a sort of spicy, spreadable chorizo and topped with fried quail eggs. When our empty plate was quickly exchanged for one of non-specific, somewhat cured sheep's milk cheese, the Basque man asked if I knew how the tradition of bodegas serving queso with their drinks evolved. Cheese makes bad wine taste better, so I should be wary of anyone who dishes it out too eagerly he told me, being sure to raise his voice enough to catch the bartender's attention and get in a good-natured heckle for the day. Once we finished off the bottle the Murciana reapplied her lipstick and slipped on her coat in what I thought was a signal we were about to part ways. But of course not. It was time for coffee.
I realized people weren't only sitting around bar tables. Many had brought their own. They had also brought lawn chairs, bags filled with fresh fava beans, plastic containers loaded with sweets and an impressive quantity of Fanta. My hands were still flipping through the cookbook but I hadn't read a thing since sitting down. Instead, I realized I was staring, and that I had stained the first few pages with anchovy oil thumbprints. I turned back to the section on the region´s famous agriculture but my attention quickly turned to the patrons and staff reaching across the counter to my right, to my left and over my head.
With a longing for fruits of the sea I resolved to recruit a friend to come back the following week and started packing up my things. I was backing out of my choice spot at the bar when the woman, who had squeezed in beside me, asked what I was reading. When she realized there was an English speaker in her midst, and one interested in her native Murcian cuisine, she broke into a wide, nose-crinkling smile and introduced me to her companion who was a good foot taller than her and at least three shades more pale. He was from the Basque Country and both were eager to practice their foreign language conversational skills. In a mixture of Spanish and English they asked how an American girl had found herself in such a little-known region of the country and slid their plate of freshly griddled shrimp towards me as I explained.
Conditioned to politely decline generous offers of food on the first pass my refraining reflex kicked in, but they waved it off with hardly an acknowledgement. This wouldn't be the like the cordial date night dance that takes place against the backdrop of stereotypical gender roles: girl makes token reach for purse, boy insists on paying, brief back and forth ensues, boy foots the bill as both knew he would from the start. It wasn´t that they were offering to share. The sharing was a given, no gracious tug-of-war needed.
Soon there was a pile of prawn heads on the floor, a half empty napkin container on the counter and another round of beers on their way. Plus a dish of clams. And then a bowl of mussels. Over the pile of shells the Basque man recounted his journey to Murcia, when he ventured South in pursuit of a girl. They broke things off soon after his arrival but he decided he had left his region for good. Whereas the North is known for its rainy weather, here schoolchildren routinely forget storm-related English vocab because they're so conditioned to seeing the sun. And while Pais Vasco certainly has access to fantastic fish, their cantinas don't typically let their customers do the picking. Between Murcia's favorable temperatures and bring your own seafood norms, he had all the compelling reasons he needed to stay.
In Sicily, espresso marks the end of a meal, but in Spain coffee is often the prelude to another round. After our Asiaticos the Murciana led us to her favorite confitería, lined with cases displaying all the good that can come from separating eggs, adding sugar and introducing a whisk. My eyes zeroed in on the rows of miniature flan and billowy meringues but I handed the selection over to the native. She picked out chocolate bon bons and small squares of Spanish cheesecake and the woman behind the counter lined them up neatly on a glossy gold paper tray. We reduced the lot to a scattering of foil wrappers and concluded our lunch, well past sunset.
"Well, American girl," The Basque said, "now it's time to leave, but we can always meet in La Alberca's mercado. You should know, it is my debility." Reclining in an oversized sofa feeling full, tired and happy I clearly had a new weakness too.
"Well, American girl," The Basque said, "now it's time to leave, but we can always meet in La Alberca's mercado. You should know, it is my debility." Reclining in an oversized sofa feeling full, tired and happy I clearly had a new weakness too.
Friday, April 26, 2013
Sunday, April 21, 2013
You know you're in Spain when...
 |
| After wrapping up an English class your student gives you a pop quiz in Spanish confections, and when you fail he insists you learn your lesson with these |
Monday, April 15, 2013
You know you're in Murcia when...
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| You set off on a walk, get 2 minutes from home and stumble upon a flock of these |
Saturday, April 13, 2013
You know you're in Andalucía when...
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| The seder meal kicks off with Sephardi-style matzo ball soup and the four symbolic cups of wine are poured into Moroccan tea glasses |
Wednesday, April 10, 2013
Cocido con Pelotas,
or when the whole is less
than the sum of its parts
Two months after my initial attempt at a Spanish stew called cocido the right conditions lined up and I was ready to try again. Cocido has variations all over the peninsula and the classic version here in Murcia is made with oversized meatballs, especially around Christmas time. We were well past the holidays but Yolanda had family coming into town from Castilla-La Mancha and surely that was cause enough for celebration. After hours on the road they showed up bearing their region's famous Manchego and bags full of typical olive oil cookies from Ciudad Real. I decided the only way to reciprocate was through proudly presenting them with a local specialty of our own, pelotas and all.
Back in December I had accidentally boiled off all the broth from my first batch of cocido. Never having tasted the dish before I wasn't exactly sure what I was going for, but I knew that wasn´t it. Several weeks later I was introduced to a proper rendition at my friend Marina´s house and effectively dropped out of lunchtime conversation in order to concentrate on a second helping. The recipe she talked me through challenged everything I'd ever learned about building flavor. No onions, no garlic, no development of nicely browned bits at the bottom of the pot. And certainly no deglazing. When she showed me the stew was made with a ham bone and a solid block of serrano the size of a playing card and the height of two full decks, I understood why.
Marina´s dish gave me a reference point but it was a quick pressure cooker cocido she learned from her mother in Sevilla, sans meatballs. A perfect dish for Yolanda and I on a cold weekday afternoon. But with guests to feed I had the chance to bring the full-blown version into my repertoire and for that I turned to the definitive Murcian cookbook-La Cocina Murciana. I picked it up from the library soon after arriving in town and had heard it referenced by Murciano men and women across three different generations. If I was searching for a guide to all the authentic bells and whistles, this had to be it.
I strode purposefully to the weekly market and the first stop furthered my conviction that I was on the right track. The recipe called for thistle as an optional add-in to enrich the cocido and I asked my go-to onion and garlic vendor for the biggest one she had. The woman next to me must have seen I was examining the leaves because she leaned over to explain they weren´t actually what I was after. Once I had trimmed them all away I was to slough off the stalk´s green outer layer with a handful of sea salt, chop up the tender white interior and add it to my stew along with the green beans but, of course, before the potatoes. If I followed those steps, she told me, I´d have a fine cocido without a doubt.
Feeling I was well on my way I walked to Isidro´s charcutería stand for what would be the most crucial component of all. But as I stood in line and scanned the ingredient list once more I noticed there wasn´t actually a single reference to hueso de jamón. The realization left me at a loss but in the midst of the busy market I don't think anyone noticed the American girl bearing the blank expression of a codfish in mid-breath. With the image of the ham hunks in Marina´s stew so central in my mind, I had overlooked the recipe´s call for a veal knuckle instead. In addition to coming from two very different animals these bones are separated by an even more fundamental divide. Huesos from legs of jamón are ringed with cured meat while those from veal are fresh. Up against such a seasoned heavyweight, young cattle bones seemed like a weak act from amateur hour. The cocido´s flavor, or lack thereof, rested squarely on which one I chose.
When I first got to the booth I had pulled a number in the 40´s and customers with pink paper tabs in the 30´s were currently being served. Generally being close to the front of the line is considered a positive but I was trying to reconcile the advice of real live Sevillana with instructions from a book that had remained the authority on Murcian cooking for decades. Marina was at work and I didn't think my bone query could be deemed a legitimate emergency, although looking down I realized I had almost crumpled my "#46" to pieces. So, I did the next best thing-I asked the woman next to me. With a comforting pat on my arm she said I'd have to head to the carnicería for the veal knuckle, which was fine if I didn't mind another stop. If not, I could use a ham bone and be alright too. I thanked her profusely, just glad to have some additional counsel, but as she walked away with her bag of boquerones and dried sausage I realized she hadn't actually told me anything I didn't already know.
And with that, Isidro was ready to take my order. He asked if I wanted my usual, but I told him today was no ordinary day. I was making cocido, with pelotas, for six! He smiled big and chuckled, calling out a few of my favorite Spanish exclamations melding surprise and encouragement. I suppose it would be like a Murcian girl showing up to her favorite boardwalk vendor on Mackinac Island and proclaiming she was about to try her hand at a big batch of homemade fudge. Spurred on by the approving nods of fellow shoppers who had overheard me, I decided there was no contest. My cookbook might have recommended a veal bone but a fine hueso de jamón spoke for itself. Beyond that I needed almost half a dozen other cured meats and as Isidro packed things up he assured me my cocido was destined for success. Playing to the huddle of customers nearby he gestured grandly to the selection in his booth and said that as long as I started with the highest quality ingredients I couldn´t go wrong. The peanut gallery chimed in with "si, si, claro, claro!" and I headed off feeling that crisis had been averted.
Surely I had made the right decision. From a firm €5 a day perspective buying the veal bone was now simply out of the question but while waiting my turn in the butcher shop my momentary resolve disintegrated. Along with the various encased meats from Isidro there was indeed jamón in my bag. There was just no bone. Instead I had a nice package full of hand-cut ham cubes the shape of oversized croutons. Perfect for coliflor al horno. Not cocido. Dumbfounded, I figured I must have misspoken at the counter-if anyone knew his pig parts it was Isidro. I took it as a sign, handed the recipe over to the butcher and with an air of defeat asked him to make sure not to forget the veal knuckle.
With a wink he went to work chopping up chicken pieces (and removing a few remaining feathers), cutting off a thick slice of pig fat from the foot-long piece on the counter and grinding up everything from turkey liver to cured pork loin sausage for the pelotas. When it came to the all important hueso he picked up the entire piece of veal from the case with two hands and hoisted it on to his sturdy butcher block. After a few steady whacks he came back with a well ringed bone in one hand and a thick slab of meat in the other. This was no petite filet. Instead it looked just like the hefty red steaks cartoon robbers always have on hand to distract growling cartoon guard dogs.
