by Julia Reed
My guides in a great many of my endeavors were Jenny and Juan Luis Hernandez Miron. Jenny grew up in the Arkansas Delta, just across the river from where I was born. She met Juan Luis, a professor, more than twenty years ago, during a college year abroad in Madrid, married him two years later, and she’s been there ever since. Juan Luis spent eleven years writing the definitive Spanish-Greek dictionary; he has had season tickets to the Madrid bullfights for more than thirty years. He is the kind of guy who, on no notice, can somehow procure the only five tickets to a bullfight to be had during Seville’s crowded feria, even on the day that the wildly popular José Tomás is fighting—and he’ll also know the best place (Barbiana) to have lunch beforehand. Jenny is as entertaining and fun-loving as Juan Luis, and at least as useful since she speaks fluent Spanish, French, and Italian (Juan Luis doesn’t exactly speak English).
One of our first treks together was to Plasencia, Juan Luis’s hometown in the Extremadura region. Though he has visited Jenny’s and my homeland countless times (I’m pretty sure he’s the only Spaniard who has made repeat trips to both Portland, Arkansas and Greenville, Mississippi), I had never seen his. Also, he’d been trying to explain to me the difference between pure Spanish paprika and that of Hungary or South American countries (the tasteless stuff sold by American spice companies is not even worth mentioning), so he was adamant that I visit his uncle’s pimentón factory in Aldeanueva del Camino, a town in La Vera, the northern part of Extremadura. Pimentón de la Vera, with its unique smoky-sweet taste, is regarded as the finest paprika in Spain.
On the drive west from Madrid we passed literally hundreds of storks (las ciguenas), nesting, in what appear to be impossible feats of balance and engineering (these nests are enormous), on the points of church steeples and bell towers, on the apexes and outer corners of roofs, at the tops of electrical towers and construction cranes. (The storks have ruined so many rooftops that the government placed specially designed, elevated steel structures on top of the roofs they seemed most fond of, but the storks simply built their nests underneath them.) We looked up at the house on a hill where Franco and the young Juan Carlos had their secret meeting to discuss Franco’s plan for the boy to become king upon his death, as well as his education in the meantime. And in Plasencia we walked by the house on the cobbled street where Juan Luis grew up, and to the bar where he is still warmly embraced—but where, alas, they were sold out of the pork-and-paprika tapa he remembered so fondly.
The next day though, we saw plenty of paprika at Pimentón Santo Domingo, founded in 1908, and owned by Mariano Miron, a former schoolteacher and mayor of the town. The outside of the building is painted the paprika red and deep sky blue as the chic paprika can—I took a big one home to adorn my kitchen. Inside, not a thing appears to be changed since the day the first peppers were ground. The grinding takes place in an enormous Rube Goldberg contraption that extends over two floors and features a complicated set of pipes going in and out of windows, connecting bins and grinders and a giant sieve that looks like a pinball machine. It was all a bit too much for me to take in, but basically, the peppers are first dumped into a machine that takes off the stem (el pezón, “the nipple”), and they are then, seeds and all, funneled into another machine where they are crushed between two ancient-looking stone wheels. By the time it’s all over, each batch goes through a fine grinder at least six times, and finally through the sieve, where it runs down in troughs into big bags, collected on wooden carts and rolled away.
The grinding takes place from October to January or February, and even though I didn’t visit until May, a fine red dust still covered everything. The only “equipment” besides the grinding apparatus are straw bags used to tote the peppers (the same ones that the blood-stained dust of the bullring is swept into during breaks in the action), the painted wooden carts, and tables where the paprika is scooped into tins and marked dulce, agridulce, or picante. The dulce, or sweet, the most widely used, is made with a round pepper called la bola. Both agridulce and picante are made from a longer, thinner red pepper with a bit more bite, but picante is given heat by adding cayenne.
