Jamón Hijinks

For awhile now, I’ve wanted to learn more about jamón iberico (which I’ll call jamón for short), I guess since the time I started thinking of it as a kitchen staple.  I considered asking Henrik, our charcuterie guy, if he would let me volunteer behind his counter at the market.  But I realized I would, at the least, be more of a nuisance than a help.  And I also have a healthy fear of deli slicing machines.  I am rather accident-prone, so I see this as a self-preservation instinct.

A few months ago I found myself shopping at the market on a slow day, and I asked Henrik a few questions about jamón. 

“Would you ever consider doing some kind of tasting for Alec and me some time?” I asked. 

Henrik colored deeply.  “Well,” he said, “it’s just that I’m here almost all the time, and then I’m really tired at the end of the day…”  He turned around and started rooting through some papers on the back of his counter.  After a few minutes he pulled out a pamphlet called “Jamón.”

“You can borrow this,” he said, handing it over the counter.  “It will tell you everything you need to know.  But it’s the only one I have so please take care of it and make sure to bring it back.”

“Okay, thanks.  Thanks a lot,” I said.  But I must have looked a little disappointed.

“Look,” Henrik said.  “Come by some day when it’s not too busy—maybe a Tuesday—and we can get a coffee and talk about jamón.”

“That would be terrific.”

But I haven’t taken him up on his offer yet.  I guess I don’t want to put him out.  And I still have to bring back the jamón pamphlet. 

But when I saw a jamón tasting advertised on the Vila Viniteca website, I jumped at the opportunity.  Yesterday was the big day.  Vila Viniteca has a lovely old stone room below the main store where they hold tastings.  It holds a table for twelve and is lined with racks of wine bottles.  I arrived yesterday and saw Marta, the founder’s granddaughter, who recognized me from when Alec and I interviewed her.  She kissed me on both cheeks, told me the tasting wasn’t quite set up yet, and handed me a glass of cava to sip on while I waited.

The tasting, called for 2 pm, didn’t start until after 2:30, a reminder that I’ve returned from Germany.  In addition to Antonio, who I will call the Jamón Master, and the sommelier, there were five of us:  two businessmen in their 50s from Granada, a silent Finn, and a heavily tattooed guy with a David Villa haircut and his arm in a sling.  And me.

Antonio spent about a half hour telling us about where the pigs came from originally (all over northern Europe but they stayed in Spain because they really liked the acorns and so were “super contenta”), the importance of the pigs’ diet, the different grades of jamón (jamón iberioa de bellota (bellota means acorn) is the best, and most expensive).

But what fascinated me was to learn about all of the tricks people play in order to try and pass off fake jamón iberico for the real thing.

Trick #1:  Authentic jamón has a rich nutty taste—you can actually tell that the pig you are eating feasted on acorns for much of its life.  Apparently, some jamón scheisters feed their pigs commercial food, and then inject them with acorn oil to infuse the meat with that flavor.

Trick #2:  A true jamón iberico does not have hairy legs.   When you see it in the deli, there should be no hair on its slender little ankles (and, yes, these particular porkers are known for their long, thin ankles).  One way to trick folks is to burn the hair off before the meat goes to market.

Trick # 3:  This is my favorite.  Real jamón iberico is flecked with small white specks along the fat lines—it’s a substance called tiroxina (I’m not sure how you translate this), and it’s one way to tell that you’ve got the real deal.  Again, it’s a result of the pigs’ diet.  But there is another way to produce these little white crystals.  Apparently, pigs’ preferred position is to be standing upright.  If you knock them down, they will get up again.  And if they get knocked down and then right themselves repeatedly, they make tiroxeina.  So the ham bad guys will actually load up the back of a truck with a bunch of regular, non-iberico pigs and drive them around on curvy roads long enough for the pigs to topple over and get up, creating the specks.  But the pigs have not had the acorn diet.  And getting knocked down in the back of a truck over and over makes for one stressed-out pig, which makes the meat tough. 

So if you ever find yourself driving around Spain and end up behind a truck full of pigs on a mountainous road, you will know what’s going on.  Buyer beware.

PS  I’m pretty sure all of the above is correct, but the tasting was completely in Spanish, so I take full responsibility for any errors, which no doubt result from my poor translation skills.

PPS  The jamon was outstanding.