Twice I tried to explain that I had no need for the additional veal but the butcher kept plugging away, saying "no, no, for cocido you need to put all this in along with the bone. You have to use the best to get the best result." I knew the extra ingredient would be an expensive departure from the recipe, but between the baffling haul from Isidro and the butcher´s admonitions I was so confused I just asked for the bill. Upon seeing the total, my heart rate rose significantly. At €21.17, the purchase totaled more than four days worth of my normal budget. I seriously considered trying to return the veal.
I've heard that when foreign curse words come to mind more readily than English ones its a sign of solid language learning, but that did not nothing to improve my mood. Walking away stunned I set a limit of exactly two blocks to feel sorry for myself but continuing to mutter under my breath I stomped right through into block three. If there was any time to pull it together and overcome a problem so utterly first-world, it was now.
Back in the kitchen I had to confront a whole other set of contradictions. Upon hearing my plans for lunch, Yolanda´s cousins had told me to be sure and chip the potatoes in uneven wedges rather than slicing them for increased flavor absorption (a technique corroborated by excellent cocineras in León and Granada). But Marina had just peeled hers and dropped them in the pressure cooker whole, using kitchen shears to break them into rough quarters when the timer went off. Along with the potatoes, she put everything in the pot at the same time, but according to my cookbook, order matters. The garbanzos, chicken, veal bone, and pig fat were to cook for an hour before adding the green vegetables, followed 30 minutes later by the potatoes, chorizo and saffron and 10 minutes before serving, the meatballs. I had already schlepped around town with an unwieldy bag full of thistle and kilos of meat, dished out more during one stop to the butcher than I had in half a week and there were residents from the birthplace of Don Quixote expecting quite a lunch. I might as well to do this the hard way.
What happened next is still a blur, but it ended with the kitchen in bits and my flamenco dress-style apron in need of a thorough washing. I asked Yolanda to put out the silverware and her cousins pulled chairs to the table. Dazed, I felt like a stage manager calling for places when well aware the sets were still covered in wet paint. Then the meatballs started cooking through and as they bobbed to the surface I decided everything was going to be just fine. I had followed the recipe exactly, dividing everything between two big pots to accommodate the several hearty servings. The caldo hadn´t evaporated and the chickpeas were no longer crunchy. I had used 25 ingredients, half of which were mixed together for the pelotas alone.
But after all that, a final taste revealed that despite everything that had gone into the dish the broth was sorely lacking and the wiffle ball sized pelotas were coarse and grainy. Oblivious to the shortcomings of the dish that awaited them Yolanda´s cousins came in to dote on the simmering cocido. I ladled it out reluctantly while doing my best to manage their expectations.
Half way through the meal I glanced over and saw Maria Carmen attempting to inconspicuously deliver the remains of a half eaten meatball into her boyfriend´s bowl. Someone said something about being spoiled by their mother´s cocido, which incidentally had nothing to do with veal. No one went back to the kitchen for more.
Perked up at the prospect of clearing the table as quickly as possible, our guests brought a stack of bowls into the kitchen and I started transferring leftovers into Tupperware. As I topped off the third family size container it became clear that this cocido anti-climax was going to haunt us for days.
That weekend Yolanda went to Granada and I was headed to a nearby town called Águilas for Carnaval, but despite repeated stew-centric meals we were still only a third of the way through the leftovers. I shredded all of the remaining meat for croquetas, set aside the chicken bones and figured I´d polish off one more serving for breakfast before leaving in the morning. Unfortunately due to a turn of events involving an accelerated carpool schedule and a lengthy search for lost keys I had to rush out of the house before getting the chance to lodge everything in the freezer.
Worse than wondering if the lights were left on on or the iron plugged in, there was no doubt that the cocido was in a race against time. The Carnaval parade of themed floats, feathers and shiny pantyhose (worn in large part by men) provided distraction, but after the festivities I found myself steering the conversation towards leftover longevity, stopping just short of pleading "say it ain´t so" en Español. My hosts let me down easy but the pity in their eyes told me there was no hope.
Luckily I got dropped off at the end of the weekend before Yolanda could return home to a fridge full of spoiled stew, but it was hardly consolation. There would be no croquetas, no stock pile of frozen meals to reconcile the cost of the original dish. With my head hung low I disposed of it all, feeling another pang of regret with the dull thud of each meatball I pushed overboard into the trash.
With the weather turning warm and the unlikelihood of my roommate craving cocido again anytime soon, I resigned myself to the fact that I had missed my window. Hopefully it would be much more difficult to go wrong with gazpacho.
When Yolanda walked in the door that night I couldn´t bring myself to tell her what had happened. It would be better for everyone if we just moved on. Coming upstairs she said I´d never guess what her mom had packed up for us and I scurried over to look in the bag, thoughts of Andalucían specialties dancing across my mind. But it wasn´t pipirrana or patatas a lo pobre. It was a big container of cocido, filled to the brim.
 |
| The building blocks of cocido |
Marina´s dish gave me a reference point but it was a quick pressure cooker cocido she learned from her mother in Sevilla, sans meatballs. A perfect dish for Yolanda and I on a cold weekday afternoon. But with guests to feed I had the chance to bring the full-blown version into my repertoire and for that I turned to the definitive Murcian cookbook-La Cocina Murciana. I picked it up from the library soon after arriving in town and had heard it referenced by Murciano men and women across three different generations. If I was searching for a guide to all the authentic bells and whistles, this had to be it.
I strode purposefully to the weekly market and the first stop furthered my conviction that I was on the right track. The recipe called for thistle as an optional add-in to enrich the cocido and I asked my go-to onion and garlic vendor for the biggest one she had. The woman next to me must have seen I was examining the leaves because she leaned over to explain they weren´t actually what I was after. Once I had trimmed them all away I was to slough off the stalk´s green outer layer with a handful of sea salt, chop up the tender white interior and add it to my stew along with the green beans but, of course, before the potatoes. If I followed those steps, she told me, I´d have a fine cocido without a doubt.
 |
| Made this.. |
When I first got to the booth I had pulled a number in the 40´s and customers with pink paper tabs in the 30´s were currently being served. Generally being close to the front of the line is considered a positive but I was trying to reconcile the advice of real live Sevillana with instructions from a book that had remained the authority on Murcian cooking for decades. Marina was at work and I didn't think my bone query could be deemed a legitimate emergency, although looking down I realized I had almost crumpled my "#46" to pieces. So, I did the next best thing-I asked the woman next to me. With a comforting pat on my arm she said I'd have to head to the carnicería for the veal knuckle, which was fine if I didn't mind another stop. If not, I could use a ham bone and be alright too. I thanked her profusely, just glad to have some additional counsel, but as she walked away with her bag of boquerones and dried sausage I realized she hadn't actually told me anything I didn't already know.
And with that, Isidro was ready to take my order. He asked if I wanted my usual, but I told him today was no ordinary day. I was making cocido, with pelotas, for six! He smiled big and chuckled, calling out a few of my favorite Spanish exclamations melding surprise and encouragement. I suppose it would be like a Murcian girl showing up to her favorite boardwalk vendor on Mackinac Island and proclaiming she was about to try her hand at a big batch of homemade fudge. Spurred on by the approving nods of fellow shoppers who had overheard me, I decided there was no contest. My cookbook might have recommended a veal bone but a fine hueso de jamón spoke for itself. Beyond that I needed almost half a dozen other cured meats and as Isidro packed things up he assured me my cocido was destined for success. Playing to the huddle of customers nearby he gestured grandly to the selection in his booth and said that as long as I started with the highest quality ingredients I couldn´t go wrong. The peanut gallery chimed in with "si, si, claro, claro!" and I headed off feeling that crisis had been averted.
 |
| With that |
Surely I had made the right decision. From a firm €5 a day perspective buying the veal bone was now simply out of the question but while waiting my turn in the butcher shop my momentary resolve disintegrated. Along with the various encased meats from Isidro there was indeed jamón in my bag. There was just no bone. Instead I had a nice package full of hand-cut ham cubes the shape of oversized croutons. Perfect for coliflor al horno. Not cocido. Dumbfounded, I figured I must have misspoken at the counter-if anyone knew his pig parts it was Isidro. I took it as a sign, handed the recipe over to the butcher and with an air of defeat asked him to make sure not to forget the veal knuckle.
With a wink he went to work chopping up chicken pieces (and removing a few remaining feathers), cutting off a thick slice of pig fat from the foot-long piece on the counter and grinding up everything from turkey liver to cured pork loin sausage for the pelotas. When it came to the all important hueso he picked up the entire piece of veal from the case with two hands and hoisted it on to his sturdy butcher block. After a few steady whacks he came back with a well ringed bone in one hand and a thick slab of meat in the other. This was no petite filet. Instead it looked just like the hefty red steaks cartoon robbers always have on hand to distract growling cartoon guard dogs.
Twice I tried to explain that I had no need for the additional veal but the butcher kept plugging away, saying "no, no, for cocido you need to put all this in along with the bone. You have to use the best to get the best result." I knew the extra ingredient would be an expensive departure from the recipe, but between the baffling haul from Isidro and the butcher´s admonitions I was so confused I just asked for the bill. Upon seeing the total, my heart rate rose significantly. At €21.17, the purchase totaled more than four days worth of my normal budget. I seriously considered trying to return the veal.
I've heard that when foreign curse words come to mind more readily than English ones its a sign of solid language learning, but that did not nothing to improve my mood. Walking away stunned I set a limit of exactly two blocks to feel sorry for myself but continuing to mutter under my breath I stomped right through into block three. If there was any time to pull it together and overcome a problem so utterly first-world, it was now.
 |
| Pelota batch #1 |
What happened next is still a blur, but it ended with the kitchen in bits and my flamenco dress-style apron in need of a thorough washing. I asked Yolanda to put out the silverware and her cousins pulled chairs to the table. Dazed, I felt like a stage manager calling for places when well aware the sets were still covered in wet paint. Then the meatballs started cooking through and as they bobbed to the surface I decided everything was going to be just fine. I had followed the recipe exactly, dividing everything between two big pots to accommodate the several hearty servings. The caldo hadn´t evaporated and the chickpeas were no longer crunchy. I had used 25 ingredients, half of which were mixed together for the pelotas alone.
