in praise of sardines

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[July 14 Edit: The previously reported prices for the chorizo and salchichón are for 2-pound packages, not per pound. That makes these products far more tempting, doesn't it? Thank you NS of SF Gourmet for pointing out my error!]

The day that Spanish food lovers have been anxiously awaiting is finally here! The finest cured pork products produced on this planet are now available in the United States.

All photos are of the chorizo ibérico de bellota produced by Joselito, which is not the supplier of the products being imported into the U.S.*

In yesterday's New York Times, Florence Fabricant reported that Americans can now purchase Spanish ibérico pork products from the on line Spanish food retailer La Tienda. Thanks to a the joint efforts of the founder of La Tienda, Donald Harris, and one of my favorite chefs, José Andrés (of the restaurants Jaleo, Cafe Atlantico, minibar, and several others in Washington, D.C.), we can currently buy chorizo, salchichón (closer to salami), and, my personal favorite, lomo (pork loin cured with pimentón, Spanish paprika) made from the ibérico breed of pig that is native to Spain. Some time in the next 2 years, when the hams have had 9 to 12 22-28 months to cure, the fabled jamón ibérico will also become available (at long last!).

A few years ago, the U.S. government decided to lift its ban on the import of products made from Spain's ibérico pig (free trade - what's that?). However, American-based Spanish food lovers (meaning yours truly) have had to wait until a special slaughterhouse was built upon which the U.S.D.A. would deign to bestow it approval. (I imagine that the number of Spaniards that have suffered horrible jamón-related deaths because their slaughterhouses weren't up to American standards is equal to the number of French casualties attributed to eating unpasteurized Epoisses de Bourgogne. Zero. Don't get me started!).

Each type of embutido (the Spanish equivalent of the French word charcuterie or Italian salumi) is being imported in two versions. While both come from the meat of the ibérico breed of pig, which is also known as pata negra after the pigs' characteristic black hooves, a portion of the new imports is coming from those lucky free-range pigs whose diet is rich in acorns (bellotas) and thus bear the additional modifier de bellota. Interestingly, tests have shown that 50% of the lipid (fat) profile of the jamón ibérico de bellota is monounsaturated, the same healthy type as found in olive oil.

In praise of Spanish oil-packed anchovies

It's time I debunk the notion that salt-packed anchovies are better than oil-packed anchovies. It simply isn't true.

The other day, I was flipping through one of my favorite cookbooks, the award-winning The Zuni Cafe Cookbook, when I came across the following passage: "We use commercial salt-packed anchovies extensively.... They are far more delicate than most commercial oil-packed fillets.... Commercial oil-packed anchovy fillets are usually quite salty and sometimes taste metallic, bitter, or muddy, or all three. The oil they are packed in generally starts out or becomes dreadful tasting."

How often have I heard and read that familiar refrain?

As recent as 10 years ago, this assertion was true regarding the paltry state of anchovies imported into the United States, most of which came from Italy. Alice Waters has specified salt-packed anchovies in all her cookbooks since her first, published in 1982. And before that, Marcella Hazan touted them in her first cookbook in 1973. However, when Judy Rodgers, a chef I hold in high esteem (and whose signature recipe for house-cured anchovies is flawless), published her cookbook in 2002, the anti-oil-packed anchovy orthodoxy was outdated.

The best anchovies in the world come from the Iberian peninsula, particularly from L'Escala on the Mediterranean coast of Catalonia, where the little fish are known as anxovas, and from the region of Cantabria on the Bay of Biscay west of the Basque region, where the fish are called bocartes. The best examples from these regions are invariably filleted and packed in extra virgin olive oil.

The good news is you can find these fine anchovies in many gourmet stores in the U.S. (I buy mine locally at the amazing Bi-Rite Market, and they can be purchased from many online sources including  The Spanish Table and Tienda).

If you have never liked the taste of anchovies, the bocarte or anchoa del Cantábrico, more widely available than those from L'Escala, will be a revelation. It is the José Carreras of anchovies. Its rich, bold flavor expands across your tongue just as the Catalonian tenor's notes fill an opera house. These anchovies are not for the meek.

The little fish cannot hide the fact that it cured for months in sea salt before being filleted and packed in olive oil. The resulting texture is meaty and salty, reminiscent of that other Spanish favorite, jamón ibérico de bellota, the incomparable ham made from black-hoofed pigs fed on acorns. But, unlike its tainted cousins that have sullied far too many of America's pizzas, this oil-packed anchovy's salinity is balanced by a kaleidoscope of toasted hazelnuts, caviar, Gorgonzola, country ham, Cuban cigar and sea air. It is pure umami.

