by Dave Dewitt
Pimentón products at La Boqueria Market in Barcelona. Photograph by Sharon Hudgins. Used with permission.
Pimentón de La Vera—a smoked paprika from La Vera region of Extremadura—was the first paprika to earn a denominación de origen designation, or “protected name status,” in Spain, ensuring that only the special paprika produced there could bear that title. The hot type is used in winter soups and Galician pulpo, or octopus. The octopus is boiled and sliced, then sprinkled with olive oil, salt, and hot pimentón powder. Interestingly, there are recipes for chorizo and potato stews that utilize all three of the types of pimentón. Substitutions for pimentón include hot paprika and New Mexican ground red chile, but for a better approximation of the smokiness of the pimentón, mix in some ground chipotle chile. Conversely, hot pimentón can be substituted for any recipe calling for paprika or ground red chile. Chili con carne enthusiasts should experiment with pimentón in their never-ending quest to improve their chili.
Sharon Hudgins also wrote about pimientos de padrón, a favorite tapa in many Spanish bars. “These are fresh whole green peppers from the region of Galicia, which are quickly fried in olive oil, then sprinkled with coarse sea salt. As the bartender will warn you, ‘Unos pican y otros non ’ (some are hot and the others are not), but until you bite into them, you don’t know which of those little green peppers is going to blow your taste buds away.” My wife and I tried these in a bar in Torremolinos, outside of Málaga, and they were exactly as the bartender described them.
Sautéed pimientos de padrón at a restaurant in Torremolinos, Spain. Photograph by Mary Jane Wilan. Used with permission.
In Portugal, the piri-piri is the pepper of choice. Food writer Blaise Lawrence explains: “Piri-piri means ‘pepper-pepper’ in Swahili, the pan-African language, and sometimes the chile is called ‘pili-pili.’ It is a generic term that can apply to any member of the Capsicum genus, but in Portugal it specifically refers to a small-fruited variety that resembles a piquin. The question is: how did it get to Portugal? The answer is ironic because after Columbus brought back chile seeds to the Iberian Peninsula on his second voyage to the New World, Portuguese traders carried the seeds to their African colonies of Angola and Mozambique. Soon, spread by birds, traders, and farmers, chiles conquered all of Africa and became an inexpensive way for people to spice up their bland foods. Sometime during this process, traders took small, hot pods back to Portugal where they were called piri-piri, the Swahili term.”
In Portugal, there are dozens of piri-piri sauces and the same pepper spices up molhos (salsas), caldos (soups), tuna pâté, and cataplana, a signature dish that is named after the wok-like copper pressure cooker in which it is prepared. There are several variations of this classic dish, but it usually has clams and spicy Portuguese sausage in it.
Perhaps the most unusual Portuguese dish is enguias, which are baby eels boiled in olive oil and water with chiles and garlic.
ENGLAND’S CURRIES
The first meal on our European chile pepper trip was deliciously spicy. After we landed in London, we dropped in on Sanjay and Reena Anand, who are producers of elaborate Asian weddings. Because we had traveled with them in India, they knew we loved fired-up food, so they treated us to an Indian brunch to ease our jet lag. Their cook prepared unusual chapaties, a round flatbread, with a variety of ingredients such as potatoes, cauliflower, and green onions. They were served with a marvelous yogurt and a fiery mango pickle with small hot red chiles (or chillies, as they spell it there). The brunch climaxed with a medium-hot curried lamb that set the tone of our European tour: it was the first of many curries with no turmeric, and it suggested the oncoming food theme of the trip—the food of the former colonies heating up the former colonial powers.
The streets of Brick Lane at night in east London, the curry capital of England. Photograph by Tony Hisgett. Wikimedia. Creative Commons Attribution 2.0 Generic License.
After brunch, we were picked up by Pat and Dominique Chapman, who were determined to show us as much of rural England as possible in six days. Pat is one of England’s foremost food experts, and he is called the “King of Curries” there because he has authored dozens of books on the subjects of curries and other Indian foods. On our way to Stonehenge, he railed about what was happening to English food. On one hand, it was great that thousands of Indian, Bangladeshi, and other Asian restaurants had opened in the UK over the past 30 years. On the other hand, British traditional pub grub was turning into mass-marketed, predictable slop as large corporations took over individual pubs, made them part of their chains, and then standardized the food. The meals are now partially prepared in a central location and shipped to the various pub locations, where they are assembled by “deskilled chefs” according to the formula of the central office of a chain like Beefeaters. I am not making up the term “deskilled chef”—it is precisely what the words imply, and I cannot imagine anyone putting it on his or her résumé.