But after all that, a final taste revealed that despite everything that had gone into the dish the broth was sorely lacking and the wiffle ball sized pelotas were coarse and grainy. Oblivious to the shortcomings of the dish that awaited them Yolanda´s cousins came in to dote on the simmering cocido. I ladled it out reluctantly while doing my best to manage their expectations.
Half way through the meal I glanced over and saw Maria Carmen attempting to inconspicuously deliver the remains of a half eaten meatball into her boyfriend´s bowl. Someone said something about being spoiled by their mother´s cocido, which incidentally had nothing to do with veal. No one went back to the kitchen for more.
 |
| Daunting leftovers |
Perked up at the prospect of clearing the table as quickly as possible, our guests brought a stack of bowls into the kitchen and I started transferring leftovers into Tupperware. As I topped off the third family size container it became clear that this cocido anti-climax was going to haunt us for days.
That weekend Yolanda went to Granada and I was headed to a nearby town called Águilas for Carnaval, but despite repeated stew-centric meals we were still only a third of the way through the leftovers. I shredded all of the remaining meat for croquetas, set aside the chicken bones and figured I´d polish off one more serving for breakfast before leaving in the morning. Unfortunately due to a turn of events involving an accelerated carpool schedule and a lengthy search for lost keys I had to rush out of the house before getting the chance to lodge everything in the freezer.
 |
| The hombres of Águilas |
Luckily I got dropped off at the end of the weekend before Yolanda could return home to a fridge full of spoiled stew, but it was hardly consolation. There would be no croquetas, no stock pile of frozen meals to reconcile the cost of the original dish. With my head hung low I disposed of it all, feeling another pang of regret with the dull thud of each meatball I pushed overboard into the trash.
With the weather turning warm and the unlikelihood of my roommate craving cocido again anytime soon, I resigned myself to the fact that I had missed my window. Hopefully it would be much more difficult to go wrong with gazpacho.
When Yolanda walked in the door that night I couldn´t bring myself to tell her what had happened. It would be better for everyone if we just moved on. Coming upstairs she said I´d never guess what her mom had packed up for us and I scurried over to look in the bag, thoughts of Andalucían specialties dancing across my mind. But it wasn´t pipirrana or patatas a lo pobre. It was a big container of cocido, filled to the brim.
Monday, April 8, 2013
Thursday, March 21, 2013
Friday, March 15, 2013
You know you're in Murcia when...
 |
| You make up a big pot of winter stew for a hearty hot lunch, and end up rolling back the sun shade and eating outside |
Wednesday, March 13, 2013
Doctor's orders
With a friend visiting from Andalucía we planned a weekend fiesta complete with crispy fried corn nuts, Murcian Estrella and big plates of paella. As lunchtime neared we found out one of our guests would be late, but another assured us there was no cause for concern. Andrés had brought red wine and jamón and with those provisions we could wait indefinitely. When he retrieved the goods from his trunk it was not a package of sliced ham from the butcher that he carried in with the bottles. It was a whole leg, from his counter to ours. When he removed the kitchen towel draped over the jamón's cutting surface I noticed it wasn't a carved out curve but a straight line from end to end.
A doctor at one of the local hospitals, Andrés told me he sees a huge spike in jamón-related injuries around Christmas time, when patriarchs everywhere are setting out festive spreads for their families. As he demonstrated, the slicing stance involves one arm dedicated to stabilizing while the other works away; it's all too easy for an exhausted cutting hand to accidentally jump its track and meet the other with full force. In order to avoid such incidents Andrés always notches out a deep right angle near the hoof, creating a vertical barrier to keep stray knife strokes at bay--a practice I was very thankful for when he handed the just- sharpened blade over to me.
 |
| All for calming restless party guests, staving off hunger and imparting jamón-slicing wisdom to enthusiastic Americans. But first, do no harm. |
A doctor at one of the local hospitals, Andrés told me he sees a huge spike in jamón-related injuries around Christmas time, when patriarchs everywhere are setting out festive spreads for their families. As he demonstrated, the slicing stance involves one arm dedicated to stabilizing while the other works away; it's all too easy for an exhausted cutting hand to accidentally jump its track and meet the other with full force. In order to avoid such incidents Andrés always notches out a deep right angle near the hoof, creating a vertical barrier to keep stray knife strokes at bay--a practice I was very thankful for when he handed the just- sharpened blade over to me.
Sunday, March 10, 2013
Wednesday, March 6, 2013
Hake with Salsa Verde
When people here ask why I love food so much I tell them it's because my Mother is a chocolatier, my brother and I grew up watching the Frugal Gourmet and that our family lore often revolves around subjects like chicken stock.
When I was little, my mom didn't make her stock according to how many soups or stews it would yield but rather the number of small armies it could feed. She boiled up these big batches in order to freeze them and always opted for ice cube trays rather than large containers for the job. She's never been one to stand by waiting as something akin to a poultry flavored curling stone defrosted slowly on the counter.
For their third date, my mom prepared a homemade dinner for my dad. Trying to be useful, he set to work washing dishes and the ensuing tale involves very clean ice cube trays and not a drop of stock. When they realized what had happened they both burst out laughing and fell in love with each other even more.
From my mom´s signature stock cubes to getting quizzed on kitchen basics while working at a restaurant in Colorado, I have always thought of stock-making as a serious project. For me it calls to mind firing up a flame under an heirloom Le Creuset, quartering aromatics with a few clean chops and tying up a neat little sachet of spices. Then, lowering in the noble remains of a heritage chicken or wild fish and standing sentinel by the stove, wooden spoon at the ready to skim off foam at the slightest gathering of bubbles.
When I headed to the other side of Murcia for my first lesson in paella, my friend Maria del Mar explained that the very first step, and one of the most important, is preparing a pot of stock (caldo en Español) that corresponds with the principal protein in the dish. We were making a seafood paella so it would be our fish stock that lent an essential layer of flavor to the rice. But as crucial as a good caldo was, it turned out not to have anything to do with expensive enamel cookware, cheesecloth or textbook ingredients.
I've always heard that the cardinal rule for fish broth is to avoid oily species at all costs, but salmon is what Maria del Mar and her family had eaten the day before, so salmon scraps it would be. She added some other various bones from her stash in the freezer, poured in mineral water from a big jug on the counter, spooned in a little salt and that was all. No white wine, no bay leaves, no peppercorns or sliced leeks. As we prepped the rest of the ingredients she recommended dedicating freezer space to a fish bone collection of my own, culled from whatever dishes I happen to make. But, she told me, if I wanted to go for gold and simmer up the king of stocks, then it was monkfish I was after. When we wrapped up lunch at 7:30pm I reasoned that if a species normally blacklisted from stock pots had resulted in something that tasty, anything made with monkfish broth had to be stellar.
While paella is traditional all over Spain, another rice dish called Caldero is one of Murcia's most prized specialties. It too calls for caldo de pescado, and if I was going to attempt it, it would be with fish stock of the highest caliber. Maria del Mar said the fishmonger near her house always had bags of monkfish heads and bones available, but while a frozen variety pack sounded convenient I figured that if the skeletons were so sought after, the flesh was more than worth trying.
When Yolanda told me she had invited a friend over for lunch the following day, my ears perked up. Partly at the chance to practice "getting to know you" phrases in Spanish, but even more so at the prospect of tasting such a highly acclaimed fish and reaping a pile of its bones at the same time. No disembodied monkfish from the freezer case for me--I was going to buy one whole and take notes on procedure as the fishmonger broke it all down. After paging through three different Murcian cookbooks I landed on a recipe for monkfish cooked gently in lemon sauce. We had almost all of the ingredients on hand already, so I could devote my budget to the fish itself.
The next morning I made my usual rounds for fruit and vegetables at the weekly market, then joined a larger than average crowd in front of my favorite husband and wife charcuterie team. Isidro and Patricia gave me a primer on Manchego varieties during my first trip to the market and I've only had eyes for their mobile meat and cheese trailer ever since. At this point they know my standard order (five slices of serrano), my preferred ham to fat ratio and that when I´m really splurging I'll spring for 200 grams of Queso Murciano. The stand is always busy, but the extra wait-time traced right to an elderly couple selecting a whole leg of jamón from the rafters.
Their agreement on the final pick triggered an all out cured meat montage and I watched on, captivated. Following Isidro's multi-step process from my spot in line, I imagined Beethoven's "Ode to Joy" playing triumphantly in the background from start to finish.
With swift precision and even grace he shifted fluidly between two work surfaces, alternated between various blades and band saw settings and paused part way through to run a hunk of the jamón under his nose as if it were a Cuban cigar. When he was done, everything was set side by side on the counter: rough pieces chopped for sauce, a stack of discs portioned from the bone for stew, paper thin slices pre-cut for a party and the rest of the leg ready for mounting on the family ham stand and slicing at will. As the couple walked away with taught plastic bags full of neatly folded white packages and a sturdy cardboard box housing their jamón, I realized it was almost my turn to order. On 5€ a day and only two mouths to feed, I would be sticking with my five slices and nada más, but at least I would soon have the entirety of a monkfish in my possession, its various parts split up into little packages of my own.
I strode into the fish shop with that image in mind, but walking up to the ice packed display I realized that rather than being shaped conveniently in the form of three lunch-sized portions bookended by a head and a tail, monkfish are actually quite large. Coming to terms with the fact that carting home a sizable animal of any kind was not in my near future, I turned my attention to recipe advice. The fishmonger had never heard of the lemon sauce I had selected and decided to call in reinforcement, beckoning over a white-haired customer by name. With one look at the cookbook in my hand the woman decided I was in need of some real guidance and pivoted from her spot in line to stand next to me, elbow to elbow. First things first, she needed to know how many people I was cooking for. Three? In that case, it was hake I wanted, not monkfish-a point she made clear by gesturing between their two price tags. And if I really wanted to do hake justice, I'd dredge it in flour, cook it gently in a terracotta cazuela along with peas and tomatoes and finish everything off with a little white wine, of course. I nodded and smiled, but figuring I'd exceed my daily budget with the protein alone, I knew there would be insufficient funds for any extraneous ingredients.
Based on the price per kilo I realized that the only monkfish parts I would be able to afford were those without meat anyhow, so my future caldero would be made with frozen scraps after all. I was about to abandon the most basic element of the original meal, but at least my recipe research hadn't been completely in vain. The fish would change but the sauce would stay the same-lemons were only 10 cents a pop.
