The Cuisine of Castile

hot-blooded spaniards demand fare fit for a conquistador

When the uninitiated talk about Spanish cooking, the two magic keys are assumed to be olive oil and garlic. Never has a stereotype been more false. In the hands of the Castilian gourmet, the indispensable ingredient isn't oil or garlic—it's imagination. A Spaniard will proudly give you his recipe for cocido, a rich stew of meat and garbanzos (chick-peas). He'll swear on a stack of windmills that his recipe, like a relic of the true cross, is the only authentic recipe extant. It won't take too many meals to discover not only that a cocido in two different places is never the same, but also that two Spaniards using the same recipe, tilting in the same kitchen, can't possibly duplicate each other's cocido even if they want to.

A great dish like arroz con polio obviously must include rice and chicken. There the similarity ends. One may be enriched with plump yellow fowl, another with the tenderest of spring chicken. One chicken is slowly simmered, another quickly sautéed. In one casserole the chicken is left on its bones. In another, the chicken meat is boneless. Only the Spanish cook's fancy will dictate whether there shall be onions, scallions, red or green peppers, saffron, nutmeg, chicken livers, bacon, mushrooms, marjoram—with the improvising continuing right up to the dinner hour which, incidentally, starts in Madrid at the sensible hora of ten o'clock and may last until daybreak. At an early age, Spaniards are disciplined in the philosophy that the daytime is primarily for sleeping.

Although Spain is no longer a monarchy, among the hierarchy who rule the Spanish cocinas, none has a fiercer pride than the Basque, and the place where he takes the lead in demonstrating his authoritative rule is his own private club kitchen. The Basque eating and drinking clubs are all-male organizations in which members do their own cooking and serving. Unlike the self-conscious gourmet societies in England and America which meet periodically to eat a full-dress and rather overcaloric dinner prepared by a hotel chef, the Basque eats his grilled fresh sardines, his baby lamb and his seafood stew only if they're his own handiwork or that of his fellow club members. If you ask the Basque why women are off limits in his private eating club, he'll quickly come back with an old Spanish proverb: "Love is a furnace, but it will not cook a meal." Basques, like all Spaniards, remember the chivalry of their past, and to bring it up to date, once a year they generously permit distaff visitors to enter the rarefied precincts of their club dining quarters.

Spain has the culinary advantage of having at hand an abundance of ingredients essential to a high order of cookery. Fine Spanish olive oil differs from oils such as corn and cottonseed in the same way that a fine 25-year-old Scotch differs from a bottle of unaged neutral spirits. In America, olive oil is still generally an acquired taste, but one decidedly worth cultivating. When used for immolating steaks or chops or liver before broiling, or added to a casserole of rice or seafood, or when used in salads, it adds an especially limpid, suave tone. Olives for oil are often taken from trees over a century old. The best grade or first pressing of the olives is called virgin, a rather silly designation, considering the mellowness of its flavor. Americans are always pleasantly startled when they taste mayonnaise that is made from olive oil and is garlic scented. In a blender it can be whipped up in a matter of minutes. On the Costa Brava of northeast Spain, one of Europe's finest playgrounds, it's mixed with a salad of lobster, shrimp, clams, oysters and four or five fresh vegetables. No translations could possibly enhance its Spanish name, ensalada yum yum.

Along the roadsides of Spain, vendors sell garlic by the yard. Bulbs of garlic are strung together, and careful buyers feel them to make sure they're crisp, hard and heavy. The Spanish call the sections of a garlic bulb dientes, or teeth. Invariably, whenever onions appear in a recipe, garlic is added as well for its small but significant bite. The artful Spanish chef uses garlic more generously than an American, not because he's obsessed with it, but because from long practice he knows his way around garlic more confidently than other cooks. In the opinion of many cosmopolitan epicures, the Spanish garlic soup made from chicken broth, bread crumbs sautéed in olive oil and garlic, and thickened with egg yolk is a more delicately flavored broth than any French or Italian onion soup.

There's a simple and valid explanation for the fact that Spanish fish and seafood is unrivaled throughout the world. All fish and seafood in Spain is rushed by a well-organized truck network that brings the fruits of the sea from both the Atlantic and the Mediterranean into the cook's pot one day after they're landed. The average Spaniard will endure revolution and riot, but the one thing he'll absolutely not tolerate is fish more than a day old. Spanish cooks not only look a fish in the eyes to make sure they're bulging and impudent; they feel the fish, thump it, twist it and examine its gills to make sure they're bloody red. If there's the slightest suspicion that the fish is more than 24 hours old, they'll firmly tell the fishmonger where to go. Throughout Spain there's a famous fish stew called zarzuela, meaning musical comedy or variety show. And just like a wild comedy, recipes for zarzuela call for anything from eel to octopus and mussels to turbot. In this country, unless you happen to live in a seafood town, the light comedy is best presented in a single act; that is, by cashing in on one seafood that is in season and so fresh that the salt water is still clinging to it.

