There's a Spain special on the Guardian website at the moment (also in print in the Travel section for anyone who's not done their recycling yet), featuring some interesting pieces about the lesser-discovered corners of this huge and diverse country. I'm in the back of a cab – which I had to trek across half the city in the rain to catch - heading North by North East of Vitoria, deep into the Basque province of Durangeldea. It's miserable. It's wet. It's literally the middle of nowhere. And I'm running late. I feel like there's only so many times I can say 'tengo prisa' before the otherwise tranquil driver stops the car and threatens to make me walk.
I'm headed to the tiny hamlet of Axpe Marzana. There's not really much there... A dozen or so houses, a couple of ramshackle old barns, a charming enough little square, and today, it would seem, bucket loads of rain. But despite it's remote location, and sleepy disposition, gastro-pilgrims such as myself have been flocking to Axpe in their droves for the last few years. Why? A humble, middle aged chef, who has absolutely no formal training, a home-made grill, and some seriously high-end ingredients. I can't believe I'm going to be late for my reservation at Asador Etxebarri – the greatest grill restaurant in the entire world!
Thirteen courses, one beer, three glasses of wine and two coffees later, and I'm feeling just a little more relaxed. Almost everything I've eaten today has induced a near orgasmic state of ecstacy, with some of the purest, most unadulterated, intense flavours I've ever laid upon my taste buds. I'm in a kind of zen-like plato of fullness, where both body and mind have surpassed all foreseen expectations of stimulation. I'll let you draw your own comparisons...
But as well as coming to eat, I've also come to speak to sous chef Lennox Hastie, about his and head chef Bittor Arguinzoniz's approach to cooking at Asador Etxebarri; namely their complete and un-compromised commitment to la brasa – the grill. Never have I come across a restaurant that pays such attention not only to the ingredients they use, but the means by which they heat them.
To say the menu at Asador Etxebarri is simplistic would be an under statement of epic proportions, like saying El Bulli is a touch extravagant, or Bittor does a decent barbeque. In fact up until recently, there wasn't even a menu at all; just a list of ingredients, or 'products', as Lennox terms them. You could either have them grilled, or not have them at all. As a concept, it's paired down to it's absolute bare bones, but that doesn't mean it's in any way austere. Quite the opposite, in fact. On my menu today was jamon iberico, oysters (which I had to pass up because I'm allergic – I got cockles instead), black truffle, beluga caviar, and some of the finest beef I've ever tasted. I reckon that's about as decadent a selection as you can get.
Bittor is a native Basque countryman who grew up in this very village. An ex-electrician who turned to cooking 20 years ago because he never found his passion in the series of odd jobs he was doing before then. Lennox is an Anglo-Australian who learned his trade in the top-tier French places like Le Manoir and Le Gavrouche, before coming to Spain about four years ago in search of new inspiration. Sitting in a San Sebastian bar one quiet afternoon, he heard about “some guy out in the hills with a home made grill” and has since never looked back.
On paper, the two of them couldn't be more different. But get them together and there seems to be an almost telepathic mutual understanding between them; the kind that could only be the result of a genuine respect for one another, and having spent the last 1300 days or so alone together in a very cramped kitchen. And as well as a respect for one another, they also share a deeply-rooted respect for their ingredients. In Lennox's own words, they spend their working lives “enhancing the food by doing a little as possible”.
We discuss the food of the region and the globally acclaimed, so called new-Basque movement that has put San Sebastian so firmly on the culinary map. Un-surprisingly, both of the chefs in front of me would choose comider casera - simple, home made food prepared with love, over the experimental, avante garde, multi-sensory experiences created by some of their contemporaries. “You don't need to do anything spectacular in the cooking if your ingredients are spectacular already”, says Lennox. My meal today has proved him right.
The only flavour that was added to any of the thirteen dishes I have eaten today have come from the burning wood on top of which they were cooked. Apart from salt, the only seasoning at Asador Etxebarri is smoke.
For two decades, Bittor has been honing and refining his methodology, trying different fuels and temperatures, and has now developed the art of grilling into a science all of his own. The range - which he conceived, designed and built with his own bare hands – along with a whole set of custom-made pots and pans, allow him to both manipulate the heat and regulate the cooking of each and every ingredient.
All the wood is first heated in the stoves to temperatures well beyond 400 degrees C, before being transferred to the grill using a shovel during service. Wood from local acorn-bearing oak trees is used as the base fuel, which burns consistently at a high heat, and gives off only a subtly perfumed smoke. Orange wood from the groves up the side of the hill are used to give citrus background to fish and seafood, whilst applewood is used for dishes like the caviar, where only the lightest of smokey notes is needed. Meat is cooked using aromatic olive and grape vines, to enhance their already strong flavours.
