Blame it on Rioja

Frying chorizo at the Fiesta de Vendimia de Rioja Alavesa, September 2007. Photo: John Barkley.

It’s one of those cravings that kicks in with some regularity this time of year, usually in the middle of the day: an unmistakable hankering for the garlicky, smoky-spicy, porky flavors of chorizo, the Spanish national sausage, believed to have originated in Extremadura but available around the corner from virtually every street in Spain.

Now that the warm weather has finally arrived to stay (and also considering the fact that the Spanish national soccer team is performing remarkably well in the Euro 2008 championship), there’s something celebratory about throwing chorizo on the grill. The smell and taste of melting pork fat combined with paprika, or pimentón, are just quintessentially Spanish.

Even more celebratory (and authentic) would be to get a hold of a porrón, a glass pitcher with a tiny spout on one end, and a couple of cold bottles of Rioja rosé, (I like Muga, El Coto, CVNE, López de Heredia and Marqués de Cáceres), grab a handful of baguettes, and make it a day, much the way Jorge Muga made our day during a vineyard visit last year.

If, as expected, Spain wins its group (Group D) in Euro 2008, they will play the runner up of Group C (most likely France or Italy) this Sunday, June 22 at 3pm Eastern Time, just about as good a day, time, and occasion for grilled chorizo as you’re ever likely to find.

Fire it up.

Chorizo hanging above a butcher’s counter in Logroño’s central market. Photo: Daniel Hertzell.

Summer served: Grilled chorizo, baguette, and a porrón filled with Muga rosé, September 2007. Photo: Adrian Murcia

. . . Without the Slaughter

By Taylor Cocalis

The second installment of Taylor’s dispatch of a piglet’s dispatch in the mountains of Ecuador, in which the animal meets its maker.

Halfway through the week, Berta, the woman running the dairy farm in Ecuador where I was fortunate enough to have found myself staying, informed us that they would be killing one of the piglets (age: 3 months) in our honor. I can’t remember the last time I heard anyone using that phrase in reference to an upcoming meal, but it seemed to merit gratitude, as well as anticipation of what was to come. She asked if we wanted to see the slaughter, and I thought it only appropriate that if we were going to eat the piglet, we should at least honor the creature at its death.

Now, we had already established some measure of intimacy with the pig. Although we hadn’t exactly rolled around in the pen with it, during each meal we would prepare a bucket of our scraps . . . crab shells, whey from cheesemaking, and the peels and pulp of the fruit that we juiced each morning . . . on which the pig could feast. So in a sense we had shared some meals together. Soon the animal would become our week’s most memorable meal.

The morning of the slaughter we awoke a few hours earlier than usual and rushed up to the barn when Berta indicated they were ready. I came prepared for some pomp and circumstance, but what we witnessed was swift and only slightly painful (for us and, more so, for the poor pig). Within 30 seconds of our arrival, Alvaro (Berta’s husband) punctured the pig directly under it’s left foreleg with a six-inch kitchen knife (for the record, I think an 8-inch knife would have more effectively reached the pig’s heart for a slightly quicker and less painful departure).

These next two minutes were the hardest to watch, as the bright blood dripped down the pig’s chest, in stark contrast with its white skin. But the shrieking squeals soon subsided as the pig was laid to rest. Within a few minutes, the farm hands had transported the pig to a wheelbarrow where they poured scalding hot water over its body in order to loosen the hair for removal. Their hands poured over the pig’s skin as they removed its hair by hand (for the record one of the farm hands did pull out a pink plastic Lady Bic razor further along in the process to ensure that there were no extraneous hairs left behind).

We then watched how, in a matter of minutes, they opened the pig up to remove the contents of it’s body, all saved to be used at a later date (”No, we would never let these good parts go to waste,” Berta assured us). My jaw dropped as the intestines literally poured out of the pig’s body, and I wondered how it all could have possibly fit in its belly just a few minutes before.

The whole process, start to finish, took a swift 30 minutes (perhaps Rachel Ray should do a special slaughtering episode), at which point they took the prepared piglet off to the tiny town of Pintag where a friend of the farm had an oven large enough to roast the whole pig at once.

Taylor Cocalis manages Murray’s Cheese Course at Murray’s Cheese Shop in New York City and should not be blamed for the death of this small animal.