A block further down the road I stopped into a produce shop and when I handed over my single piece of citrus the young man behind the counter asked what big plans I had in store for my purchase. I flipped open my cookbook and slid it over to him with the preface that I had just switched species and he ran over the recipe with his index finger while reading the ingredients quietly to himself. He commented politely that my choice sounded like a nice idea, but while ringing up the lemon he leaned over the counter and said that when it came to hake, salsa verde was really the way to go. All it took to replicate his mother's go-to accompaniment was parsley, garlic, olive oil, salt, lemon juice and a sturdy mortar and pestle.
With that I let go of the last remnant of my initial plan, scrapped the bus ticket I'd been using as a placeholder and put the cookbook back in my bag. As I dug around for my coin purse the shopkeeper listed off the necessary ingredients again to make sure I had everything I needed and started gathering up a hefty handful of parsley. When I told him I had just bought some at the market he said "ah, we have too much anyway" and kept selecting leafy stems from the tall container near the register. It was clear I'd be taking the parsley but when I asked him for the price he hardly acknowledged the question. He had already shared his family recipe and let me offload a stack of one-cent coins for likely his smallest sale of the day, but he stopped me between "muchas" and "gracias", waving off my thanks with a smile. With an outstretched arm he urged me on, giving the green bouquet a shake in my direction. "Go on, take it!" he said. "It will give you good luck!"
I had given up monkfish for hake, scrapped lemon sauce for herb paste and our main dish was tepid by the time our guest turned up late, but the parsley proved lucky indeed--when everyone asked for a second helping, I needed every last leaf.
Hake with Salsa Verde
(Note: If you happen to be searching for hake in Spain, here it's called merluza)
Yield: Main dish for 4
Ingredients
For the fish:
Extra virgin olive oil
4 pieces of hake (about 200g each)
Salt
Flour
Pimentón
-Pat fish with paper towel to remove extra moisture and season with salt on both sides
-Dredge in flour mixed with a little pimentón
-Heat olive oil in a pan until hot but not smoking
-Cook fish for just a few minutes on each side, until flesh flakes apart easily
For the salsa verde:
2 large bunches of parsley, all stems removed and leaves roughly chopped (you may end up needing more)
2 or more garlic cloves, roughly chopped
Salt to taste
Lemon juice to taste (the shopkeeper said that here in Murcia, where lemons grow everywhere, it's typical to use quite a bit of juice, but use as much or as little as you like)
Extra virgin olive oil
-Add all ingredients except olive oil into a mortar and pestle and work until paste begins to form
-Drizzle in olive oil until you reach the consistency you like-I keep mine quite thick
(For a smoother paste, use the same method but with an immersion blender instead of a mortar and pestle)
-When the salsa verde is finished, transfer it to a bowl and swirl more olive oil around the inside of the mortar, using a spoon or spatula to scrape any remaining parsley or garlic bits into the oil. Reserve this infused oil and use it in dressings, on top of steamed potatoes etc.
When I was little, my mom didn't make her stock according to how many soups or stews it would yield but rather the number of small armies it could feed. She boiled up these big batches in order to freeze them and always opted for ice cube trays rather than large containers for the job. She's never been one to stand by waiting as something akin to a poultry flavored curling stone defrosted slowly on the counter.
For their third date, my mom prepared a homemade dinner for my dad. Trying to be useful, he set to work washing dishes and the ensuing tale involves very clean ice cube trays and not a drop of stock. When they realized what had happened they both burst out laughing and fell in love with each other even more.
 |
| Made this.. |
From my mom´s signature stock cubes to getting quizzed on kitchen basics while working at a restaurant in Colorado, I have always thought of stock-making as a serious project. For me it calls to mind firing up a flame under an heirloom Le Creuset, quartering aromatics with a few clean chops and tying up a neat little sachet of spices. Then, lowering in the noble remains of a heritage chicken or wild fish and standing sentinel by the stove, wooden spoon at the ready to skim off foam at the slightest gathering of bubbles.
When I headed to the other side of Murcia for my first lesson in paella, my friend Maria del Mar explained that the very first step, and one of the most important, is preparing a pot of stock (caldo en Español) that corresponds with the principal protein in the dish. We were making a seafood paella so it would be our fish stock that lent an essential layer of flavor to the rice. But as crucial as a good caldo was, it turned out not to have anything to do with expensive enamel cookware, cheesecloth or textbook ingredients.
 |
| Maria del Mar |
While paella is traditional all over Spain, another rice dish called Caldero is one of Murcia's most prized specialties. It too calls for caldo de pescado, and if I was going to attempt it, it would be with fish stock of the highest caliber. Maria del Mar said the fishmonger near her house always had bags of monkfish heads and bones available, but while a frozen variety pack sounded convenient I figured that if the skeletons were so sought after, the flesh was more than worth trying.
 |
| Cooking up seafood paella with fish broth |
When Yolanda told me she had invited a friend over for lunch the following day, my ears perked up. Partly at the chance to practice "getting to know you" phrases in Spanish, but even more so at the prospect of tasting such a highly acclaimed fish and reaping a pile of its bones at the same time. No disembodied monkfish from the freezer case for me--I was going to buy one whole and take notes on procedure as the fishmonger broke it all down. After paging through three different Murcian cookbooks I landed on a recipe for monkfish cooked gently in lemon sauce. We had almost all of the ingredients on hand already, so I could devote my budget to the fish itself.
The next morning I made my usual rounds for fruit and vegetables at the weekly market, then joined a larger than average crowd in front of my favorite husband and wife charcuterie team. Isidro and Patricia gave me a primer on Manchego varieties during my first trip to the market and I've only had eyes for their mobile meat and cheese trailer ever since. At this point they know my standard order (five slices of serrano), my preferred ham to fat ratio and that when I´m really splurging I'll spring for 200 grams of Queso Murciano. The stand is always busy, but the extra wait-time traced right to an elderly couple selecting a whole leg of jamón from the rafters.
 |
| Patricia and Isidro |
With swift precision and even grace he shifted fluidly between two work surfaces, alternated between various blades and band saw settings and paused part way through to run a hunk of the jamón under his nose as if it were a Cuban cigar. When he was done, everything was set side by side on the counter: rough pieces chopped for sauce, a stack of discs portioned from the bone for stew, paper thin slices pre-cut for a party and the rest of the leg ready for mounting on the family ham stand and slicing at will. As the couple walked away with taught plastic bags full of neatly folded white packages and a sturdy cardboard box housing their jamón, I realized it was almost my turn to order. On 5€ a day and only two mouths to feed, I would be sticking with my five slices and nada más, but at least I would soon have the entirety of a monkfish in my possession, its various parts split up into little packages of my own.
I strode into the fish shop with that image in mind, but walking up to the ice packed display I realized that rather than being shaped conveniently in the form of three lunch-sized portions bookended by a head and a tail, monkfish are actually quite large. Coming to terms with the fact that carting home a sizable animal of any kind was not in my near future, I turned my attention to recipe advice. The fishmonger had never heard of the lemon sauce I had selected and decided to call in reinforcement, beckoning over a white-haired customer by name. With one look at the cookbook in my hand the woman decided I was in need of some real guidance and pivoted from her spot in line to stand next to me, elbow to elbow. First things first, she needed to know how many people I was cooking for. Three? In that case, it was hake I wanted, not monkfish-a point she made clear by gesturing between their two price tags. And if I really wanted to do hake justice, I'd dredge it in flour, cook it gently in a terracotta cazuela along with peas and tomatoes and finish everything off with a little white wine, of course. I nodded and smiled, but figuring I'd exceed my daily budget with the protein alone, I knew there would be insufficient funds for any extraneous ingredients.
Based on the price per kilo I realized that the only monkfish parts I would be able to afford were those without meat anyhow, so my future caldero would be made with frozen scraps after all. I was about to abandon the most basic element of the original meal, but at least my recipe research hadn't been completely in vain. The fish would change but the sauce would stay the same-lemons were only 10 cents a pop.
 |
| With that |
A block further down the road I stopped into a produce shop and when I handed over my single piece of citrus the young man behind the counter asked what big plans I had in store for my purchase. I flipped open my cookbook and slid it over to him with the preface that I had just switched species and he ran over the recipe with his index finger while reading the ingredients quietly to himself. He commented politely that my choice sounded like a nice idea, but while ringing up the lemon he leaned over the counter and said that when it came to hake, salsa verde was really the way to go. All it took to replicate his mother's go-to accompaniment was parsley, garlic, olive oil, salt, lemon juice and a sturdy mortar and pestle.
With that I let go of the last remnant of my initial plan, scrapped the bus ticket I'd been using as a placeholder and put the cookbook back in my bag. As I dug around for my coin purse the shopkeeper listed off the necessary ingredients again to make sure I had everything I needed and started gathering up a hefty handful of parsley. When I told him I had just bought some at the market he said "ah, we have too much anyway" and kept selecting leafy stems from the tall container near the register. It was clear I'd be taking the parsley but when I asked him for the price he hardly acknowledged the question. He had already shared his family recipe and let me offload a stack of one-cent coins for likely his smallest sale of the day, but he stopped me between "muchas" and "gracias", waving off my thanks with a smile. With an outstretched arm he urged me on, giving the green bouquet a shake in my direction. "Go on, take it!" he said. "It will give you good luck!"
I had given up monkfish for hake, scrapped lemon sauce for herb paste and our main dish was tepid by the time our guest turned up late, but the parsley proved lucky indeed--when everyone asked for a second helping, I needed every last leaf.
Hake with Salsa Verde
(Note: If you happen to be searching for hake in Spain, here it's called merluza)
Yield: Main dish for 4
Ingredients
For the fish:
Extra virgin olive oil
4 pieces of hake (about 200g each)
Salt
Flour
Pimentón
-Pat fish with paper towel to remove extra moisture and season with salt on both sides
-Dredge in flour mixed with a little pimentón
-Heat olive oil in a pan until hot but not smoking
-Cook fish for just a few minutes on each side, until flesh flakes apart easily
For the salsa verde:
2 large bunches of parsley, all stems removed and leaves roughly chopped (you may end up needing more)
2 or more garlic cloves, roughly chopped
Salt to taste
Lemon juice to taste (the shopkeeper said that here in Murcia, where lemons grow everywhere, it's typical to use quite a bit of juice, but use as much or as little as you like)
Extra virgin olive oil
-Add all ingredients except olive oil into a mortar and pestle and work until paste begins to form
-Drizzle in olive oil until you reach the consistency you like-I keep mine quite thick
(For a smoother paste, use the same method but with an immersion blender instead of a mortar and pestle)
-When the salsa verde is finished, transfer it to a bowl and swirl more olive oil around the inside of the mortar, using a spoon or spatula to scrape any remaining parsley or garlic bits into the oil. Reserve this infused oil and use it in dressings, on top of steamed potatoes etc.