For centuries, sherry, one of the world's great potables, has enjoyed dual parentage. Spain gave birth to it. England adopted it. As early as the 1100s, Englishmen were buying sherry from the Moors in Spain. Today, 90 percent of the wine from Jerez, Spain, goes to England where it's bottled, stored and shipped to the rest of the world. In his Pardoner's Tale, Chaucer wrote, "This wyn of Spayne crepeth subtilly." Shakespeare was unrestrained in praising the "good sherris-sack." Travelers touring the great bodegas where sherry is stored come to appreciate Falstaff's description of the wine that makes one's mind "quick, forgetive, full of nimble fiery and delectable shapes."

Like champagne, sherry becomes great only by an involved method of blending, known as the solera system, in which the old mother wines are gradually replenished from casks containing mature wines and, eventually, wines of the past year's vintage. In Spain, two casks containing wine from grapes of the very same vineyard will often look and taste different. To bring them to the same common but magnificent denominator is the job of the sherry grader, who will sniff—but never taste—as many as 400 different sherries a day.

The driest of all sherries, known as manzanilla or fino, is used as an aperitif or in cooking. As an aperitif, it should be ice cold. Americans serve it on the rocks, which is fine as long as there aren't too many rocks and too little sherry. Still on the dry side but with a nutty flavor is amontillado, perfect in, and with, green turtle soup and in any kind of seafood newburg. The one known as amoroso makes a definite bow to the sweet side. Girls with beehive hairdos and long mantillas drink ice-cold screwdrivers made of amoroso and freshly squeezed orange juice. The really sweet, dark, stately sherries, labeled oloroso, always arrive at the end of the meal with the cheese board and the fruit bowl. Although they're very rich, they never leave the mouth sticky. All sherries are fortified wines; that is, wines to which brandy has been added in small amounts. They may be uncorked and left at room temperature without danger of spoilage, but if left too long on the shelf, the olorosos will begin to lose their heavenly olor.

Throughout Spain red and white wines flow in such volume that in places like Aranda de Duero, bricklayers have been known to use wine for mixing mortar at times when water has been scarce. Some of the reds have a rowdy, guttural flavor that seems to fit them perfectly for the goatskins in which they're stored and from which they're drunk. A few of the white wines, however, like the wellknown Valdepenas and the white Riojas now coming to this country, carry a bright, fruity, and in some bottlings, almost flamboyant aroma. They're perfect table wines for washing down the rollicking Spanish food that follows.

[recipe_title]Lobster with Pine Nuts[/recipe_title]

(Serves four)

[recipe]4 live Northern lobsters, 1-1/2 lbs. each[/recipe]

[recipe]3-oz. pkg. shelled pine nuts[/recipe]

[recipe]1/4 cup olive oil[/recipe]

[recipe]1 Spanish onion, minced fine[/recipe]

[recipe]2 large cloves garlic, minced fine[/recipe]

[recipe]3 tablespoons minced parsley[/recipe]

[recipe]2 tablespoons fresh marjoram or 1/2 teaspoon dried marjoram[/recipe]

[recipe]1/2 cup very dry sherry[/recipe]

[recipe]19-oz. can plum tomatoes[/recipe]

[recipe]Salt, pepper, cayenne[/recipe]

In a very large stew pot or Dutch, oven bring 2 cups water to a rapid boil. Put lobsters in pot and steam, covered, 10 minutes. (Or buy lobsters steamed 10 minutes from seafood dealer.) Place pine nuts in a shallow pan in oven preheated at 375°. Add 1 tablespoon oil and stir. Bake pine nuts until light brown, about 10-12 minutes. Avoid scorching. Set aside. Cut lobsters in half. Remove sac in back of head. Cut body meat and claw meat into 1/2-in.-thick slices. Save tomalley and roe, if any. In another pot or saucepan heat balance of oil. Add onion, garlic, parsley and marjoram. Sauté only until onion turns yellow. Add sherry and simmer 2 minutes longer. Place tomatoes in blender. Blend until smooth. Add tomatoes to pan. Add lobster, pine nuts, tomalley and roe. Bring up to the boiling point. Reduce flame and simmer only until lobster is heated through. Add salt and pepper to taste, and a dash of cayenne. (concluded on page 208)Cuisine of Castile(continued from page 114)

[recipe_title]Clams Bilbainas[/recipe_title]

(Serves two)

[recipe]2 doz. littleneck clams[/recipe]