The Feast of Bath
Then it was on to Bath, but we got caught up in the traffic headed toward the huge Glastonbury Festival, an outdoor rock concert attracting more than 100,000 fans, so after we stopped dead in our tracks and didn’t move for 20 minutes, Pat had to pull out his maps and make some radical detours. Along the way, signs read “Concealed Entrance,” and I was certain that some sort of weird hay cutter would pull out in front of us. But the detour was worth it, for in Bath we were treated to one of the spiciest and most delicious meals of the entire trip, at the Eastern Eye.
Traders at a market stall selling curry and varieties of cooked foods at Camden Market, London. Photograph by Alena Kravchenko. iStock.
Seekh kebab. Photograph by Athena Mukherjee. Wikimedia. Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 4.0 International License.
Let me set the scene: The restaurant, owned by Shuhan and A. H. Choudhury, is set in an elegant Georgian mansion built in 1824. It has enormous round skylights and a sumptuous interior. And the food! Because Pat is the author of the Good Curry Guide, which rates the UK curry restaurants, he is quite a celebrity and always an honored guest. As such, he is not allowed to order dinner. The owners always order for him so that he will always have their premier dishes. This time, the four of us dined on samosas, pastries filled with vegetables; seekh kebab, highly spiced minced lamb grilled in a tandoori oven; Dhaka chicken roll, marinated and fried chicken; and chicken hariyali, a Nepalese dish also cooked in a tandoori oven. Those were just the starters.
Then we graduated to chicken jalfrazy, which was sautéed in fresh chile and tomatoes; Bengali king prawn masala; chicken tikka masala, marinated in yogurt and then barbecued; and ayre tarkari, a Bangladeshi fish served in a very spicy sauce. Those were just the chef’s recommendations. Served along with all these delicious entrées were the vegetarian accompaniments: navrattan pilau, the nutty and fruity spiced rice; mushroom bhaji (sautéed); eggplant bhaji (also sautéed); and saag ponir, homemade Indian cheese cooked with spinach with a touch of spice and fresh cream. Although the final accompaniment contained no chile, it was one of the best dishes we tasted that night.
For dessert, we were treated to the liqueur called paan, which is made from the leaf of the Piper genus. Specifically, this pepper leaf is Piper betle, so named because it is used to wrap the betel nut, the mildly euphoric, habit-forming substance that is chewed all over the subcontinent. The liqueur paan smelled and tasted like an exotic flower. It is a digestive with spiritual values symbolic of love, friendship, and respect. We certainly felt that way after the wonderful feast of Bath.
The Banquet at Jaipur and the Malaysian Satis House
The restaurant known simply as Jaipur is located in the city of Milton Keynes and is owned by Mr. Ahad, known simply as Ahad, another person who was on our tour of India with Pat and Dominique Chapman. He greeted us effusively, ordered up drinks (our choice), seated us, and proceeded to have his waiters bring out a banquet: his choice, of course. That turned out to be Bengal niramesh, spiced mixed vegetables; aachari g
host, pickled lamb; king prawns; tandoori lamb chops; lamb tikka masala; yellow lentils with fried garlic; swordfish curry; and lamb shank curry. The banquet was superb—but was it better than the Feast of Bath? I’ll be diplomatic and say they were equal, and both were superior to most of the dishes we were served in India.
We motored on to the little town of Yoxford in Suffolk, where Chris and Chiu Blackmore own a combination bed and breakfast (seven rooms) and Malaysian restaurant. The Satis House, as it’s called, dates from the early 1800s, and Charles Dickens was a friend of the family who owned the house between 1812 and 1878. In Great Expectations, Dickens writes: “‘Satis House,’ said Pip, ‘that’s a curious name.’ ‘It’s Greek, Latin, or Hebrew, maybe all three,’ she replied. ‘It means that whoever lives in the house could wish for nothing more.’”