But this isn't about changing the flavours. You're not supposed to sit at the dinner table thinking “mmm, tastes like tempranillo branches”, jokes Lennox... It's about bringing out the flavours that are already there. The two chefs exchange a few words in Spanish, before Lennox turns to me to interpret. “He says it's about the taste of the animal, the earth, the sea.” Bittor curls his bottom lip and shrugs, as if to say what else could you possibly need?
Lennox and I lean at the bar, looking out onto the restaurant. “Bittor has grown up with this”, he says. “It's nothing new to him, just an evolution of the cooking he has known since he was a kid”. For twenty years, whilst the big names in the region have spent their culinary careers making dishes ever more complex, Bittor has been quietly experimenting with simplicity.
“This place isn't about nouvelle creations... It's about refinement of everything that's always been great about Basque cooking.” Pulling a clenched fist towards his chest, he breaks into Spanish: “La comida y el sentido!” The food and the feeling... At Asador Etxebarri, they have found the best of both.
[This is the second part of a previously published post about Asador Etxebarri – sorry for the delay]
Mañana, I head west along the coast, past Bilbao, through Cantabria and on to Austurias. Come nightfall, I'll be in Gijon, a city famed for it's surfing, and sawdust-floored sidrerias. 
Since Wednesday, I've eaten an amazingly tender braised ox cheek, served in a rich red wine gravy; light and crispy tempura de bacalao; a 'cannelloni' filled with pig, lamb and beef offal stew; grilled rabbit's leg, served with a thin salsa verde, similar to the one I had in Vitoria; pulpo 'Roca' - the Basque way, cooked a la planxa, and served with pickled cabbage; and my personal favourite - for the name if nothing more - Manita de Ministro, or the 'little hand' of a pig. A fried trotter, to you and I. 
Thirty kilometres or so west of San Sebastian lies the handsome fishing port of Ondarroa, a town that appears almost etched onto either side of the valley that guards the mouth of the Rio Artibai. For the duration of the 45 minute journey here, the sea has pounded at the rocks of the Guipúzcoan coastline, and the skies have looked as though they are about to buckle imminently under their own intense pressure.
No sooner have I stepped off the bus am I looking for shelter again, as the heavens finally unleash a torrent of rainfall onto the shoreline below. The bar across the street looks inviting enough, and at least it has something of the view I had promised myself of the fishing boats, bobbing up and down in the harbour.
Inside the bar there are 30 or more silver haired men, all sporting matching neckerchiefs and berets bearing a motif of the Basque flag. Gesturing wildly at the bar staff, they order rounds and rounds of pintxo, vino and cañas, toasting each other's health with gruff, traditional cheer.
One man tells me in a mix of broken Castellano, Euskara and English that the neckerchiefs are worn in support of the Ondarroa football team, and today, local rivals Lekeitio are in town. After a couple of small beers, I leave los hombres to it... The rain looks like it might be subsiding, and anyway, I'm beginning to get hungry.
As I cross the old stone footbridge, a procession of some sort is taking place. The streets are lined with Basque flags, and a make shift marching band beat out a rhythm to which an unlikely troop of dancers perform a traditional jig. The crowd cheers, car horns blow, dogs bark, and a man with big hair and a scruffy beard lets off flares, slightly too close behind me for comfort.
Unfortunately I have less of a reason to celebrate. The restaurant I had hoped to go to – a traditional place with a huge charcoal grill outside you can smell from across the river – is fully booked for a party. Plan B, then. There was a bar back over the bridge which had drawn a crowd, the pintxo looked good, it's seems a long time since breakfast, and to be honest, now I'll eat anything.
I take a seat to one side, away from the hubbub, and land myself a good view of the little TV screen in the corner, which is showing Premier League football. I'm just in time for the Merseyside Derby.
The menu del dia looks decent enough, and there's no sense in moving now, so I order the platos degustacion, figuring that in this proximity to the sea, I'm bound to get some seafood. As it happens, the closest I come is a 'crab' mayonnaise, made out of the little pink and white sticks as opposed to the actual creatures that are probably crawling around the harbour, less than thirty foot away. Still, the chorizo is good, and there's a few slices of fairly nutty jamon. As I polish it off, for the first time on my trip, I begin to consider the relationship between animal fat and cholesterol levels.
I've also ordered solomillo, which I thought was salmon, but is in fact some rather bland grilled pork. Serves me right for not checking the translation. And for dessert I have tarte de queso. Frozen cheese cake, served with squirty cream. On a warm plate. I can't say it paints the prettiest of pictures as it melts into various splodges across my plate. Well, at least you can count on the wine around here. As I pour another glass, Dirk Kuyt puts Liverpool 1-0 up against the Toffees. There's a close up of the crowd going wild in the Kop end; they don't look half as rowdy as the gents with the berets in the bar earlier! I sit back and hope the second half is more exciting than my dinner...