Monday, February 25, 2013
You know you're in Murcia when...
 |
| You tell the barman you've been craving Ortiz tuna, and he brings you this |
Wednesday, February 20, 2013
Sunday, February 17, 2013
You know you're in Spain when...
 |
| You wake up and go in search of your house guests, but find this note instead |
Wednesday, February 13, 2013
Third Time Not Always a Charm,
Study Shows
At well over 6 feet tall our friend Alvaro is long, lean and always hungry. On his recent visit we cooked up Basque style clams, Murcian paella and even a semi-homemade verision of Mexican mole, but what he really had a craving for was chocolate cake. I taught him the expression "twist my arm" and after a quick check he confirmed we had cocoa powder on hand. The only remaining necessity for our weekend project was something to actually bake it in.
We headed to the neighborhood discount store and made our way through rows of fake plants and knock off cosmetics to assess the kitchen aisle. After debating the merits of square versus rectangular cookware Alvaro suggested we just get one of each, but on 5€ a day I had my sights set on a vessel with high multi-purposing potential, and the rectangle it was. Having gone Dutch at the register we walked out as proud joint-owners of our shiny new pan and spent the walk home dreaming up all the loaf-shaped delicacies we could now create.
In the end our schedules clashed and Alvaro had to head home before we even had a chance to scrape off the gluey label, but I knew he'd want me to go on without him. That weekend my friend Marina invited me to have lunch at her place ("oh, Yolanda's gone for the day? And you were just going to eat alone? No, no be here at 2:30.") and I didn't have much time, but I decided it was plenty to whip up our chocolate cake ingredients for a nice contribution to the meal.
Before he left town, Alvaro and I had come across a recipe that used yogurt instead of buttermilk, cocoa powder in the batter and baking chocolate in the icing. At the time I figured it would be a snap to find again later. Instead, the minutes ticked away as I tried to hunt it down on the World Wide Web with only exceedingly generic search terms to aid me. By the time I came across it I was officially in a rush, and then realized that when Alvaro had assured me there was cocoa powder in the cupboard he actually meant an abundant supply of Nesquik. I guessed at adjusted quantities of flour and sugar to offset the added thickeners and sweeteners in the drink mix and to my relief the resulting batter wasn't half bad. I figured I had a fighting chance at a respectable cake but still had to change out of my pajamas, so without ceremony I set the pan off on its maiden journey in the oven and ran upstairs.
Soon I was back in the kitchen to start on the icing but amongst the packages of boquerones and cans of Asturian partridge stew in the drawers there was no powdered sugar to be found. Then it was only after I had mixed a heap of the crystalized variety with cream that I realized the chocolate we had was all wrong for the job. While the packaging featured a sepia-toned, abuela-at-the-stove motif and displayed the word "cooking" prominently on the label, it turned out to be a far cry from the bitter "baking" variety I thought it was. Despite its culinary designation and higher price tag, the only unique thing about this heavily sweetened bar was that each square had been imprinted with its weight for easy measuring. As I noticed the time, that just meant I knew exactly how many 10 gram units to begin cursing silently.
I reduced the quantitiy of chocolate in an attempt to avoid overwhelming sugar levels, but that still turned out a bubbling pot of glossy sauce that was too cloying even for me. Like a cocoa-scented quicksand, the more I struggled against it, the worse it became. I threw in a fistful of bite-sized dark chocolate pieces from our candy stash but that left me with a pile of wrappers and a now even larger volume of inedible icing. I remembered an old Cook's Illustrated tip employing espresso powder to boost chocolate flavor but the stale Nescafé in the cupboard just turned things dusty and bitter. (I knew the Cook's recipes always bloomed the powder in hot water first, but with time running short I had sprinkled, and then poured, the grains directly into the mix.)
Once I found myself dousing the pot with more cream and stirring in extra salt, I knew resistance was futile. For the first time since arriving in Spain I decided to cut my losses and admit defeat. Telling myself I'd done everything I could, I tried to look away as I poured the entire batch down the drain. At least I could still walk out the door on time with a nicely crescendoed cake and half a jar of raspberry jam that I planned to pass off as a traditional accompaniment. Or so I thought, until I stuck in a fork in the middle to confirm it was done and rather than pulling up a clean set of tines actually dislodged a sizeable mound of underbaked crumbs. I could almost hear David Attenborough narrating the scene as I recalled an image from high school science class-an enterprising chimpanzee showing off his simple tool skills by lifting a substantial snack out of an ant hill by way of a stick. But while I remember that chimp looking positively delighted with himself, I was at a loss. I called Marina and told her I'd be late.
Twenty minutes later I knew the cake still wasn't done but going into double overtime was not a viable option. When I finally arrived Marina and her roommate were very hungry and very enthusiastic about the promise of a rich, chocolatey dessert. Marina's cocido and bacalao croquetas would be a tough act to follow under any circumstance and I found myself having second helpings of everything-partly because it was all so delicious, partly to stave off dessert for as long as possible.
When they started clearing plates from around me I knew there was no more stalling and approached the counter. As I cut the first piece I realized that the consistency was closer to a steamed pudding than an actual cake and a nibble confirmed that a tasty batter is not a reliable indicator of final results. As I weighed my options (serving the cake while attempting self-deprecation en Español, staging an unfortunate accident involving the garbage disposal) Marina walked by, pointed at the thin slice I was contemplating on the plate and said "esto es muy poco, no?" In her eyes I was just being a tease if I thought such meager rations would satisfy a chocolate craving that had been mounting over the duration of the two hour meal. I then noticed she didn't actually have a garbage disposal and decided that if I couldn't dispose of the cake I wanted to finish it up as quickly as possible. I portioned out hearty helpings and as everyone took their first bite I smothered my piece with raspberry jam in an attempt to assure them it wouldn't hurt my pride if they did the same. After looking at each other they smiled graciously, and promptly followed suit.
A couple weeks later I heard about an international crowd that got together for potlucks and it seemed like an excellent excuse to try out a recipe from a new Murcian cookbook I had found at the library. My budget was already spent for the day so I chose a recipe that wouldn't necessitate a trip to the store. I landed on simple sweet buns topped with sugar and nuts called Toñas and everything was going along just fine until I followed the instructions for the quantity of water to add and found myself stirring a large bowl of whitewash rather than dough.
With 300 grams of flour and half a kilo of sugar already invested, there was no turning back. So I did what any sensible person with no knowledge of baking science would do. I started dumping in more flour straight from the bag. Several heavy-handed shakes later it was still nowhere near the consistency I'd need to bake up free form buns, so I reframed the situation as a great chance to use the loaf pan again and poured the lot inside. Again, the lofty top crackled with promise and again, after excessive amounts of time in the oven, it had still not cooked through. Unwilling to wait any longer I opted for a makeshift filling of chopped nuts and the remaining raspberry preserves in hopes of providing a distracting counterpoint to the dense, pasty cake. When I brought out the sweetened dough brick that night, people cut off polite slivers to taste and one girl commented "Oh, there's jam..and almonds..in the middle..I've never seen that before," her feeble smile suggesting she now she understood why.
I decided to relegate the loaf pan to savory status after it produced a solid Pastel de Zarangollo, but the siren song of quick breads lured me back and less than a week later I found myself purchasing over-ripened Canary Island bananas from the reject pile at the market to make another sweet for the next International meet-up. I had found a simple recipe using yogurt in the mix and then employing the empty container as the unit of measurement for all other ingredients meaning I couldn't botch things up by adding too much or too little. Finally I had proportions on my side, I was using Spanish fruit famous for its flavor and my cooking vessel was a now-seasoned veteran. This all led to a full fledged daydream starring myself in a soft-focus cake-baking montage and I imagined whipping up the fool-proof recipe at a moment's notice for people who invited me over to learn the secrets to perfect paella or tortilla Española. Would I know the steps by heart and have a trusty yogurt cup on hand with its squared edges already cut off for easy scooping? Of course! Could I tie the cake up with a decorative bow or attach a little note on craft paper? Sure! Should I consider buying blackened bananas in bulk? Why not!
My fantasy came to a swift end with the ring of my kitchen timer. Yet another well-baked facade masking a nearly liquid core. When it was finally done I just stood there staring at the loaf pan, wracking my brain for an explanation and envisioning good-cop/bad-cop scenarios where the latter slams their fist on the table and barks "dammit man, I want answers!" I may have done the same if Yolanda hadn't been sleeping upstairs. I pulled myself together and decided that I'd whip this sorry excuse for banana bread into at least a moderately desirable dessert, no matter how long it took me.
Midnight came and went as I finished shaving off the now overly hardened exterior and the last shard fell to reveal an anemic looking slab within. I roasted the rest of the bananas (originally bought in the vain hope that the recipe would be so fail-safe I could bang out two in a row and give away the second), then mashed the result for a creamy filling. There, somewhere in the early hours of the morning, I was making progress. I cued up a CD of Flamenco music, set in on the lowest volume possible, and decided this cake wasn't so bad after all. In homage to the icing flop weeks before I melted a couple pieces of dark chocolate for a topping that would see the light of day but knew there was still something missing. Taking a cue from my mother the chocolatier, I remembered that there's nothing like a decorative garnish positioned on the bias to really bring a confection together. On went sliced walnuts, and with that I was done.
The final yield was hardly enough for the number of people who showed up to the gathering, but it turns out that tupperwares full of potatoes mashed with garlicky vinaigrette and puff pastry layered with jamón and queso are much more popular than ersatz petit fours. At least my container was empty when I left, and it only took a few tries to successfully hawk the last piece on an unassuming French Erasmus student.
