La Tienda in the Press

Teri Goldberg


...Castile soap traces it roots to the Castile region in Spain some time around the 17th century when soap makers started to use olive oil instead of animal fat in bar soaps. The olive-oil rich soap bars set the standard for luxury, vegetable-based soaps.

To sample the Spanish-made soaps, click over to tienda.com, a mom-and-pop shop based in Williamsburg, Va. where the cyber shelves are filled with authentic Spanish goods. After jamon Serrano (dried cured ham), soaps were the most requested item when the site first launched, says Don Harris, a retired U.S. Navy chaplain, who founded the company with his wife and three sons.

A three-bar pack of pure olive oil Sulasna soap sells for $8.25. Other soaps at tienda.com include La Toja, which contains mineral salts from a small island off Galicia. Three bars sell for $6.50. And then there's the mysterious black, lanolin and glycerin Magno soap. "Although it is jet-black, it produces a dense white lather that foams in hard and soft water," says the product description. A 3-pack sells for $8.75...

Iberian hams and sausages are finally becoming available in the United States.
Sam Guigino

Chances are you've never tasted the ham that many consider the best in the world. Called Ibérico, after its region of origin in Spain, it has a firmer texture and a more intense, gamier, flavor than other well-known cured hams. It's also illegal in the United Stated -- until 2005. While Italians take ham, most notably their Prosciutto di Parma, very seriously, the Spanish raise ham-devotion to a whole new level, consuming double what the Italians eat. "For the Spanish, ham is everything," says Don Harris, owner of Tienda.com, a purveyor of Spanish products in Williamsburg, VA. "I once saw a truck driver buy a whole ham at a truck stop to snack on along the way."

Ibérico hams will be available in the United States in 2005 -- the first year that these hams will be produced to meet the U.S. Department of Agriculture's stringent standards. But right now, you can at least get the idea by tasting another Spanish ham, called serrano. These are not aged as long and come from pigs that are fed a different diet, but their style resembles Ibérico's and they taste great. Prior to 1997, serrano hams were banned because of concerns about a swine virus that affected much of Europe (Prosciutto di Parma was also banned). Another relatively recent stateside import is Spanish chorizo, the smoked cured pork sausage.

The Spanish have been curing hams for centuries. Originally produced mostly in mountainous areas, the ham was called jamón serrano. Jamón is the Spanish word for ham and serrano comes from the word sierra, Spanish for mountain. Virtually every region of Spain has its own version of serrano ham, though the procedure for making them is quite similar.

It begins with white pigs, normally Duroc, Pietrain, Landrace or Large White varieties, that are fed a diet of grains. Once slaughtered, the rear legs are rubbed with coarse sea salt. When the salt is washed off, the hams are hung to dry, losing up to a third of their weight. Traditionally, this step involved exposing hams to the dry mountain air. Today, most hams are cured in temperature- and humidity-controlled facilities called secaderos.

European Union regulations require serrano hams to be aged at least seven months. To obtain the seal of the Consorsio del Jamón Serrano Español, a Spanish trade group formed in 1990, hams must be aged at least nine months. "Longer aging gives the hams a more concentrated flavor and makes the meat firmer. which enables you to get [more desirable] thinner slices," Harris says.

Because Spain does not have a slaughterhouse that meets USDA standards, serrano hams imported into the United States come from pigs raised and slaughtered in Denmark or Holland. The meat is then sent to Spain for curing. "Part of the problem with the USDA is that it requires a slaughterhouse to be used only for the hams. It couldn't be used for other meats," Harris says.

Ibérico hams come from a special breed of black-footed (pata negra) pigs in southern and southwestern Spain. Until the slaughtering facilities meet USDA standards, the only way you'll be able to taste Ibérico ham is to travel to Spain. For some folks, it might be worth the trip. "It's so special that you're more likely to eat it by itself," says Penelope Casas, author of Tapas: The Little Dishes of Spain (Knopf). "The pigs exist on a diet of acorns, which gives the meat a very nutty flavor. It has streaks of fat through it, like a well-marbled steak. That adds to the flavor." So too does the length of curing, from 14 to 36 months.