[recipe]12 1/2-in.-thick slices French bread[/recipe]

[recipe]1 medium-size onion, minced fine[/recipe]

[recipe]2 medium-size cloves garlic, minced fine[/recipe]

[recipe]2 tablespoons minced parsley[/recipe]

[recipe]1 teaspoon minced fresh dill[/recipe]

[recipe]1/8 teaspoon thyme[/recipe]

[recipe]1/4 cup olive oil[/recipe]

[recipe]1/2 cup dry white wine[/recipe]

[recipe]8-oz. can tomatoes, coarsely chopped[/recipe]

[recipe]Juice of 1/4 lemon[/recipe]

[recipe]Salt, pepper, cayenne[/recipe]

Place bread slices in a shallow pan in oven preheated at 450° and bake until slices are medium brown. Remove from oven and set aside. Wash clams very well under cold running water, using a vegetable brush to remove all traces of sand. In a Dutch oven or large stew pot sauté onion, garlic, parsley, dill and thyme in oil until onion just turns yellow. Add wine and tomatoes. Simmer 3 minutes longer. Add clams. Cover pot and cook only until clam shells open. Remove clams and place in a large shallow casserole. Add lemon juice to sauce. Season to taste with salt and pepper. (Clam juice in pot may not require added salt.) Add a dash of cayenne. Bring sauce again to a boil, and pour over clams in casserole.

[recipe_title]Cocido[/recipe_title]

(Serves four)

[recipe]2 lbs. top sirloin of beef[/recipe]

[recipe]1/2 lb. chorizo (hot Spanish sausage)[/recipe]

[recipe]3 tablespoons olive oil[/recipe]

[recipe]1 medium-size onion, minced fine[/recipe]

[recipe]2 large cloves garlic, minced fine[/recipe]

[recipe]1 small bay leaf[/recipe]

[recipe]1/4 teaspoon marjoram[/recipe]

[recipe]1/8 teaspoon thyme[/recipe]

[recipe]2 cups stock or chicken broth[/recipe]

[recipe]8-oz. can tomatoes, coarsely chopped[/recipe]

[recipe]2 1-lb. cans garbanzos[/recipe]

[recipe]Salt, pepper, monosodium glutamate 1/4 cup very dry sherry[/recipe]

Cut beef into 1-in. squares, 1/4 in. thick. Place beef in a Dutch oven or stew pot with oil and sauté until beef turns light brown. Cut chorizo into 1/4-in.-thick slices and add to pot. Add onion, garlic, bay leaf, marjoram and thyme. Saute until onion just turns yellow. Add stock and tomatoes. Put one can garbanzos, together with their juice, into a blender and blend until smooth. Add to stew pot. Add 1 teaspoon salt and 1/4 teaspoon pepper. Simmer slowly until beef is tender, about 1-1/2 to 2 hours. Drain second can garbanzos, discarding liquid. Add whole garbanzos to pot and bring to boil. Acid sherry. Season to taste.

[recipe_title]Eggs Flamenco[/recipe_title]

(Serves four)

[recipe]8 eggs[/recipe]

[recipe]10-oz. pkg. frozen peas[/recipe]

[recipe]Olive oil[/recipe]

[recipe]1 medium-size onion, minced fine[/recipe]

[recipe]1 large clove garlic, minced fine[/recipe]

[recipe]4 ozs. sliced boiled ham, minced fine[/recipe]

[recipe]1 small sweet red or green pepper, minced fine[/recipe]

[recipe]8-oz. can plum tomatoes, coarsely chopped[/recipe]

[recipe]2 tablespoons tomato paste[/recipe]

[recipe]2 tablespoons minced parsley[/recipe]

[recipe]2-1/2-oz. jar sliced mushrooms, drained Salt, pepper, cayenne[/recipe]

Cook peas in boiling salted water until tender. Drain and set aside. Heat 2 tablespoons oil in saucepan. Add onion, garlic, ham and sweet pepper. Sauté until onion turns yellow. Add tomatoes, tomato paste, parsley, mushrooms and peas. Simmer 5 minutes. Add salt and pepper to taste, and a dash of cayenne. Brush 4 shined-egg dishes with oil. Divide the tomato mixture among the four dishes. Open two eggs into the center of each dish. Bake in oven preheated at 375° 15 to 20 minutes or until eggs are just set. Serve at once.