. . .Without the Slaughter

by Taylor Cocalis

Enlighten me for a moment. Imagine that you open your front door to find a box on your door step. You curiously open it up to find a plate full of food: tender juicy pork, crispy potatoes, and steaming starchy white corn. What do you do? Do you eat it?

I can see it now . . . all of you shaking your heads, thinking that I am crazy. Who in their right mind would eat a box of food left on their doorstep? From where did it come? How did it get there? It would be crazy to just go ahead and eat that. Right?

But the truth is that is what happens almost every day with the food that we eat. You may go to a restaurant and trust them to bring good food to your plate, but do you really know from where it came? Do you think that your waiter or your chef knows the person that cultivated that corn or that killed the pork on your plate? We don’t seem to be scared of that, but we do seem to be scared of knowing from exactly where our food comes . . . even (or especially) when it comes from the most natural source.

Let me explain.

When friends and family peruse my photographs from a recent trip to Ecuador, they always seems to have the same response, “I could have done without the pig pictures.” Despite that fact that they gush over the mountainous landscape, warmly note the colorfully dressed locals, and even relish in the crispy pork skin feast, nobody seems to enjoy the documentation of the pig slaughter. Except me.

Don’t get me wrong. Taking an animal’s life is never fun, but this was not merely frivolous slaughter. When most people view the pictures they immediately think of guts and gore. When I see them, I fondly remember the culture surrounding the whole process. Hopefully with a little insight, you’ll feel as warmly about the experience (and the photographs) as I do.

Part 2 of “The Sweet Just Ain’t as Sweet,” with photos, will appear on BioR tomorrow, Tuesday, April 8, 2008; Part 3 on Wednesday, April 9.

Taylor Cocalis manages Murray’s Cheese Course at Murray’s Cheese Shop in New York City. She is also one of the grooviest people I know.

A Table, Perfectly Set: Jamón Ibérico, Queso Manchego, and Vinos de Rioja, Finca Valpiedra, Cenicero, Spain, May 2006. Photo: José Guerra.

Apart from being the essential guide to anyone interested understanding the science of food, Harold McGee’s On Food and Coooking (Scribner, 2004) is filled with aphorisms of great resonance and economy. My favorite among them, which I first encountered as a quote in Peter Kaminsky’s terrific book on pork love, Pig Perfect (Hyperion, 2005), has become something of a mantra for me:

“Rotten grapes (wine), moldy milk (cheese), and ripened meat (ham) make our lives more interesting.”

Much as I love beer in the summer, especially Belgian summer ales enjoyed outdoors at d.b.a. around the corner, BBQ lunch today with the boys up at Maxim Radio, substituting a couple of bottles of Rioja Crianza in place of the cold brewtarskis usually served with ‘cue, was an exceptionally rewarding pairing experience. “Maxim Lounge” Producer Laura, who celebrates a birthday tomorrow, asked me to come up to the Maxim studio at Sirius Satellite Radio headquarters in Midtown to talk about Rioja and help her celebrate. To help illustrate the food-pairing merits of Rioja, I also brought along some dynamite BBQ from Daisy May’s on 11th Avenue, and man alive, was it good. Former Chanterelle line cook Adam Perry Lang deserves a giant fruit basket for his cooking over at Daisy May’s. His Memphis Dry Rub Pork Ribs and Carolina Pulled Pork were slamin’, especially when mixed together on the plate with Cole Slaw and Baked Beans with Burnt Ends. We tasted a Puerta Vieja 2002 Rioja Crianza from Bodegas Riojanas (a classic style, aged in American oak) and the more modern-styled LAN 2003 Crianza, and both wines’ fruity and slightly earthy liveliness turned the wines into seamlessly integrated liquid condiments to the smoky-sweet-spicy porky wonderfulness of our lunch. Producer Laura, Bower, Scooter, Laura Leu, and I passed around plates of food and bottles Rioja on air and chatted in between bites, as a way to give the Maxim crowd an alternative to brew with ‘cue (and maybe help them find a great way to impress the ladies in the process). I think we managed to lift the food even higher than beer would have. All the joy without the beer gut.

Early one morning in the spring of ‘06, Violeta asked me what the deal was with the cocoon hanging from my bookcase.

“That’s a little weird,” she said.

(more…)