All this and limited production means that a whole Ibérico ham may cost up to $800 in the United States, about four times the price of serrano ham. This has not deterred fans, though. At Tienda.com, Harris has standing order for more than 300 Ibérico hams for Christmas of 2005.

I tasted three serrano hams from two producers. Meat from an 18-month-old Redondo Inglesias bone-in ham was easily the best. The thin streaks of fat throughout each slice gave the meat a seductive creaminess. And even though my less-than-wafer-thin slices were a bit chewy, the flavor was still nutty,, rich, and elegant. Redondo's La Primera sliced ham, aged 12 months, came in beautiful, thin sheets. It had good flavor but was less refined, lacking the silky mouthfeel of the whole ham. Slices I cut from a chunk of boneless 12-month-old ham made by Navidul were similar to La Primera, but slightly coarser in texture.

Spanish chorizos had the same difficulty as serrano hams in making it into the United States. Palacios, the only Spanish chorizo in the United States, wasn't widely available until the fall of 2001. Like serrano hams, the three imported Palacios sausages come from Denmark pigs. Unlike the more common Mexican chorizo, which is usually raw, these Spanish chorizos are cured, much like Italian salami. Another distinction from the Mexican chorizo is the Spanish use of pimentón, a smoked paprika. Palacios chorizos are also made without nitrates or nitrites, unlike many cured sausages.

Several companies make Spanish-style chorizos in the United States. The best I know of is La Española Meats Inc. in Southern California. In 1982, Juana Gimeno Faraone, a native of Valencia, and her husband, Frank, started the company, which produces sausages under the Doña Juana label. Except for the U.S.-bred pigs, everything else for her sausages comes from Spain, including a reassembled curing room and an inspector from Barcelona. Faraone's sausages have names such as Pamplona and Léon that reflect the regional variations in flavor and texture.

The main difference between the Spanish and domestic chorizos I tasted was the intensity of the pimentón. In the Palacios sausages, the pimentón was more pronounced, giving them a brooding, earthy quality that the domestic sausages didn't have. The picante Palacios had a long, slow-building heat as well. The mild and picante Palacios chorizos had a firm texture while the similar tasting Palacios Oreado (which is sometimes grilled even though fully cured) was softer. La Española's Léon chorizo had and intoxicating smoked meat and leather aroma, like that of a good Rhone red. The meaty flavor had gentle hints of spices woven throughout, though the texture was a bit chewy. There was more pimentón in the Pamplona, but it wasn't as deeply embedded as it was in the Palacios. Sobrasada, a specialty of Mallorca, was soft with a rich pimentón flavor.

Generally, the best way to serve serrano ham and chorizos is by themselves, the way you get them in Spanish tapas bars. At home, the Spanish will often buy a whole ham on the bone and keep it on the counter (nestled in a holder called a jamonera), swiping off slices as they pass by during the day. You may not feel comfortable doing that. However, refrigerated hams and sausages should be brought out an hour before serving. For hors d-oeuvres, you can accompany thin slices of ham and chunks of chorizo with almonds (toasted or fried in olive oil) and olives. I like to put ham and chorizos along with potatoes in tortilla, an open-faced Spanish omelet. Try the ham (especially end pieces that don't make pretty slices) in bean stews, rice dishes and with vegetables such as braised cabbage. Sobrasada chorizo is often spread on toast and drizzled with honey for breakfast.

Quality serrano ham is also finding its way onto menus. At Ola, Douglas Rodriguez's new restaurant in Manhattan, the ham adds a salty tang to foie gras and fig empanada. In another dish, Rodriguez wraps scallops in the ham before pan-frying the morsels and serving them on a sweet corn tamale. Rodriguez also uses chorizo but prefers not to embellish it, so he puts it on a charcuterie platter.

Hands down the best wine with the hams and chorizos was a fino Sherry. Its crisp, clean fruitiness was an excellent foil to the fat and salt mix of the ham and the pimentón of the chorizos. The bubbles of a Spanish cava nicely cut through the saltiness of the ham and sausage. A Verdejo-based white from Rueda, an Albariño and a rosé were also good choices. For reds, I'd stick with a young, fruit-forward Tempranillo. If you're into wine futures, you might consider one to go with that Ibérico ham in 2005.