That was certainly the case for our third former-colony feast. Malaya, of course, was a British colony, and once again we were treated to an example of how the former colonies are heating up the Brits. Under the direction of Chiu, Pat and Dominique, Tony and Jenny Stockman (who also went on the India trip), and Mary Jane and I were treated to appetizers consisting of various satays, skewered meats; pork ribs marinated in plums and hoisin sauce; stir-fried vegetables with garlic; lamb with black pepper, an intensely flavored dish that was fiery hot yet without chiles; and beef penang, a curry-like dish that was hot with chiles. Once again the former colony was striking back at the colonial power and overpowering us with its spices.
Jaipur Restaurant in Milton Keynes. Photograph by Mary Jane Wilan.
Espelette peppers hanging over a door in the village of Espelette, France. Photograph by Michael Clarke. Wikimedia. Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 2.0 Generic License.
FIERY FRANCE
Some varieties of chile peppers are given treasured status in certain regions of the world, where they are celebrated in art, legend, the kitchen, and festivals. Paprika has such status in Hungary, the jalapeño in Laredo, Texas, and the mole varieties ancho and pasilla in central Mexico. The New Mexican varieties are worshiped from Taos to Las Cruces, and from Gallup to Tucumcari in the Land of Enchantment. But a little-known chile is acclaimed in—of all places—southwestern France, where it has gained controlled-name status, much like Champagne sparkling wine and Roquefort cheese. That chile is piment d’Espelette, or the Espelette pepper, and it has become a cultural and culinary icon in that part of Basque country.
When Columbus brought chile peppers to Europe from the Caribbean after his second voyage in 1493, they were first grown in monastery gardens in Spain and Portugal as curiosities. But soon the word got out that the pungent pods were a reasonable and cheap substitute for black pepper, which was so expensive that it had been used as currency in some countries. So the best thing about chiles—in addition to their heat and flavor—was that they did not have to be imported from India; anyone could grow them as annuals in temperate climates.
Carried by Spanish and Portuguese explorers, numerous varieties of chiles quickly spread throughout the Mediterranean region, Africa, and the rest of the Eastern Hemisphere, where they permanently spiced up world cuisines such as those of India, Southeast Asia, and China.
In France, however, chiles were established as a tradition in just one region: the Nive Valley in the Southwest, and especially in the village of Espelette to the south. It is believed that chiles were introduced into the Nive Valley by Gonzalo Percaztegi in 1523, the same year that corn first made its appearance there. At first it was thought to be related to black pepper and was even called “long black American pepper,” and it wasn’t until the seventeenth century that it was placed in its own genus.
Much like ristras in the American Southwest, the red pods of the Espelette peppers are threaded on cords and are hung on the sides of buildings and from racks. The strings of peppers—translated variously as “braids” or “tresses”—are allowed to dry in the sun. They are then ground into powder or made into commercial pastes. Interestingly, the earliest use of the ground Espelettes is connected to yet another uniquely American crop: cacao, or chocolate.
In the seventeenth century, chocolate became very popular in Europe both in candies and in drinks. Chocolatiers in Bayonne, perhaps influenced by tales of Montezuma’s favorite drink, combined Espelette powder and chocolate. A century later, hams from the Basque area were covered with Espelette pepper to redden the ham before curing. The powder was also used in the making of Bayonne hams and some pâtés, sausages, blood sausages, rolls, and pies. From this point on, Basque cooks began using the Espelette pepper in place of black pepper in seafood dishes.
About the same heat scale as hot paprika, the Espelette pepper is regarded by the French as a four on the scale of one to ten. In fact, hot paprika powder can be substituted for Espelette, as can New Mexico red chile powder.
The Celebration of Peppers and Controlled-Name Status
Up until 1940, the Espelette peppers were not made into strings because the harvest was not big enough; the peppers were merely ground into powder. But as more of the peppers were grown, farmers started selling them as strings for decorative as well as culinary purposes. By the 1960s, the Espelette peppers had become so popular that the village of Espelette, population 1700, established the Celebration of Peppers, a festival much like the Hatch Chile Festival in New Mexico. The first festival was in 1967, and it is held annually the last Sunday in October. It now attracts more than 10,000 people and features food, music, dance, and games.
