Blame it on Rioja

He doesn’t know it yet, but José Valle is about to become my uncle.

I’m not sure exactly what’s involved in transatlantic avuncular adoption, but I’ll get that sorted out. First let me tell you why I want him to be my uncle.

José Valle is a retired Riojano from Logroño who, like a lot of residents of La Rioja’s capital, owns property in the countryside, in this case a three-room casita, or little house, near the town of Albarite, close to the banks of the Río Iregua, one of the Ebro’s major tributaries. Behind the house, occupying a a full three quarters of the property is his huerta, or vegetable garden.

Just two weeks ago, on our last day in the region, Sr. Valle cooked for our group of visiting sommeliers and journalists a memorable meal consisting of baby lamb chops, pork ribs, and sausages grilled over sarmientos, or grape vine cuttings, served with a salad of vegetables largely sourced from his back yard. To go with it, a line-up of wines supplied by the Consejo Regulador of Rioja.

I have been to Rioja four times in the last two years and have been the grateful beneficiary of some of Rioja’s most accomplished cocina. Whether classic or cutting edge, Rioja’s restaurants are the both keepers of the region’s fine gastronomic tradition and practitioners of its extraordinary hospitality. But there’s something about the intimacy of dining in someone’s home that is hard to top. And when your host is a charming fellow who not only raises your vegetables and skillfully grills your lamb chops but also makes the pacharan that you enjoy as a digestif (from sloe berries in his garden)–well, let’s just say that for many of us on the trip, myself included, this was the high point of the entire week.

José Valle in the garden of his home near Alberite, Spain.

At one point, I looked around, and the whole room was abuzz with animated conversation. Despite the fact that we were all kind of scrunched in around one long table, our elbows in each other’s feeding strike zones, a sense of well-being and the most basic comfort imaginable pervaded the room. Where just an hour earlier an unseasonably cold northern wind and the effects of having traversed the lower Ebro valley twice before lunch, were taking their toll on our group’s collective disposition, here we were now enjoying a meal none of us will soon forget.

“Of course, in Rioja it’s customary at this point to enjoy a siesta,” José’s son Oscar Valle announced to all of us as our meal drew to a close, “But seeing as how we have only two rooms, that might be a little complicated.”

Truthfully, I didn’t want to leave. Ever.

“When I am here, in front of the grill, cooking for big group like this, that’s when I am happiest,” José said to my colleague Rebeca Gómez as we were walking out.

I think I can understand why.