When we left, Uncle Mariano plied us with tins of all three, and the taste was a revelation. Up to that point, I think I’d only ever sprinkled paprika on top of stuffed eggs or over bowls of potato salad to make them pretty—there was no point in using it to flavor anything since the flavor most closely approximated red sawdust. But this tasted like actual sweet and sweet-hot peppers that had been dried using smoke. In Spain, paprika is used to flavor everything from chorizo (the sausage that takes a lot) to garlic soup (which takes a pinch).
It is also used in a variety of marinades for lamb or pork, or in the simpler tapa Juan Luis had hoped to order in his old haunt in Plasencia. Back in Madrid, he made it for us. First he sliced three onions and two tenderloins of pork very thin. Next he heated about 2 tablespoons of olive oil in a skillet, added the onions, and sweated them, covered, for about five minutes before adding a half teaspoon of picante paprika and cooking for two or three minutes more. Finally he layered the pork slices on top, poured about a half cup of dry sherry over them and turned up the heat. In five minutes he turned the slices and cooked them until they were a golden brown on the bottom. Then he served the pork, without the onion, sprinkled with sea salt and lemon, along with slices of baguette. The dish is Spanish cooking at its simple, elegant best. Below, I offer a similar, more substantial version that I serve as a main course accompanied by rice (preferably cooked in chicken stock with a thread or two of saffron) and a classic pisto (as opposed to the French pistou) taught to me by a waiter at Casa Paco, where it is not to be missed.
PORK LOIN MARINATED IN PAPRIKA AND HERBS
( Yield: 4 to 6 servings )
5 garlic cloves
¼ cup minced fresh oregano leaves
1 tablespoon imported sweet paprika
2 teaspoons fresh thyme leaves
1 teaspoon salt or to taste
1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
5 tablespoons olive oil, plus more for cooking
1 tablespoon red-wine vinegar
1¼ pounds boneless pork loin, cut into 1½-inch pieces or 1 whole tenderloin.
Crush the garlic with a press or in a mortar. Add the remaining ingredients, except the pork, and make into a paste. Toss the cubed pork with the paste in a bowl or smear onto the whole tenderloin. Marinate in the refrigerator for at least 24 hours.
Coat a large skillet with olive oil and heat until smoking. If using the whole tenderloin, slice it into ½-inch slices. Add slices or cubes to the skillet and brown on all sides. Reduce the heat to medium and cook until just done, 10 to 15 minutes. Taste, and add more salt if necessary.
PISTO
( Yield: 6 to 8 servings )
3 tablespoons olive oil
4 garlic cloves, chopped
2 medium yellow onions, chopped
2 pounds zucchini, cut into ¾-inch cubes
2½ pounds tomatoes, peeled, seeded, and chopped (or the equivalent of canned diced tomatoes, about 1 large and 1 small can)
½ teaspoon sugar or to taste
1 teaspoon salt or to taste
½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper or to taste
2 eggs, lightly beaten.
Heat the olive oil in a large skillet over medium heat. Add the garlic and onions and cook until soft, about 7 minutes. Stir in the zucchini, tomatoes, sugar, salt, and pepper. After about 5 minutes, add ¼ cup water and simmer, stirring often, mashing down on the vegetables as they soften. (A potato masher is useful.) Add more water if it cooks out before the vegetables are soft.
When the vegetables are done and the mixture resembles a chunky puree, taste and adjust the seasoning if necessary. Add the eggs, stirring quickly to incorporate, and remove from heat.
5
Kill That Taste!
For years my friend the writer Elaine Shannon and I joked that one day we would write a cookbook called Kill That Taste! The idea wa
s born from the fact that the refrigerator in Elaine’s Washington, D.C., kitchen is filled almost exclusively with powerful condiments: lime pickle, an extensive collection of chutneys and relishes, capers, caperberries, mustards, and, because she is a good Georgia girl, a vast array of hot sauces. The idea was that anything accompanied by one or some combination of the above would be made better, or at the very least, unrecognizable. Even—or especially—foods people hate.