…“Do you know these?” he asks, pointing to a heap of small, thin-skinned, green peppers. They’re pimientos de Padron, the legendary Galician frying peppers, mild except for the occasional one that will take your head off”… From April to September, Tienda (888/472-1022; www.tienda.com) sells fresh pimientos de Padron ($7.50 for a 4 ounce bag) for the fried pimientos…

Reprinted with permission from Cooking Pleasures magazine.

To visit their website, go to http://visitors.cookingclub.com

Spanish Ingredients
Chorizo

This is Spain's well known, dry-cured sausage that is seasoned with paprika and garlic. In Spain, it is sliced and eaten as a tapa, but it is also sued to season dishes, such as bean or chickpea stews.

Olive Oils

Spain produces olive oils of the highest quality, the result of the country's ideal growing conditions and remarkable selection of olive varieties. The oils range from subtle and mild to fruity and robust.

Piquillo Peppers

These delicate, wood-roasted, slightly piquant peppers have gained an enthusiastic following among chefs and home cooks. They are marvelous on their own, in salads or lightly sautéed, and most elegant when stuffed with meat or fish.

Noras

These dried, sweet red peppers are used extensively in Spanish cooking to lend a distinctive earthy flavor to salad dressings, vegetables and sauces for fish.

Anchovies

Spain's anchovies are among the world's best. Look for those i jars, which tend to be better quality and allow you to see what you are buying. Anchovies should be firm but succulent and not overly salty.

SOURCES FOR SPANISH FOOD

For product information, call these companies or visit their Web sites:

Tienda.com (888) 472-1022, www.tienda.com

Q: Several years ago, I found a recipe for tuna salad that required sherry vinegar, and I bought some. Now I am running low, and I have gone to every store in the area, and I can't find it. Could you please tell me where I can buy some?

A: Consider yourself a bit ahead of a national trend with your sherry vinegar purchase several years ago.

Recently there's been a surge in recipes calling for the Spanish import. The vinegar adds a sharp flavor boost that some describe as woody and nutty. Because of this growing interest, many specialty food markets and a growing number of supermarkets are stocking the product.

A web site featuring products from Spain, www.tienda.com, offers varieties from $6.95 to $94. The priciest bottle, a 75-year-old Gran Reserva by Vinagres de Yema (17 ounces), comes in a wooden presentation box.

Copyright © 2003, Chicago Tribune

David Rosengarten

Until recently, Spanish hams have been unavailable in the United States because of the government's ban on importation of foreign meat products. But recently two large companies—Navidul (with connections to Hormel!), and Redondo Iglesias—received approval to bring this delicacy into the country.

So far, I have been more impressed by the jamón from Navidul. And The Spanish Table is a perfect source. They will ship to you, if you desire, a whole 15-pound Redondo Iglesias Jamón (bone-in or boneless; I far prefer bone-in) for $225, a great idea for a party! Make sure to request the Black Label jamón that's 18 months old.

And if your taste has been whetted for the mind-bending, heretofore unavailable-in-America Spanish ham made from the Iberico pigs, I especially urge you to log onto www.tienda.com. Why? Get this: Tienda is planning to select 600 hams from acorn-eating Iberico pigs, and supervise their production. The hams will be ready for Christmas of 2004, when they will become the first Iberico hams to arrive in the United States! And you can be part of this amazing adventure. On the Tienda Web site right now, you have an opportunity to claim one (or more) of those hams. They will cost about $500 each (cheap for Iberico), plus shipping. Tienda says no payment is required right now, but later on you may be asked for a down payment. If you have any questions, call 1-888-472-1022 and ask for Tim Harris, or e-mail him at tim@tienda.com.

Pumpkin Butter

1 tbsp. Arrop Syrup*

1 oz. Arrop Pumpkin Rind*

1/2 cup (1 stick) unsalted butter

* available online at www.tienda.com

Allow butter to soften. Mix all ingredients together with a wire whisk. Fill the Butter Bell crock with the mixture and serve with berry scones or zucchini bread.

