A Better Bocadillo?

Human Highlighter Suit Tally: 9!

After skyping our families and eating hamburgers for dinner on Thanksgiving, I went out to meet a woman Alec’s cousin Lisa wanted me to meet.  Graciela was born in Argentina, raised in Spain, and has lived in England, the Netherlands, and Italy.  She got her PhD in sociology in Italy and then became an academic.  But she got bored after awhile and wanted to return to Spain, so she moved to Barcelona, where her brother lives, and opened a fresh pasta shop with her sister-in-law last winter.  There is something innately fascinating to me about someone who invests all of that time in getting a PhD, becomes an academic—and likes it—and one day simply moves on.  She’s continued to do some writing, and just published a book about organ donation.  Lisa’s husband Jaume, who is an architect, designed the shop, which is called Taller de Pasta.  It is gorgeous—white marble, butcher block counters, and chrome—and smells like heaven.  Lisa and I met her there shortly before the shop closed at 9 pm on and spent a couple of pleasant hours over beers at a bar down the street called Dow Jones.

When I arrived back home just before midnight, the lights were all on and laundry was strewn about in various stages of clean-and dirti-ness.  I think I’ve made it clear already that Alec, for the most part, does not do laundry.  Certainly not late at night.  Turns out Milo had a bad reaction to the medication he got for his throat infection, and projectile vomited all over his room.  Alec was in the process of washing pajamas, sheets, mattress pad, bedspread, rug…  Milo was doing better by the time I returned home, but wide awake, so I changed places with Alec and lay with him until about 2 am, when he finally fell asleep. The night was too short.

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Despite my overall—and I think temporary—fatigue with Spanish food, this week I’ve had a craving for jamon to beat the band.  I think it all started in my Spanish class.  We were talking about how to say “acorn”—the word is bellota—which of course led to jamon because the pata negra, the best pig for ham, eats only acorns.  This diet lends a nutty richness to the meat.  It is indescribably good.

I went to the Hospital Sant Pau tour on Thursday, which ran longer than I expected, so I had to hurry to get to my next appointment.  I never, ever skip a meal.  I was hungy, and I wanted jamon.  On my way to the metro, I ducked into a nondescript little bakery and asked if they had a bocadillo with jamon iberico.  The woman said she could make me one right then and there.  I took it out on the street and simply could not wait to get to my office to eat it.  My mouth was watering with the mere thought of it sitting there in my bag.  So I unwrapped it and began to eat it as I walked.  Eating on the street is simply not done in Barcelona, so I avoided all eye contact and focused on how good the jamon tasted.  The sandwich embodied simple perfection.  Fresh crusty bread smeared with tomato, and salty, rich ham.  That’s all.  No lettuce, mayo, mustard, cheese.  Bocadillos here consist of a baguette type of bread, split and with something in the middle—meat, cheese, tortilla, but never more than one of those things.  In fact, I’d never had one with the tomato. To me, it was genius. This sandwich hit the spot like you cannot imagine.

The next day—Friday—I went to the market to buy the fixings for our Thanksgiving feast.  I’ll tell you one thing—it’s a hell of a lot different buying supplies for two people (the kids won’t eat most of what we cook) than it is buying for twenty.  Which bodes well for the cooking and clean up as well.  I got our turkey from Mari, the chicken lady (see below) and decided to get some jamon to take home from Henrik, our deli man. 

Jamon comes in a range of grades, for a corresponding range of prices.  I decided that, if I was to embark on a jamon journey, I’d start near the bottom and bought a quarter kilo of pernil Salamanca, sliced.  I had already bought tomatoes, and stocked up on baguettes—for stuffing and sandwiches from Paul, the bakery where we buy bread.  Paul is a French bakery. The brioche and croissants are buttery, and the baguettes are crisp and clean.  I have not been too impressed with Spanish bread.  I’ve been told that many bakeries use lard in their bread and this makes sense to me because sometimes you get some bread that tastes, well… it tastes a bit porky.  I love pork, but I do not want my bread to taste of it.

When I got home, I checked the New Spanish Table to see how Von Bremzen makes her tomato bread, and I used her formula.  Split the baguette, drizzle with good olive oil and rub with garlic.  Put it under the broiler until it starts to get toasty.  Take it out, and rub/squeeze a halved tomato—it needs to be ripe and juicy—on each side.  On top of one side I layered several slices of my jamon, topped it with the other side, and sat down at the kitchen table.  I am hesitant to put this in writing, but I think I’ve improved on a classic.  Have you ever seen that Bobby Flay show called Throw Down in which he travels around the country taking on the best of the classic food makers?  Muffalettas in New Orleans, chicken and waffles in Harlem, barbecue in Texas?  I didn’t do much to this humble bocadillo, but it rocked.