Now there are very few things I don’t like, but employing our theory, I have made uninteresting things taste far livelier. The ever-present mini-bottle of Tabasco in my purse has gotten me through more airplane meals and rubber chicken dinners that I can count. It is also possible, of course, to go the opposite route and kill things with kindness. I have seen many a timid eater overcome his or her aversion to some despised food or other when it is plied with enough cream and butter. Or if it is simply fried.
Okra is an excellent case in point. I grew up eating okra at least two or three times a week and I agree with the poet and novelist James Dickey. “You talk of supping with the gods,” he wrote in Jericho. “You’ve just done it, for who but a god could come up with the divine fact of okra?” Alas, we are in the minority. I suspect that many people’s problem with okra is the slimy mass it becomes if you cook it too long (I don’t even mind it that way, which is how you get it in school cafeterias and at inferior diners where they serve it out of cans). But frying it (slicing it, rolling it in seasoned fine white cornmeal, and frying it in about a half inch of oil or bacon grease until it’s golden brown) solves the problem. Gloriously crunchy, distinctly unslimy, fried okra is as addictive as McDonald’s French fries were when they were still fried in all that bad beef tallow. But you don’t even have to be bad. Pan-frying the okra in a bit of olive oil and water or just steaming it until it’s barely tender is just as effective in dealing with the slime quotient, and here you can indulge in a bit of Killing That Taste! I serve steamed okra at cocktail parties with a dipping sauce of curried mayonnaise or a mayo enlivened by some pressed garlic and a healthy squirt of Thai chili paste. In Country Weekends, the great Lee Bailey accompanies steamed okra with a wonderful tomato vinaigrette.
So few people eat okra (more radishes are grown in this country) that it never even makes it on to the lists of Top 10 hated foods. This is not the case for the perennial winners broccoli and Brussels sprouts. No less than a sitting American president (George H. W. Bush) publicly declared his distaste for broccoli; in Britain a recent poll found that broccoli is the second most hated food on the island, topped only by Brussels sprouts. That is too bad, because, like okra, which is very high in fiber, broccoli and Brussels sprouts are extremely good for you. Brussels sprouts are rich in vitamins A and C, they are a great source of potassium, thiamine, and iron, and are proven to stimulate the digestive system. Broccoli is also rich in A and C, and a study from Johns Hopkins shows that it possesses a compound that appears to be more effective than antibiotics against the bacteria that causes peptic ulcers. Even more impressive, tests in mice suggest that the same compound could offer “formidable protection” against stomach cancer, the second most common form of cancer in the world.
It would behoove us then to get munching. Whatever else their problems, I bet the ancient Romans were not beset with stomach ulcers. According to the historian Alexis Soyer, the first-century gourmet Apicius, who wrote the nearest thing to a cookbook that survives today, was so good at cooking broccoli, “this dish alone would have been enough to establish his reputation.” (Imagine a Daniel Boulud or a Mario Batali cementing their reputations on nothing but a broccoli dish today.) Tiberius’s son was so crazy about Apician broccoli that the emperor was forced to tell the boy to curb his appetite. The vegetable’s popularity was finally expanded about a millenium and a half later when Catherine de Medici moved from Florence to France in 1553 in order to marry the heir to the French throne. Her chefs came with her and introduced broccoli to the country. The Italians are partial to broccoli panfried in olive oil with capers and slivers of prosciutto or maybe a little Parmesan cheese. The French more often take the kinder route with cream and butter in soups or purees.
Brussels sprouts too were once far more popular, and so named because they were considered a Belgian delicacy. Lately they’ve been enjoying a resurgence, mainly because people have finally learned that the habit of boiling them until they produce a stomach-curdling stench and taste was not, perhaps, the best way to showcase their attributes. Still, for unshakable sprouts haters, the only solution is to disguise them completely by transforming them into a slaw of sorts with the aid of a good knife or food processor. They can then be sautéed in a flavored butter or in bacon fat (and then tossed with crumbled bacon and some fresh thyme). I do this all the time, people love it, and they never know what they’re eating. Betty DeCell, my former New Orleans landlady, detests Brussels sprouts, and she fell for it. She also told me about the only other Brussels sprouts dish she ever liked, a puree she had years ago in Austria. I decided to fool around with one and the results were so delicious that it is now my favorite fall accompaniment to roast chicken and veal (and it is especially good with Thanksgiving and Christmas turkeys).