Spanish chile has underground following
Devotees of the mild, sweet pimiento de Padron finally have a local source


Laramie Trevino, Special to The Chronicle

Chile heads can understand that Judy Sheldon carried a torch for a pepper that captured her heart in a foreign land long ago.

While in Spain on a walking tour in the early 1990s, the San Francisco gardener ventured into tapas bars where she met the muy simpatico pimiento de Padron. That mildly sweet green chile from the Galicia region, fried in olive oil and served by the plate, also headlines a village festival in its honor.

Before heading back home, Sheldon's thoughts turned to smuggling seeds across international borders but in the end fortified herself with the hope that she would encounter the Padrons again in her homeland.

"I never forgot them," Sheldon recalls. And she never saw them again, either.

Until two years ago. That's when she spotted the pepper among the rainbow mix of 30 varieties sold by Happy Quail Farms at the farmers' market at Justin Herman Plaza in San Francisco. She reacted to the initial sighting with denial.

"Oh, my gosh -- it couldn't be the same thing," she exclaimed.

Ah, but it was. Now on her weekly visits to the market, the Padron is the only purchase she makes at the stand, reaching across the flamboyant chocolate, purple and golden bells to grasp a tiny sack or two of the comely newcomer. That scene is repeated by other faithful Padron fans at other Bay Area markets where David Winsberg sells peppers into late fall.

Winsberg started growing the Padron in East Palo Alto in 1997 with seeds a friend brought back after a visit to Spain. Today, he may be the sole commercial grower in the U.S., although this season the chile team of (one California cooperative) included the Padron among the 40 varieties of chiles planted in their vegetable project in Santa Clara.

Unremarkable in appearance the chile curves and grooves a bit and is somewhat ruddy. While regarded as a sweet chile in its early stages, now and then a spicy pod will surprise the eater. "It's only in the last couple of years that the Padron has hit its stride in Spain," Winsberg says.

The first restaurants to serve Winsberg's pimientos de Padron were El Mason and El Farol, both in Santa Fe. At El Meson, a plate of pimientos de Padron consists of about two dozen chiles, enough for sampling by several diners. The peppers, fried with garlic chips, are served with a small jug of extra virgin olive oil and a bowl of fresh bread on the side. Sherry is the recommended beverage.

Within each batch of a dozen or so chiles, Madrid-born El Mason chef David Huertas finds a hot pod has slipped through. "That's the fun thing when you're sharing them with friends -- to see who gets the spicy ones," he says.

In San Francisco, Zarzuela restaurant also serves pimientos de Padron fried in olive oil, then sprinkled with kosher salt.

In East Palo Alto, grower Winsberg's operation is anchored by a 28,000-acre greenhouse where the Padron makes up a fraction of the one ton of specialty chiles -- old Hungarian varieties, bells, Italian Longhorn and cayennes -- harvested each season.

The cooperative in Santa Clara County tried several European sources and finally obtained some Padron seeds. At the half-acre site they cultivate they are finding the Padron to be prolific and fast growing.

Some mornings, the cooperative gardeners wrap up their work day with a Padron fry on a portable grill in the shady doorway of a shed. Following the formula shared by chef Huertas, they cook the chiles until they blister all over and collapse when taken from the burner. The chiles are not ready if they retain too much air and fail to buckle after being removed from the heat. With the long stems left on the pod, the chiles are gripped by loving hands and nibbled on by admirers besotted with this chile they carry a torch for. ...

Here's where to find pimientos de Padron:

Tienda.com, a Spanish food Web site. Log on to www.tienda.com, or call (888) 472-1022.