The Spanish anchovies are also far superior to the Sicilian salt-packed anchovies, whose big blue and white cans labeled Acciughe Salate line the pantry of every Chez Panisse acolyte in the Bay Area (heck, I bet even that rebel Daniel Patterson uses them on occasion). Not only are the flavor and texture noticeably better, comparable to the difference between Normandy butter and Parkay margarine, but they are far more convenient to use.

That bears repeating: these oil-packed anchovies are already filleted. Even if you have never had to soak, eviscerate and debone a 1-kilo can of salt-packed anchovies as I have (many times), you will still appreciate being liberated from this rather disgusting task. Best of all, if you buy the Ortiz brand (pictured above, available from Tienda), it comes with that cute little two-pronged fork to spear the tasty morsels from the jar.

Be forewarned that fish of superior quality and ease of use come at a premium price. A 3.5 ounce/95 gram jar (with only 2 ounces/55 grams of anchovies) cost about $11. When purchased at Club de Gourmet of El Corte Inglés, the best quality anchovies are just as expensive in their native country, starting at 8€. They may be expensive (although they're less than the price of 3 Starbucks double cappuccinos), but even for the most rabid anchoviholic, a jar should provide a month's worth of pleasure.

Also, be aware that the jar or can must be stored in the refrigerator and used by the expiration date, which is approximately 1 year after the fish are packaged.

These anchovies are so good that I often eat them naked (the fish is naked, not me), adorned with no more than a few drops of extra virgin olive oil. Another favorite is to lay one anchoa fillet beside one fillet of a boquerón, the white anchovy marinated in vinegar, on top of a thin slice of toasted baguette. The combination of crunchy bread, salt, sour and umami is outrageous!

In my next entry, I will share another surprising recipe that features these tasty little fish.

Food|and Drink|Spain|Fish|Anchovies|San Francisco

Making sugar skulls on El Día de los Muertos

Every day of this week has been a special holiday. Halloween fell on Monday, Diwali on Tuesday, El Día de los Muertos on Wednesday and Eid ul-Fitr, marking the end of Ramadan, on Thursday.

I become especially sentimental during the Aztec/Mexican El Día de los Muertos (Day of the Dead).

Every year, I join thousands of San Franciscans in remembering our deceased loved ones by participating in a lively, musical night-time procession through the streets of the Mission District. Cradling a candle in my hands, I relish being surrounded by the joyous, raucous revelers, dancing skeletons, blaring trumpets and beating drums. I savor the sweet smell of burning sage and the explosion of fiery orange marigolds on altars. What a welcome contrast to the denial that surrounds death in the dominant American culture!

Although I've lived in the city a dozen years, I joined the parade for the first time just three years ago, a few months after my mother passed away. That year, I particularly found solace in having a celebratory day dedicated to honoring our ancestors and loved ones. I enjoyed the thrill of being squeezed and jostled through the dark alleyways enveloped by colorful graffiti, sweaty skeleton-painted faces and deafening samba music, as if descending into Hades. Then came the release of opening onto a spacious park full of altars strewn with sparkling candles and bright marigolds. No place could have been more comforting to me that year. I knew viscerally that my experience of loss was not unique.

On Wednesday, I journeyed to the Mission District to gather marigolds and pan del muerte, the traditional, sugar-coated round egg bread decorated with crossed bones, for the altar N and I now set up annually in our home to honor our ancestors.

With the good fortune that comes with living in a rich, multicultural city, I stumbled across an artisan making sugar skulls, another traditional addition to altars, on 24th Street. I watched with awe as Emilio Quintana poured hot sugar syrup into 150-year old clay skull molds, just as his ancestors had for the past five generations. Mr. Quintana has been traveling to San Francisco from Puebla, Mexico, for the last 18 years to sell and demonstrate the art of making these candy skulls.

To see how he made these surprisingly hollow sugar skulls, which took just a few minutes, click on the picture above to be taken to my Flickr slideshow of the process.

Unexpected food discoveries lead to a tasty Halloween and Diwali

There are few things that get me more excited than discovering something new to eat. In the name of unearthing an unusual and original taste, I will scour local markets, steal tastes at farm stands, pilfer fruit from neighbor's trees or wild bushes. I will endure excruciating heat, verbal abuse, gastrointestinal discomfort, endless hours of searching, even potential jail time.

Of course, the joy multiplies tenfold when new products practically jump into my undeserving hands, which is exactly what happened not once but twice over the weekend at our local farmers market.

Making my usual rounds, my blood hound mind was distracted by every aroma and shiny object. I paused here to sample a glistening pear, there to sniff the rose geraniums. I was as insatiable as Condoleeza Rice at Ferragamo.

The sight of a giant bee out of the corner of my eye momentarily yanked me out of my reverie. Once my reptilian brain relaxed, I realized the over five-foot tall bee was actually Helene Marshall of Marshall's Farm Natural Honey dressed as a bee, a la John Belushi.