BRUSSELS SPROUTS “SLAW” WITH MUSTARD BUTTER
( Yield: 4 to 6 servings )
8 tablespoons (1 stick) butter, at room temperature
l large garlic clove, put through a press
2 to 3 tablespoons Dijon or whole-grain Meaux mustard
3 tablespoons minced green onions
2 tablespoons chopped parsley
Salt and freshly ground black pepper
1 pound Brussels sprouts
1 teaspoon caraway seeds or celery seeds, bruised in a mortar (optional)
Lemon wedges
Place the butter in a medium bowl and add the garlic, 2 tablespoons of the mustard, the green onions, and the parsley. Mix well. Add more mustard and salt and pepper to taste and set aside.
Trim the root ends of the sprouts and remove loose or discolored leaves. Cut the sprouts in half and then crosswise into fine shreds. Melt ½ cup of the mustard butter in a large skillet over medium heat. Sauté the sprouts until tender, about 5 minutes. Lower the heat and stir in the caraway seeds, and more mustard butter and salt and pepper to taste. Serve with lemon wedges.
NOTE: The mustard butter may be stored, covered, in the refrigerator or rolled into a cylinder and frozen until needed. It is also very good with chopped fresh dill in place of the parsley.
BRUSSELS SPROUTS PUREE
( Yield: 4 to 6 servings )
1 pound Brussels sprouts
1 cup heavy cream
3 tablespoons butter
½ teaspoon salt, plus more to taste
¼ teaspoon freshly ground white pepper, plus more to taste
Pinch freshly grated or ground nutmeg
Steam the Brussels sprouts until tender but not soft, about 6 minutes. Set aside.
When the sprouts are just cool enough to handle, slice in half and pulse in a food processor until finely chopped.
Heat the cream until almost boiling and add to the sprouts with the butter. Process until smooth. Add 1 teaspoon salt, ¼ teaspoon white pepper, and a pinch of nutmeg, blend well, and adjust seasonings to taste. Serve warm.
NOTE: For a milder Brussels sprouts flavor, add 1 cup diced, boiled potatoes when processing.
BROCCOLI PUREE WITH GINGER
(Adapted from Cooking with Daniel Boulud)
( Yield: 4 to 6 servings )
One 2-inch piece ginger, peeled
1½ teaspoons olive oil
1 cup thinly sliced onions
1 large garlic clove, finely chopped
½ cup heavy cream
2 pounds broccoli, trimmed into florets with 1 inch of the stem
Pinch salt, plus more to taste
Pinch cayenne pepper, plus more to taste
Cut off a ¼-inch-thick slice of ginger and reserve. Grate the remainder and wrap it in a thin cot
ton tea towel. Twist the towel tightly to release the juice. Reserve ½ teaspoon juice and discard the rest with the grated ginger.
Heat the oil in a large saucepan over medium heat. Add the ginger slice, onions, and garlic, cover and sweat until the onions are soft but not browned, 5 to 8 minutes. Add the cream, bring to a boil and simmer until slightly thickened, about 4 minutes. Discard the ginger slice and keep the cream warm.
Bring a pot of salted water to a boil. Add the broccoli and cook until very tender, 8 to 10 minutes. Drain in a colander and press against the sides with a wooden spoon to extract excess water.
Put the broccoli in a food processor, add ½ the cream mixture, a pinch of salt, and a pinch of cayenne. Process until smooth. Add the remaining cream mixture and the ginger juice; blend well. Adjust the seasoning and serve warm.
LEE BAILEY’S STEAMED OKRA WITH WARM TOMATO VINAIGRETTE
( Yield: 6 servings )
1 pound okra, tips and tops trimmed
4 tablespoons olive oil
4 tablespoons shallots, finely chopped