Penelope Casas


Gazpacho was born in the fields of southern Spain, and there my most vivid memories of gazpacho go back to an August afternoon in Cordoba some 30 years ago. My husband, Luis, and I had made the acquaintance of Feliciano Delgado, Augustinian priest and professor at the University of Cordoba, who graciously offered to show us the city's awesome 10th-century mosque. Afterward, he invited us his 17th-century house in the city's Old Quarter. The afternoon sun was fiery and the temperatures wilting, but the whitewashed patio, filled with antiques and shaded by a colorful awning, was cool and tranquil. Feliciano's elderly mother brought us earthenware tumblers of gazpacho, the "liquid salad" that is the quintessence of the laid-back Andalusian lifestyle. We felt welcomed, relaxed, and revived, and it was then that I truly understood gazpacho's unique relevance to Andalusia's scorching climate.

Gazpacho -- the word comes either from Hebrew gazaz or the pre-Roman caspa, both meaning "fragments" and referring to gazpacho's bread base -- began as poor people's food. Prepared by Andalusian field workers at lunchtime under the shade of an olive or oak tree, it consisted of nothing more than leftover bread, crude olive oil, vinegar, garlic and water. But it made a satisfying, relatively nourishing meal that required no cooking and no utensils other than a mortar and pestle. Over the centuries each region of Andalusia developed its own distinctive version of gazpacho, each based upon these few simple ingredients.

The discovery of the New World introduced Spain to tomatoes and peppers, both native to the Americas, and transformed gazpacho. Then in the 19th century, Eugenia de Montijo, empress of France and Andalusian by birth, made the foods of her homeland fashionable throughout the French Empire; gazpacho was no longer "food for reapers and vulgar people," as defined in a 17th-century Spanish dictionary.

Today, a precise definition of the dish is difficult to come by, but there are certain widely accepted parameters. Traditional gazpacho fall into two basic categories: red and white. Green gazpacho, which may contain peppers, spinach, and cilantro, are rare, and hot gazpacho is another oddity. Spanish chefs generally frown on the idea of putting cucumber and onion in gazpacho, and they also go light on garlic and green pepper. The little bowls of finely chopped garnishes -- something of a tourist cliche -- are foreign to true gazpacho lovers, who often prefer drinking their gazpacho. "Gazpacho is really a beverage" declares Paco Nunez de Prado, owner of the company that makes Nunez de Prado olive oil. "That's how I have always known it." I have to agree -- in summer there is always a jar of gazpacho in my refrigerator, and I pour it by the glass whenever thirst overcomes me.

Although I consider myself well versed in gazpacho, last summer Luis and I set off to delve into the finer points of the tradition. Driving 300 miles through the summer heat of Andalusia, we sampled amazing varieties of gazpachos.

We began in Cadiz, an ancient city nearly surrounded by water, tenuously attached to the mainland by a narrow isthmus. Restaurants in Cadiz take great pride in their gazpachos, leading to friendly rivalries like the long-standing rift between Gonzalo Cordoba, of El Faro restaurant, and Salvador Lucero, chef-owner of Bar Bahia. For many years I have been a fan of Salvador's gazpacho, but I am equally impressed by Gonzalo's exquisitely refined version, incorporating elegant and subtly fruity hojiblanca extra-virgin olive oil from the province of Cordoba and aged Sherry vinegar produced in nearby Jerez de la Frontera.

The city of Rhonda, in Malaga province, was our next gazpacho stop. At upscale Tragabuches restaurant, we found some fascinating renditions -- gazpacho with goose barnacles and licorice, gazpacho with shrimp-filled ravioli and herring roe, and (easily my favorite) sorbet of gazpacho on a bed of apple gelee, sprinkled with a reduction of balsamic vinegar and topped with salt-cured tuna called mojama. To our dismay, however, we also discovered that even it its homeland gazpacho can sometimes be perfectly dreadful. At one generally well regarded restaurant in Ronda we found that gazpacho was watery and tasteless. (From Ronda, fittingly, comes a tale of disgruntled field workers who complained to their foreman, Manuel, of low wages and pathetically small lunches. He, in turn, relayed their grievances to the landowner, who declined to augment their paychecks but agreed to increase their food rations. "Manuel," he commanded, "starting tomorrow, add more water to the gazpacho.")

In the city of Malaga, ajo blanco, a creamy white gazpacho made with blanched ground almonds, is the local star. It's sweet-sour contrast -- vinegar vying with tidbits of melon, grapes, apple, or raisins -- hints at a Moorish salad in a glass.