Yes, I admit the sample size is small, but empirical evidence clearly shows that while my baking competency remains at an all time low, at least my dessert-pushing skills are showing steady signs improvement.
We headed to the neighborhood discount store and made our way through rows of fake plants and knock off cosmetics to assess the kitchen aisle. After debating the merits of square versus rectangular cookware Alvaro suggested we just get one of each, but on 5€ a day I had my sights set on a vessel with high multi-purposing potential, and the rectangle it was. Having gone Dutch at the register we walked out as proud joint-owners of our shiny new pan and spent the walk home dreaming up all the loaf-shaped delicacies we could now create.
In the end our schedules clashed and Alvaro had to head home before we even had a chance to scrape off the gluey label, but I knew he'd want me to go on without him. That weekend my friend Marina invited me to have lunch at her place ("oh, Yolanda's gone for the day? And you were just going to eat alone? No, no be here at 2:30.") and I didn't have much time, but I decided it was plenty to whip up our chocolate cake ingredients for a nice contribution to the meal.Before he left town, Alvaro and I had come across a recipe that used yogurt instead of buttermilk, cocoa powder in the batter and baking chocolate in the icing. At the time I figured it would be a snap to find again later. Instead, the minutes ticked away as I tried to hunt it down on the World Wide Web with only exceedingly generic search terms to aid me. By the time I came across it I was officially in a rush, and then realized that when Alvaro had assured me there was cocoa powder in the cupboard he actually meant an abundant supply of Nesquik. I guessed at adjusted quantities of flour and sugar to offset the added thickeners and sweeteners in the drink mix and to my relief the resulting batter wasn't half bad. I figured I had a fighting chance at a respectable cake but still had to change out of my pajamas, so without ceremony I set the pan off on its maiden journey in the oven and ran upstairs.
Soon I was back in the kitchen to start on the icing but amongst the packages of boquerones and cans of Asturian partridge stew in the drawers there was no powdered sugar to be found. Then it was only after I had mixed a heap of the crystalized variety with cream that I realized the chocolate we had was all wrong for the job. While the packaging featured a sepia-toned, abuela-at-the-stove motif and displayed the word "cooking" prominently on the label, it turned out to be a far cry from the bitter "baking" variety I thought it was. Despite its culinary designation and higher price tag, the only unique thing about this heavily sweetened bar was that each square had been imprinted with its weight for easy measuring. As I noticed the time, that just meant I knew exactly how many 10 gram units to begin cursing silently.
I reduced the quantitiy of chocolate in an attempt to avoid overwhelming sugar levels, but that still turned out a bubbling pot of glossy sauce that was too cloying even for me. Like a cocoa-scented quicksand, the more I struggled against it, the worse it became. I threw in a fistful of bite-sized dark chocolate pieces from our candy stash but that left me with a pile of wrappers and a now even larger volume of inedible icing. I remembered an old Cook's Illustrated tip employing espresso powder to boost chocolate flavor but the stale Nescafé in the cupboard just turned things dusty and bitter. (I knew the Cook's recipes always bloomed the powder in hot water first, but with time running short I had sprinkled, and then poured, the grains directly into the mix.) Once I found myself dousing the pot with more cream and stirring in extra salt, I knew resistance was futile. For the first time since arriving in Spain I decided to cut my losses and admit defeat. Telling myself I'd done everything I could, I tried to look away as I poured the entire batch down the drain. At least I could still walk out the door on time with a nicely crescendoed cake and half a jar of raspberry jam that I planned to pass off as a traditional accompaniment. Or so I thought, until I stuck in a fork in the middle to confirm it was done and rather than pulling up a clean set of tines actually dislodged a sizeable mound of underbaked crumbs. I could almost hear David Attenborough narrating the scene as I recalled an image from high school science class-an enterprising chimpanzee showing off his simple tool skills by lifting a substantial snack out of an ant hill by way of a stick. But while I remember that chimp looking positively delighted with himself, I was at a loss. I called Marina and told her I'd be late.
Twenty minutes later I knew the cake still wasn't done but going into double overtime was not a viable option. When I finally arrived Marina and her roommate were very hungry and very enthusiastic about the promise of a rich, chocolatey dessert. Marina's cocido and bacalao croquetas would be a tough act to follow under any circumstance and I found myself having second helpings of everything-partly because it was all so delicious, partly to stave off dessert for as long as possible. When they started clearing plates from around me I knew there was no more stalling and approached the counter. As I cut the first piece I realized that the consistency was closer to a steamed pudding than an actual cake and a nibble confirmed that a tasty batter is not a reliable indicator of final results. As I weighed my options (serving the cake while attempting self-deprecation en Español, staging an unfortunate accident involving the garbage disposal) Marina walked by, pointed at the thin slice I was contemplating on the plate and said "esto es muy poco, no?" In her eyes I was just being a tease if I thought such meager rations would satisfy a chocolate craving that had been mounting over the duration of the two hour meal. I then noticed she didn't actually have a garbage disposal and decided that if I couldn't dispose of the cake I wanted to finish it up as quickly as possible. I portioned out hearty helpings and as everyone took their first bite I smothered my piece with raspberry jam in an attempt to assure them it wouldn't hurt my pride if they did the same. After looking at each other they smiled graciously, and promptly followed suit.
A couple weeks later I heard about an international crowd that got together for potlucks and it seemed like an excellent excuse to try out a recipe from a new Murcian cookbook I had found at the library. My budget was already spent for the day so I chose a recipe that wouldn't necessitate a trip to the store. I landed on simple sweet buns topped with sugar and nuts called Toñas and everything was going along just fine until I followed the instructions for the quantity of water to add and found myself stirring a large bowl of whitewash rather than dough. With 300 grams of flour and half a kilo of sugar already invested, there was no turning back. So I did what any sensible person with no knowledge of baking science would do. I started dumping in more flour straight from the bag. Several heavy-handed shakes later it was still nowhere near the consistency I'd need to bake up free form buns, so I reframed the situation as a great chance to use the loaf pan again and poured the lot inside. Again, the lofty top crackled with promise and again, after excessive amounts of time in the oven, it had still not cooked through. Unwilling to wait any longer I opted for a makeshift filling of chopped nuts and the remaining raspberry preserves in hopes of providing a distracting counterpoint to the dense, pasty cake. When I brought out the sweetened dough brick that night, people cut off polite slivers to taste and one girl commented "Oh, there's jam..and almonds..in the middle..I've never seen that before," her feeble smile suggesting she now she understood why.
I decided to relegate the loaf pan to savory status after it produced a solid Pastel de Zarangollo, but the siren song of quick breads lured me back and less than a week later I found myself purchasing over-ripened Canary Island bananas from the reject pile at the market to make another sweet for the next International meet-up. I had found a simple recipe using yogurt in the mix and then employing the empty container as the unit of measurement for all other ingredients meaning I couldn't botch things up by adding too much or too little. Finally I had proportions on my side, I was using Spanish fruit famous for its flavor and my cooking vessel was a now-seasoned veteran. This all led to a full fledged daydream starring myself in a soft-focus cake-baking montage and I imagined whipping up the fool-proof recipe at a moment's notice for people who invited me over to learn the secrets to perfect paella or tortilla Española. Would I know the steps by heart and have a trusty yogurt cup on hand with its squared edges already cut off for easy scooping? Of course! Could I tie the cake up with a decorative bow or attach a little note on craft paper? Sure! Should I consider buying blackened bananas in bulk? Why not!My fantasy came to a swift end with the ring of my kitchen timer. Yet another well-baked facade masking a nearly liquid core. When it was finally done I just stood there staring at the loaf pan, wracking my brain for an explanation and envisioning good-cop/bad-cop scenarios where the latter slams their fist on the table and barks "dammit man, I want answers!" I may have done the same if Yolanda hadn't been sleeping upstairs. I pulled myself together and decided that I'd whip this sorry excuse for banana bread into at least a moderately desirable dessert, no matter how long it took me.
Midnight came and went as I finished shaving off the now overly hardened exterior and the last shard fell to reveal an anemic looking slab within. I roasted the rest of the bananas (originally bought in the vain hope that the recipe would be so fail-safe I could bang out two in a row and give away the second), then mashed the result for a creamy filling. There, somewhere in the early hours of the morning, I was making progress. I cued up a CD of Flamenco music, set in on the lowest volume possible, and decided this cake wasn't so bad after all. In homage to the icing flop weeks before I melted a couple pieces of dark chocolate for a topping that would see the light of day but knew there was still something missing. Taking a cue from my mother the chocolatier, I remembered that there's nothing like a decorative garnish positioned on the bias to really bring a confection together. On went sliced walnuts, and with that I was done.The final yield was hardly enough for the number of people who showed up to the gathering, but it turns out that tupperwares full of potatoes mashed with garlicky vinaigrette and puff pastry layered with jamón and queso are much more popular than ersatz petit fours. At least my container was empty when I left, and it only took a few tries to successfully hawk the last piece on an unassuming French Erasmus student.
Yes, I admit the sample size is small, but empirical evidence clearly shows that while my baking competency remains at an all time low, at least my dessert-pushing skills are showing steady signs improvement.
Sunday, February 10, 2013
You know you're in Spain when...
 |
| Your house guests bring Queso Manchego from their hometown in La Mancha and tell you that aside from making the best cheese in Spain, the sheep in their region even have a better bleat |
Tuesday, February 5, 2013
You know you're in Mancha Real when...
 |
| You attempt to politely decline a foul tasting cold medicine but are told to kick it back like a shot and chase it with a pastry, made fresh by the local cloistered monks |
Monday, February 4, 2013
Pastel de Zarangollo con salsa
de Pimentón
Every Monday a bar near Murcia's grand cathedral hosts a foreign language conversation exchange. After covering occupations, family whereabouts and likes/dislikes in English we switched over to Spanish for the last part of the evening. When I explained I was learning about Murcian recipes and rustled out a cookbook from my bag, everyone in the group leaned in simultaneously from their folding chairs and instantly started a running commentary on the contents. When it came to Zarangollo, a very typical combination of zucchini and onions, a debate ensued. One attendee gestured at the book's glossy, overly styled photo of the vegetarian fare, scoffed at its lack of authenticity and rallied his fellow Murcianos. "Have you ever seen your mother prepare that at home? No!" Another faction took issue with the ingredient list and its lack of potatoes/inclusion of eggs while others countered that of course their family never/always uses those components in their rendition of the dish.