[recipe_title]Arroz Con Pollo[/recipe_title]

(Serves six)

[recipe]3 whole breasts of chicken[/recipe]

[recipe]1/3 cup flour[/recipe]

[recipe]1 teaspoon paprika[/recipe]

[recipe]Salt, pepper[/recipe]

[recipe]Olive oil[/recipe]

[recipe]4-oz. can pimientos[/recipe]

[recipe]1-1/2 cups converted rice[/recipe]

[recipe]1 medium-size onion, minced fine[/recipe]

[recipe]1 medium-size clove garlic, minced fine[/recipe]

[recipe]1 medium-size piece celery, minced fine[/recipe]

[recipe]2 12-oz. cans chicken broth[/recipe]

[recipe]1/4 teaspoon saffron[/recipe]

[recipe]Juice of 1/2 lime[/recipe]

[recipe]10-oz. pkg. frozen peas[/recipe]

Have chicken breasts boned by butcher or remove skin and bone from breasts. Cut each breast in half lengthwise. Cut crosswise into 3/4-in.-thick slices. Place chicken in paper bag with flour, paprika, 1/2 teaspoon salt and 1/8 teaspoon pepper. Shake well to coat chicken thoroughly. Remove chicken from bag and shake off excess flour. Heat 3 tablespoons oil in a saucepan. Sauté chicken pieces until light brown, turning frequently. Remove chicken from pan. Cut pimientos in half lengthwise, and then cut into 1/4-in. strips. Set chicken and pimientos aside. In a deep pot heat 2 tablespoons oil. Add rice and cook over a medium flame, stirring constantly, until rice turns deep yellow. Add onion, garlic and celery and sauté 1 minute longer. Add chicken broth, saffron and lime juice. Bring to a boil. Add chicken and pimientos and stir well. Reduce flame as low as possible and cook covered, without stirring, until rice is tender—about 20 minutes. In a separate saucepan cook peas, following directions on package. Drain. Add peas to cooked rice mixture, tossing lightly. Serve in covered casserole.

Paella. Follow preceding recipe. Add to pot 6 well-scrubbed littleneck clams, 6 well-scrubbed mussels, 1/2 lb. shelled and deveined shrimps and 1/2 lb. filet of flounder, cut into 3/4-in. squares, when chicken is added.

[recipe_title]Duckling Valenciana[/recipe_title]

(Serves four)

[recipe]5-lb. duckling[/recipe]

[recipe]2 medium-size onions[/recipe]

[recipe]2 medium-size pieces celery[/recipe]

[recipe]1 medium-size clove garlic[/recipe]

[recipe]4-oz. can pimientos[/recipe]

[recipe]6 center-cut loin pork chops, 1/2 in. thick[/recipe]

[recipe]1/3 cup flour[/recipe]

[recipe]1 teaspoon paprika[/recipe]

[recipe]Salt, pepper[/recipe]

[recipe]Olive oil[/recipe]

[recipe]1-1/2 cups converted rice[/recipe]

[recipe]1/4 teaspoon saffron[/recipe]

[recipe]5-oz. jar olives stuffed with almonds, drained[/recipe]

Thaw duckling. Cut off wings together with wing tips. Place neck, wings, wing tips and gizzard in a pot with 1 quart water. Add 1 whole onion, 1 piece celery and 1/4 teaspoon salt. Bring to a boil and simmer very slowly, skimming when necessary, for 1 hour. Strain broth. If flavor seems weak, add 1 or 2 packets bouillon powder. Season to taste. Roast duckling in a slow oven, 325°, until tender—about 2 hours. Mince very fine the remaining onion, celery and garlic. Cut pimientos in half lengthwise, then cut into 1/4-in. strips. Remove pork meat from bones and cut into 1/4-in. cubes. Cut duckling livers into 1/4-in. cubes. Place pork and duckling livers in a paper bag with the flour, paprika, 1/2 teaspoon salt and 1/8 teaspoon pepper. Shake well to coat meat thoroughly. Shake off excess flour. Heat 2 tablespoons oil in a saucepan. Sauté pork and liver until meat is medium brown. Set aside. Heat 2 tablespoons oil in a large Dutch oven or stew pot. Add rice and sauté, stirring constantly, until rice is yellow. Add minced onion, celery and garlic and sauté 1 minute longer. Add pork and liver, saffron, pimientos, olives and 3 cups duckling broth. If there is insufficient broth, add stock to make 3 cups liquid. Bring liquid to a boil, stir well and cover with tight lid. Simmer over lowest possible flame, without stirring, until rice is tender—about 20 minutes. Cut duckling carcass in half. Separate thighs from second joints and second joints from carcass. Cut breast sections into 1-in. strips. Place rice in a shallow casserole. Place duckling pieces on top and reheat for 15 to 20 minutes in a moderate (375°) oven.

These dishes will garner a chorus of "Olés" from your guests, who will learn firsthand that Castilian cuisine combines the fiery passion of a flamenco dancer, the exciting artistry of a matador's veronica and the subtle charm of a Spanish guitar.