Amanda Hesser

If you've ever experimented with chorizo, the pork sausage cured with paprika and garlic, you know how persuasive its full aroma and deep clinging heat can be. You might have sliced it up and stirred it into paella, chopped it into little cubes that were swept up into an omelet or infused it in stew to give it a smoky edge. Its robust flavor and warm, tingly spice were distinctive, giving everything it touched the feel of Spanish cooking.

But what you may not have noticed is that the chorizo was not from Spain. For a long time, chorizo was not approved for importing. In 1997 the Department of Agriculture and the Spanish government gave one chorizo maker, Palacios, from Rioja, permission, but it wasn't until last October that chorizo began entering in any quantity. Now, stores can't seem to get enough of it. The chorizo, which comes in long, firm sausages and shorter, slightly denser links, is in grocery stores like Butterfield Market, Fairway and Citarella in Manhattan.

If you have never been to Spain and nibbled on slivers of chorizo before dinner, the Palacios will be a revelation. When you taste it, you suddenly realize all the compromises you made. American chorizo brands like Quijote and Corte's are good, hearty sausages. But they are nothing like those from Spain, which are smoky, earthy, sweet and quite tangy.

Sausages are often used as a background flavor. They give body to meat sauces, form the base for stuffings and, rich as they are, can be rendered for sautéing. But chorizo departs from most others in one aspect: its flavor is so powerful that it does not influence a dish subtly. It burns its imprint into its very foundation. It will streak scrambled eggs with its orange oils and make them so full and rich that you would not think of adding a single other ingredient. It can make a thin broth feel hearty, and can wrap sautéed potatoes with layers of roasted spices and garlic.

In many ways chorizo is a distillation of the core ingredients -- peppers, garlic and pork -- in Spanish cuisine, and in essence a distillation of its terroir. This came clear to me last spring as a friend and I approached Jabugo, a small village buried in a blanket of clouds about two hours northwest of Seville. Winding our way to the town, we took in lush hills speckled with pigs, freely roaming, their snouts foraging in thick grasses beneath gnarled holm oaks and cork oaks.

The period from late fall through early spring is called the montanera, or acorn season, when pigs feed on the acorns of these trees, each eating about 22 to 26 pounds of acorns a day. The Iberian pig, which is descended from the wild boar of southern Europe, is not a handsome specimen. It has drooping ears, a long snout, thin legs and dark hair. But its meat has a dense striping of fat and intense flavor, which produces the most sought-after cured hams in Spain.

In Jabugo, a town with modest charm, there was no mistaking the main trade. A warm, sweet smoke filled the air. Sánchez Romero Carvajal, one of the largest cured pork producers in the area, sat on the edge of town in a large building built in 1901. It was oddly civilized for a factory, with a central courtyard for employee breaks and long tiled hallways.

The pigs are brought into Sánchez Romero when they are 14 to 16 months old. Once slaughtered, the legs are cured in a two- to three-year process for jamón Ibérico. The loins are made into caña de lomo, and the meat from the shoulder is used to make chorizo. It is an incredibly simple process. The meat is ground, then mixed with paprika, garlic, salt and a dash of sherry in a machine that thunders and churns. The spiced meat marinates overnight before being stuffed into casings and tied.

The next part is controlled largely by nature. The workers at the factory simply respond. The sausages are hung close together on the ceiling of a large, dim room. The roof is made of tiles, spaced so that you can see tiny bits of light through the cracks. There are screens on the windows but no glass. When it is hot and dry, the windows are closed, and burlap mats are soaked in water and laid on the floor of the curing rooms. When it is cold, the shutters are closed. At all times, a gentle, smoldering oak fire sits in a low barrel on the floor.

The air is dense and moist, and all you hear is the crackle of the wood. The men move the barrels and rearrange the sausages as the curing progresses. It takes a few weeks to cure chorizo and sometimes up to four months, depending on the size and the time of year. During that time, the meat dries and absorbs the smoke -- smoke from the very wood whose fruit flavors the meat.
Not all chorizo is made in exactly the same way. Each region has its own tics. In fact, some producers, including Palacios, do not actually smoke their sausages. But even air-cured chorizo like these have a mysteriously smoky quality.