The vegetable medley-as-bar talk theme continued when I grabbed a beer with a Murcian friend and the conversation turned to food just as the lights were getting switched on at the end of the night. As we were collecting our jackets he asked if I had tried the classic zucchini dish and I explained that it just so happened to be in the line up for the coming week; the only thing left to do was pick between the two recipes I had at home. As the bartender (a bearded, brooding type who had previously communicated exclusively via one word answers) flipped my chair up onto the table I heard him mutter "hay solo una receta para zarangollo," with the certitude of an old-time sheriff declaring that there is not, in fact, enough room in town for the both of them. Unfortunately, I didn't have time to inquire about the details of this supposedly peerless preparation before we were herded outside by the pub's staff.
I picked up ingredients at the market that week and settled on a Zarangollo from "Las 50 Mejores Recetas de la Cocina Murciana", published by the local tourism board circa 1965 to offer home cooks and visitors alike a blend of "platos tradicionales y renovados". This version featured the two main ingredients in a sort of crustless quiche called a pastel and adorned it with a sauce made from Murcian pimentón and ñora peppers. The method called for straining the pepper mixture through a chinoix and blending in cream to render it both unneccesarily silky and overly rich enough to land it squarely in "renovado" territory. Having neither a fine mesh strainer or full-fat diary on hand I decided to leave the sauce on the rustic side and spread it on top of the baked pastel, resulting in an aerial view that looked remarkably like meatloaf.
Post-lunch and post-siesta Yolanda and I set out out on a little trail in the nearby mountains and came upon a grandfatherly gentleman striding along and looking quite content with his surroundings and life in general. As he made his way around the bend (bounce in step and all) he walked in time with music from a mini radio he had velcroed to his walking stick.
After greeting us with a wide grin he turned away for a moment and then brandished two small bouquets of freshly plucked wild thyme, presenting them with a slight bow and the air of a happily retired magician. Delighted by the unexpected little gift (and the fact that I could use it in a Murcian mussel recipe) we struck up a conversation and I mentioned I was trying out all kinds of local dishes on Yolanda. After I rattled off a few examples he nodded over to her and joked that someone with the ability to get a traditional meal on the table and facilitate English practice would make a good catch for a Murcian boy. When he asked if I had cooked Zarangollo yet Yolanda and I both replied "si!" in unison, explaining we had just finished a plate of it during lunch that day. Lifting his hands to his heart in mock confession he stopped for a moment, let out the kind of dreamy sigh you'd expect to see at the end of a silent film and declared "I think I'm in love".
Pastel de Zarangollo con salsa de Pimentón
Adapted from "Las 50 Mejores Recetas de la Cocina Murciana"
Yield: Light main dish for 4
Ingredients
For the pastel:
Extra virgin olive oil
1 onion, very thinly sliced
2 medium zucchini, seeds scooped out and sliced into thin crescents
Salt
3 eggs, beaten
For the sauce:
Extra virgin olive oil
2 large leeks, green parts removed and white parts chopped into a rough dice
2 ñora peppers, seeds, ribs and stems removed (cut one in half and chop one roughly)
Salt
1 small zucchini, seeds removed and sliced into crescents
1 tsp. Pimentón
For the pastel:
-Preheat oven to 375 degrees Fahrenheit
-Heat olive oil in a large pan over medium heat until just smoking
-Add onions and a pinch of salt and cook for 2-3 minutes, stirring occasionally
-Cover the pan for 3-5 minutes, then uncover and stir
-Repeat until onions are translucent
-Add zucchini and another pinch of salt, cooking for another few minutes and stirring occasionally
-Cover the pan for another 3-5 minutes, then uncover and stir
-Repeat several times until the vegetables have shed their liquid and begun to color
-Uncover and increase the heat to high, stirring frequently until the vegetables are golden brown
-(If the vegetables begin to stick at any point, add a little water and scrape up the bits of fond on the bottom of the pan with a wooden spoon)
-Pour the vegetable mixture into a large bowl
-Add the eggs and stir until just blended
-Pour into a loaf pan well-greased with olive oil or non-stick spray, or lined with aluminum foil
-Bake until the eggs have set, about 15 minutes
-Let cool a bit, then run a butter knife around edges of the pan and turn pastel out onto a plate
For the sauce:
-Place the ñora pepper that has been cut in half in a small bowl, cover with water and microwave for one minute, then set aside to soften for 8-10 minutes
-Heat olive oil in a medium pan over medium heat until just smoking
-Following the method above for onions and zucchini, cook the leeks and zucchini until golden brown, adding the pimentón and the other (chopped) ñora pepper to the pan at the beginning of the process
-As the vegetables begin to cook, remove the ñora pepper from the water, but do not discard the soaking liquid
-Using the back of a butter knife or spoon, scrape the now soft flesh from the inside of the pepper and then run a chef's knife through the pulp a few times and add to the pan
-When the vegetables are ready, blend in a food processor or immersion blender with the reserved liquid from soaking the ñora pepper
-Season to taste and spread over top of the pastel
 |
| Made this.. |
The vegetable medley-as-bar talk theme continued when I grabbed a beer with a Murcian friend and the conversation turned to food just as the lights were getting switched on at the end of the night. As we were collecting our jackets he asked if I had tried the classic zucchini dish and I explained that it just so happened to be in the line up for the coming week; the only thing left to do was pick between the two recipes I had at home. As the bartender (a bearded, brooding type who had previously communicated exclusively via one word answers) flipped my chair up onto the table I heard him mutter "hay solo una receta para zarangollo," with the certitude of an old-time sheriff declaring that there is not, in fact, enough room in town for the both of them. Unfortunately, I didn't have time to inquire about the details of this supposedly peerless preparation before we were herded outside by the pub's staff.
 |
| With that |
Post-lunch and post-siesta Yolanda and I set out out on a little trail in the nearby mountains and came upon a grandfatherly gentleman striding along and looking quite content with his surroundings and life in general. As he made his way around the bend (bounce in step and all) he walked in time with music from a mini radio he had velcroed to his walking stick.
 |
| Wild thyme |
Pastel de Zarangollo con salsa de Pimentón
Adapted from "Las 50 Mejores Recetas de la Cocina Murciana"
Yield: Light main dish for 4
Ingredients
For the pastel:
Extra virgin olive oil
1 onion, very thinly sliced
2 medium zucchini, seeds scooped out and sliced into thin crescents
Salt
3 eggs, beaten
For the sauce:
Extra virgin olive oil
2 large leeks, green parts removed and white parts chopped into a rough dice
2 ñora peppers, seeds, ribs and stems removed (cut one in half and chop one roughly)
Salt
1 small zucchini, seeds removed and sliced into crescents
1 tsp. Pimentón
For the pastel:
-Preheat oven to 375 degrees Fahrenheit
-Heat olive oil in a large pan over medium heat until just smoking
-Add onions and a pinch of salt and cook for 2-3 minutes, stirring occasionally
-Cover the pan for 3-5 minutes, then uncover and stir
-Repeat until onions are translucent
-Add zucchini and another pinch of salt, cooking for another few minutes and stirring occasionally
-Cover the pan for another 3-5 minutes, then uncover and stir
-Repeat several times until the vegetables have shed their liquid and begun to color
-Uncover and increase the heat to high, stirring frequently until the vegetables are golden brown
-(If the vegetables begin to stick at any point, add a little water and scrape up the bits of fond on the bottom of the pan with a wooden spoon)
-Pour the vegetable mixture into a large bowl
-Add the eggs and stir until just blended
-Pour into a loaf pan well-greased with olive oil or non-stick spray, or lined with aluminum foil
-Bake until the eggs have set, about 15 minutes
-Let cool a bit, then run a butter knife around edges of the pan and turn pastel out onto a plate
For the sauce:
-Place the ñora pepper that has been cut in half in a small bowl, cover with water and microwave for one minute, then set aside to soften for 8-10 minutes
-Heat olive oil in a medium pan over medium heat until just smoking
-Following the method above for onions and zucchini, cook the leeks and zucchini until golden brown, adding the pimentón and the other (chopped) ñora pepper to the pan at the beginning of the process
-As the vegetables begin to cook, remove the ñora pepper from the water, but do not discard the soaking liquid
-Using the back of a butter knife or spoon, scrape the now soft flesh from the inside of the pepper and then run a chef's knife through the pulp a few times and add to the pan
-When the vegetables are ready, blend in a food processor or immersion blender with the reserved liquid from soaking the ñora pepper
-Season to taste and spread over top of the pastel
Saturday, February 2, 2013
You know you're in Mancha Real when...
 |
| The drink of choice is chilled red wine mixed with Lemon Fanta, and the waiters refuse to clear your plates until there's not a crumb left |
Wednesday, January 30, 2013
You know you're in Murcia when...
 |
| There are fresh fava beans on the bar, and the sign invites you to help yourself while you have a beer (cervecica in Murciano) |
Monday, January 28, 2013
Dorada del Mar Menor a la Sal
Despite living on an island, I only made fish in Sicily once. Early on a Saturday morning I walked up Balestrate's single main road and stopped at the seafood truck parked across from the enoteca offering wine on tap. I was set on buying a whole fish but knew I only wanted enough for a single portion. (My friend, having lost her taste for the bounty of the sea following countless hours of mussel de-bearding at a local restaurant, had declined my dinner invitation.) I spotted a crate filled with a smallish species and when I asked for just one the vendor didn't even bother weighing my purchase. After handing over a euro I located the empty water bottle in the bottom of my bag and crossed the street to have it filled with white wine for one euro more.
That night, with the double doors opened onto the piazza, Italian music videos playing from the little TV and my apron securely fastened, I was imagining a perfectly executed fillet, accompanied by my bulk wine and enjoyed on the balcony. I knew that having the right knife is imperative for prepping fish, but while my apartment came fully-furnished, a well-honed, sturdy but flexible blade had not been included alongside the set of dull steak knifes. The last thing I remember thinking was "ah, it can't make that much of a difference, right?" and from there things quickly devolved into the culinary equivalent of cutting one's own bangs; a little more here, a little more there, until there's practically nothing left and a shamefaced scramble to remedy the situation ensues. After disgracing the creature with my hack job, I ended up with about three tablespoons of fish pulp, but thanks to my properly stocked Sicilian pantry I had lots of breadcrumbs and pine nuts on hand to help salvage the remains. By then it was too cold to eat outside but I set the table for my impromptu fried fish cake, decanted fifty cents worth of the wine from its plastic container and finished off my first and last foray into Sicilian pesce.