As the popularity of the peppers grew in France, the farmers realized that they had a very unique product, one that deserved recognition and protection. They did not want farmers in other regions to grow, for example, paprika and call it Espelette. At first they formed cooperative enterprises to protect their interests, and eventually they applied to the National Institute for Trade Name Origins for an appellation d’origine contrôlée (AOC). On December 1, 1999, an AOC was granted to Espelette peppers and products, giving them the same protection as more famous names, such as Champagne sparkling wine. Only 10 communities are allowed to use the name Espelette: Espelette, Ainhoa, Cambo-les-Bains, Halsou, Itxassou, Jatxou, Larressore, Saint-Pée-sur-Nivelle, Souraïde, and Ustaritz. The total growing area is about 3,000 acres.
Paprika vendor in Budapest. Photograph by Istvan Takacs. Wikimedia. Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.
HOW PAPRIKA
CONQUERED HUNGARY
Paprika, of course, is a New World chile pepper that was spread around the world by way of agriculture. But paprika, in the words of Zoltán Halász, author of Hungarian Paprika through the Ages (1963), “found its second and, at the same time, true home in Hungary.” He adds: “It was in this country that such a high level and veritable cult of the growing, the processing and the use of paprika has been achieved, the like of which cannot be found anywhere else.”
Since Columbus was working for the Spanish royalty and brought back chile peppers to Spain on his second voyage in 1493, there is little doubt that Spain was the first point of their entry into Europe. But their spread throughout Europe was not only the result of the international trading of the empire of Charles V, but also resulted from the expansion of the Ottoman Empire in the eastern Mediterranean. In the sixteenth century, the empire included Bulgaria, a country called the “gardens of Europe,” according to Hungarian food expert George Lang. The Turks were in possession of chile peppers, or paprika in the parlance, and they taught the Bulgarians to grow the plants. Many Bulgarians emigrated to Hungary, fleeing the Turks but also looking for better land and climate. They found it and began growing paprika, but the common belief that the Turks introduced paprika directly into Hungary is not true. “There is ample evidence that the Bulgarians brought paprika to Hungary and started its cultivation,” writes Lang in Cuisine of Hungary (1971).
“It was at this point that paprika appeared in the history of spices,” writes Halász. “Almost unnoticed, it made a modest, but, it could be added,
a cheerful and charming entrance. No countries were subjugated for its sake; no brave Indians put to forced labour.” But why were chile peppers immediately accepted in Hungary when it took tomatoes 300 years to enter mainstream Italian cuisine?
I think it’s because paprika was originally thought to be “red pepper,” just a variant of familiar but expensive black pepper, while tomatoes had no reference fruit or vegetable in the Old World and thus remained strange and suspicious to most cooks. The word “paprika” derives from the Hungarian paparka, which is a variation on the Bulgarian piperka, which in turn was derived from the Latin piper, for “pepper.”
Tomatoes, however, made an early appearance in Hungarian cuisine. The Turks occupied parts of Hungary for 150 years, and they also appeared to have transferred both tomatoes and maize to the Hungarians via the Bulgarians. The tomato, writes Lang, “became very popular during this time and remained an essential part of the past three centuries of Hungarian cuisine.” This is mostly because tomatoes and paprika were immediate paired together in lecsó, an essential condiment that can stand on its own as an appetizer or be used as the main flavoring ingredient of soups and stews. It is made by cooking onions in lard and then adding slices of Italian frying or banana peppers, followed by fresh tomatoes, sugar, salt, and paprika.
The most likely scenario for the introduction of paprika into Bulgaria and Hungary holds that the Turks first became aware of chile peppers when they besieged the Portuguese colony of Diu, near Calicut, India, in 1538. This theory suggests that the Turks learned of chile peppers during that battle and then transported them along the trade routes of their vast empire, which stretched from India to Central Europe. According to Leonhard Fuchs, an early German professor of medicine, chiles were cultivated in Germany by 1542, in England by 1548, and in the Balkans by 1569. Fuchs knew that the European chiles had been imported from India, so he called them “Calicut peppers.” However, he wrongly assumed that chiles were native to India.