Having my foot swell to the size of a basketball after stepping on a bee when I was a toddler didn't dampen my enthusiasm for honey. Neither did the discovery that the liquid amber is essentially bee vomit. I adore the sweet nectar.

In the Bay Area, the folks at Marshall's are the ambassadors of the bee kingdom. Their selection of dozens of varieties range in color from pale gold to dark chocolate and in flavor from floral to bittersweet. I decided to veer from my usual favorite "star thistle" and sample their seasonally changing collection of sticky wares.

After licking enough samples to send a dozen diabetics into shock, my clear favorite was endearingly named "Haunted Honey." Made from the pollen of pumpkin blossoms, this bright orange syrup has distinct undertones of roasted butternut squash and butterscotch.

Haunted Honey for Halloween. How appropriate. Unbelievably, I next stumbled upon a product worthy of Diwali, the Indian festival of lights which takes place today.

This time, I spied a product that stopped me in my tracks - a local version of an Italian cheese that some readers know I am inordinately fond of. While I paused to take a picture of the sheep's milk cheese, another cheese grabbed my attention.

Apparently a month or two ago, the local cheesemakers at Cowgirl Creamery teamed up with noted Indian food expert Niloufer Ichaporia King (whose cookbook I am excitedly awaiting) to create a creamy "Parsi style" version of panir (also spelled paneer). The Cowgirl version of this cow's milk farmer's cheese tastes like a smoother, saltier version of fresh ricotta, remarkably similar to a fresh cheese I often enjoyed in Catalonia called mató.

And guess what! Mató is almost always paired with honey* as a light and refreshing end to a Catalan meal. So I married my Halloween honey with my Diwali panir, added a few toasted California walnuts, and ended up miraculously with the best version of mel i mató I have had outside of Spain. Kismet.

Happy (belated) Halloween! Happy Diwali! And, most of all, happy tummy!

*Thanks also to the brilliant NS of San Francisco Gourmet San Francisco Gourmet who just a month ago reminded us all what a simple yet wonderful combination fresh ricotta-style cheese is when drizzled with a flavorful honey.

Food|and Drink|Recipes|Cheese|Desserts

The tiny seed that packs a big punch

If I had to pick one favorite spice, mustard seeds would win hands down. Black (or brown) mustard seeds, to be more precise. Not only are they the main ingredient in the best condiment on the planet, Dijon mustard (especially the version made in Beaune by Edmond Fallot), but they are indispensable to Indian cuisine.

Although there was a dusty old bottle of yellow mustard seeds that sat untouched for decades on my mother's spice shelf, I had never known the alluring power that lay within those tiny seeds until I met the woman who would become my wife.

After we were engaged, N and I traveled across the country from Washington, D.C., to California in an old station wagon. We saw the country from the slow lane at 45 mph, as we foolishly dragged the Ikea furniture accumulated in college behind us in a rented U-Haul trailer. Our car never fully recovered from that trip and I think we've since sold all the furniture.

A couple of days of driving brought us to Dayton, Ohio, to the home of some of my future relatives. N's aunt, the best cook in the family, offered to give us a crash course in Indian cooking, particularly the vegetarian specialties of Gujarat, the region of northwestern India where N's family comes from.

Masi (which means mother's sister in Gujarati) proved herself to be a masterful teacher. Our little blue notebook of carefully transcribed recipes is probably the most valued cookbook in my collection of over 200 cookbooks!

It was there in Masi's kitchen in small town Dayton (actually a suburb of Dayton) that I first encountered the incomparable aroma of toasting black mustard seeds, called rai in Gujarati and Hindi.

Many of Masi's recipes begin with frying rai in hot oil until the seeds turn gray and start to pop. When the seeds pop, they release this intoxicating scent that combines elements of toasted peanuts, brown butter and popcorn. I can never get enough of that smell!

This morning (for our thirteenth anniversary) I prepared a traditional savory Gujarati breakfast dish called batata poha (pictured left) from one of Masi's recipes that features the taste of rai. If you've never cooked with this spice before, this would be a good place to start.

The only unusual ingredient in the dish, aside from black mustard seeds themselves, is poha (sometimes spelled powa). Poha is flat pounded rice (see picture next page). There are two varieties of poha, thick and thin. You'll need the thick one for this recipe. It can be purchased at any Indian store or on line at Kalustyan's. It's also a flavorful and spicy alternative to the standard American breakfast options, like cold cereal or toast.

Tune in tomorrow...why bomba is da bomb!

What do you get when you combine incredible local vegetables with equally spectacular products from Spain -- olive oil, saffron, pimenton (paprika), and the finest short-grained rice in Europe?

Check back tomorrow for details and a recipe!