Jesús García, the export manager for Sánchez Romero, said: ''With chorizo, we are talking about a type of sausage. For us chorizo means pork, fat and paprika.''

And sometimes, oregano, nutmeg and hot paprika, too.

''Of course,'' he added, ''paprika was not known until the New World was discovered, but there were other sausages. You can still find today in Spain chorizo without paprika. It's called white chorizo.''

Like all foods with terroir, the chorizo tastes a little bit of the air and the earth, the very character of the region. All of this makes for a flavor distinguishable from almost any other chorizo. The Palacios chorizo has everything but the Iberian pork.

No slaughterhouses in Spain have won approval from American authorities. Like other Spanish companies that export pork products to the United States, Palacios must import the pork from approved slaughterhouses in other European countries. Their pork comes from Denmark, and is cured using the Spanish method.

Because of the strict standards, Palacios is just one of three Spanish companies exporting cured pork products to the United States. ''The problem,'' Mr. García of Sánchez Romero explained, ''is the American authorities do not recognize the European Union's standards for production. They want companies to follow their own standards. And some companies do not want to change. We already sell around the world. We don't need to sell in the U.S.''

And so this could be why the trade has not yet blossomed. But if New York City grocery stores are any indication, demand could be very much like that for Italian cured meats, which after a slow start have flooded the market over the last two decades.

Even lacking the Iberian pork, Palacios chorizo, either sweet or hot, is far superior to American brands like Conte's, which is springy and mild, and to the firm, sweet Quijote, which is quite good but markedly different. Not all the chorizos in the United States are made to mimic the Spanish. You can find Mexican chorizo, which has a finer texture and forceful heat, and sometimes Portuguese chorizo, which is softer.

The best way to get a feel for Spanish chorizo (and one of the best dishes I discovered) is to blend it with eggs. I scattered slivers of chorizo in a nonstick pan and heated them until they began to sizzle. Then I added a little olive oil, cracked eggs into the pan and began stirring quickly, swirling the eggs around the pan and folding them over each other until just barely cooked.

The fat in the chorizo coats the eggs, brightening them to a saffron yellow. And there is something about the chorizo that makes the eggs taste hearty and almost creamy. You will find this dish in Spain, where it is called revueltos de chorizo. Or, often, it is added to tortilla, which is more like an omelet. Because the eggs are not moved around the pan, though, the flavor of the chorizo is less dominant.

It is helpful to think of chorizo in terms of bacon or garlic: a pungent flavor that you can add at the beginning of cooking to scent the dish. Spanish cooks sometimes treat chorizo more like a bouquet garni, or a bouillon cube. Every region seems to have a simmered bean dish, and invariably chorizo is added to the beans as they simmer. The beans soak up the chorizo's racy tang and garlic, and together they become smoky, faintly spicy and mellow. If you add other meats and a few vegetables, you have something not too far from cassoulet.

These all seem like natural pairings, but chorizo is perhaps best with something you might never think of, fish and shellfish. You can add it to the pan with cockles or clams as you steam them open. You can slip slices of it into grouper like cloves of garlic in a leg of lamb, as Daniel Orr, the chef at Guastavino, does before sautéing it. Or you can simply render its fat and sprinkle the pungent orange juices over roasted cod. The chorizo adds background flavor and a kind of intangible body and definition to these dishes. It is too bad the Spanish do not have a word for umami.

Before Palacios chorizo began arriving from Spain, Patricia Yeo, the chef at AZ, had been seeking that elusive flavor. She had given up on domestic brands and began making her own. She marinates cubes of pork shoulder and pork belly in a mixture of paprika, garlic, brown sugar, Aleppo pepper and salt, then grinds the meat, packs it into lamb casings and smokes it. I altered her method a little for my kitchen. I used smoked paprika and skipped the casings, preferring to use it crumbled. It's very easy, and an excellent alternative, worth relying on if your store doesn't yet carry Palacios.

Read full article...