Upon arriving in Murcia I started to hear about the Mar Menor--a nearby saltwater lagoon separated from the Mediterranean by a narrow sandbar and renowned for its fish and scampi. The cookbooks and tourism pamphlets talk about it like the Land of Oz, describing the splendor of crystal clear waters where gray mullet, monk fish and sea bass dance and the fishermen bring these "gods of the sea" to market every day. One of the first recipes that caught my eye was for Dorada, another exalted species from the Mar Menor, and I was determined to try my hand at whole fish again. I also knew there was a shop nearby that proudly specified the illustrious origin of its catch.
One of my favorite things about Spain is that a lot of the butchers and fishmongers here are women, and this pescadería has an all-female crew. After receiving advice on which Dorada to select when baking them in a salt crust, as well as a surprise free lemon in my bag, I set off with very little time to spare before lunch. After rushing home I realized all of the recipes I had were very clear about the baking time (20 minutes on the dot), but none of my books actually stated the temperature at which to bake them. Luckily Google España provided the answer and willing the oven to pre-heat at double speed I laid the fish on their bed of salt. I poured the rest of the bag on top, nuked some potatoes for a hurried version of smashed spuds and grabbed the container of roasted red peppers I had been marinating in garlic from the fridge.
The front door opened with four minutes still on the clock and knowing that Yolanda had hardly any time to eat that day, assured her she'd have a fork in hand soon. My oven timer finally went off and I was brushing the salt away with much anticipation when I heard "que barbaridad!"- one of my roommate's signature exclamatory remarks. In the context I wasn't sure if that was a good or bad thing but when I looked back she was just peering over my shoulder intently to observe, never having seen such a cooking method before in her life. (When I first met her and asked if she had any favorite family recipes she replied that her mom's specialty was buying pre-made meals.) Trying to hide my concern that the fish would be completely over or under cooked (my recipes detailed cracking open the crust before serving and my grains of salt hadn't even formed a thin shell) I put out our plates and went to work finishing the potatoes. Yolanda, with hands in her lap, was still staring blankly at her fish. She looked up at me like a kid working on a particularly difficult story problem involving locomotive speeds and asked "so..how do I start?" Holding my breath a little I pulled back the skin and was relieved to find that the Mar Menor had indeed delivered up "simplicidad y exquisitez, imposible", just like the reverent cookbook authors had promised.
As we ate I told Yolanda that a classic Murcian rice dish prepared with fish broth was on the docket for the following week and that our Dorada bones would make a perfect foundation. After listening to more of my seafood-based aspirations she gestured to the skeleton on her plate and with a sense of accomplishment said "y...al final!" showing me that despite her earlier hesitations about the large size of her portion she had picked it clean. I beamed, happy that she had enjoyed her lunch and that I was one step closer to boiling up my first fish stock. As she cleared the table I flipped open one of my cookbooks and thought wistfully about fish carcasses and bay leaves. A minute later the sound of the trash can popping open snapped me out of my daydream and I turned around just in time to see Yolanda absent-mindedly scraping the last of her Dorada bones into the bin. We both started laughing as she let out an impressively creative string of Spanish expletives, knowing how attached I can get to my endeavors in making local recipes from scratch. I taught her the phrase "no big deal" and began musing over the thought of a personal tutorial from the fishmonger, sorting through scraps with her and learning the best ones to use for my next dish from the Murcianos' salty little sea.
Dorada a la sal
Ingredients
1 Dorada (gilt-head bream) per person, about 14 oz each
Coarse sea salt
-Preheat oven to 335 degrees Fahrenheit
-Pour salt on baking sheet and pat down to form an even layer
-Lay the fish on top of the salt bed and use the rest to cover the fish completely
-Bake for 20 minutes, brush the salt off of the fish and serve
-Do not reuse salt
Roasted red peppers
Every recipe I've seen for roasted red peppers calls for placing them on a baking sheet lined with aluminum foil, but on a day when I had to use our one baking sheet for something else I found a couple of old ceramic dishes in a drawer and used those instead. Now I only use this method because it captures all the great juices from the peppers instead of losing them tragically to the foil.
Ingredients
2 red bell peppers
2 small cloves of garlic, sliced into very thin discs
Extra virgin olive oil
Salt
-Preheat oven to 410 degrees Fahrenheit
-Place the peppers in an enamel baking dish that holds them snugly
-Roast the peppers for 45 minutes to an hour, using tongs or two forks to make quarter turns as each side gets nice and blackened
-Put the peppers in a bowl and cover with a plate until cool
-Skin and seed the peppers
-Tear the peppers into strips with your hands and place them in a container
-Pour the accumulated roasting juices into the container
-Sprinkle with salt, add the garlic and pour in a little olive oil
-Stir all the ingredients together and keep in the fridge-the peppers are tasty right away and even better after left to marinate
 |
| Made this.. |
That night, with the double doors opened onto the piazza, Italian music videos playing from the little TV and my apron securely fastened, I was imagining a perfectly executed fillet, accompanied by my bulk wine and enjoyed on the balcony. I knew that having the right knife is imperative for prepping fish, but while my apartment came fully-furnished, a well-honed, sturdy but flexible blade had not been included alongside the set of dull steak knifes. The last thing I remember thinking was "ah, it can't make that much of a difference, right?" and from there things quickly devolved into the culinary equivalent of cutting one's own bangs; a little more here, a little more there, until there's practically nothing left and a shamefaced scramble to remedy the situation ensues. After disgracing the creature with my hack job, I ended up with about three tablespoons of fish pulp, but thanks to my properly stocked Sicilian pantry I had lots of breadcrumbs and pine nuts on hand to help salvage the remains. By then it was too cold to eat outside but I set the table for my impromptu fried fish cake, decanted fifty cents worth of the wine from its plastic container and finished off my first and last foray into Sicilian pesce.
Upon arriving in Murcia I started to hear about the Mar Menor--a nearby saltwater lagoon separated from the Mediterranean by a narrow sandbar and renowned for its fish and scampi. The cookbooks and tourism pamphlets talk about it like the Land of Oz, describing the splendor of crystal clear waters where gray mullet, monk fish and sea bass dance and the fishermen bring these "gods of the sea" to market every day. One of the first recipes that caught my eye was for Dorada, another exalted species from the Mar Menor, and I was determined to try my hand at whole fish again. I also knew there was a shop nearby that proudly specified the illustrious origin of its catch.
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| Pepper peelings |
The front door opened with four minutes still on the clock and knowing that Yolanda had hardly any time to eat that day, assured her she'd have a fork in hand soon. My oven timer finally went off and I was brushing the salt away with much anticipation when I heard "que barbaridad!"- one of my roommate's signature exclamatory remarks. In the context I wasn't sure if that was a good or bad thing but when I looked back she was just peering over my shoulder intently to observe, never having seen such a cooking method before in her life. (When I first met her and asked if she had any favorite family recipes she replied that her mom's specialty was buying pre-made meals.) Trying to hide my concern that the fish would be completely over or under cooked (my recipes detailed cracking open the crust before serving and my grains of salt hadn't even formed a thin shell) I put out our plates and went to work finishing the potatoes. Yolanda, with hands in her lap, was still staring blankly at her fish. She looked up at me like a kid working on a particularly difficult story problem involving locomotive speeds and asked "so..how do I start?" Holding my breath a little I pulled back the skin and was relieved to find that the Mar Menor had indeed delivered up "simplicidad y exquisitez, imposible", just like the reverent cookbook authors had promised.
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| With that |
As we ate I told Yolanda that a classic Murcian rice dish prepared with fish broth was on the docket for the following week and that our Dorada bones would make a perfect foundation. After listening to more of my seafood-based aspirations she gestured to the skeleton on her plate and with a sense of accomplishment said "y...al final!" showing me that despite her earlier hesitations about the large size of her portion she had picked it clean. I beamed, happy that she had enjoyed her lunch and that I was one step closer to boiling up my first fish stock. As she cleared the table I flipped open one of my cookbooks and thought wistfully about fish carcasses and bay leaves. A minute later the sound of the trash can popping open snapped me out of my daydream and I turned around just in time to see Yolanda absent-mindedly scraping the last of her Dorada bones into the bin. We both started laughing as she let out an impressively creative string of Spanish expletives, knowing how attached I can get to my endeavors in making local recipes from scratch. I taught her the phrase "no big deal" and began musing over the thought of a personal tutorial from the fishmonger, sorting through scraps with her and learning the best ones to use for my next dish from the Murcianos' salty little sea.
Dorada a la sal
Ingredients
1 Dorada (gilt-head bream) per person, about 14 oz each
Coarse sea salt
-Preheat oven to 335 degrees Fahrenheit
-Pour salt on baking sheet and pat down to form an even layer
-Lay the fish on top of the salt bed and use the rest to cover the fish completely
-Bake for 20 minutes, brush the salt off of the fish and serve
-Do not reuse salt
Roasted red peppers
Every recipe I've seen for roasted red peppers calls for placing them on a baking sheet lined with aluminum foil, but on a day when I had to use our one baking sheet for something else I found a couple of old ceramic dishes in a drawer and used those instead. Now I only use this method because it captures all the great juices from the peppers instead of losing them tragically to the foil.
Ingredients
2 red bell peppers
2 small cloves of garlic, sliced into very thin discs
Extra virgin olive oil
Salt
-Preheat oven to 410 degrees Fahrenheit
-Place the peppers in an enamel baking dish that holds them snugly
-Roast the peppers for 45 minutes to an hour, using tongs or two forks to make quarter turns as each side gets nice and blackened
-Put the peppers in a bowl and cover with a plate until cool
-Skin and seed the peppers
-Tear the peppers into strips with your hands and place them in a container
-Pour the accumulated roasting juices into the container
-Sprinkle with salt, add the garlic and pour in a little olive oil
-Stir all the ingredients together and keep in the fridge-the peppers are tasty right away and even better after left to marinate
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