It's still raining as I leave the bar, a couple of hours later. As well as the Liverpool match, I've been entertained by a party of 20-odd, loudly celebrating their friend's birthday, and groups of merry young lads, revelling in their day of leisure. Walking through the old town, I hear cheering and deep baritone chorus coming from bars on either side of the street. It seems as though there is much to be happy about in Ondarroa, despite the weather.
The quality of pintxos here is universally very high – San Sebastian's reputation has not been gained without good reason - but why be content with what's good, when you know that excellence is lurking somewhere around the corner? Finding it, however, can be the difficult thing.
So having already spent a couple of days trying my luck at whichever bars caught my eye, earlier on this week, I was lucky enough to be taken on a tour of the old town by a friend who is not only a born and bred local lad, but also a fully-fledged foodie. This man really knows his pintxo bars.
Unsurprisingly, each bar has it's specialities, the two or three dishes in which they really excel. Our tour took us in a series of concentric circles through the old town, stopping off for jamon in one place, bacalao in the next, then octopus in another, then calamari, then hake, and so and so on... Apparently all the inhabitants of San Sebastian have their own little routes around the town, taking in their favourite haunts, in whatever order suits their taste buds that night.
But if you're new in town, how do you find out about these specialities? One option might be to eat every single dish in the whole town, which is something I'm obviously not averse to... Another is to guage the bar by it's tortilla de patata. The best ones will be nice and thick, evenly coloured on the outside, light and creamy in the middle, with onions that someone has taken the time to caramelise, and potato that still has just a little bit of bite. If they get their tortilla right, then it's probably worth ordering another crianza and finding a comfortable spot to lean at by the bar.
The other thing about pintxo is that whilst all the bar-top tapas are great, the real gems are on the pintxo caliente menu – the ones that are made to order. As I was told, the chef isn't going to want their specialities to be sitting out getting dry for an hour or two before someone eats them. They'll want it served at it's very best, fresh from the kitchen. Look out for the subtle variations of dishes from bar to bar... How do they serve their rabas (calamari)? Is their pulpo de galego (Galician-style; boiled and served with paprika), or a la planxa (Basque-style; seared in a very hot pan)? What's in their morcilla? Arroz (rice)? Peñas (pine nuts)? Pasas (raisins), even? If they pass the tortilla test, and they do something interesting involving your favourite ingredient on the menu, then you're probably in for a tasty night.
Of course, there are visual cues too; If there are three dozen cured pig's legs hanging above the bar, then you can be pretty sure they hold faith in their jamon. And good for them, I say... Swiftly followed by “una raciones, por favor?!”
By day four of my trip I had already eaten one of the all time greatest meals of my entire life. The place was Asador Etxebarri, which simply means 'new house restaurant', and the food almost universally comes a la brasa, from the grill.
This was no chance visit, however. The virtues of Asador Etxebarri have been extolled by everyone from global taste makers, such as Time Magazine and OFM, to the lowliest of amateur food bloggers - not least me! In fact, I had heard and read so many incredible things about this restaurant, that it alone played a big part in me choosing the Basque Country as the starting point for my travels.
Having arranged to discuss the principles and approach of Asador Etxebarri with sous chef Lennox Hastie (head Chef Bittor Arguinzoniz doesn't like interviews, and doesn't speak English anyway), after I'd eaten, I was lucky enough to be given an insightful and in depth tour of the place, including the wood store, filtration tanks, where live fish are kept, the prep kitchen, and of course, la brasa.
The full feature will follow in part two of this post, but for now, it's time for the food. I had intended to be brief in my descriptions, but it appears that gastro-hyperbole has since got the better of me. It's obviously my sub-conscious forcing me to relive this meal in full. And what a meal it was...
An amuse bouche of supa de calabraza, or pumpkin soup. Smooth, light, and gentle. A little knock at the door of the taste buds, just make sure they're home and ready to receive visitors.
A second appetiser of jamon iberico. The sliver of toast underneath the jamon crisp from the grill and just warm enough to release the sweet, nutty flavours of the fat. This dish thankfully keeps my tally of jamon per day at 100%.
Bonbón de mantequilla casera. Smoked handmade butter, truffle shavings, and little bread crumb 'snow flakes'. The butter itself is unsalted, although the dish is seasoned with crushed sea salt and, believe it or not, ash. The butter has a deeply smoky flavour which seems to intensify as it moves from the front to the back of your mouth. It's rich, indulgent, and utterly divine. So good, in fact, I ordered seconds. 
Gambas de Palamós a la brasa. A single prawn, perfectly grilled. A pinch of salt. And that's it. These prawns actually come form a little fishing village on the East coast of Spain, where they're fished from a shelf so deep, that when the pots are brought up, the change in pressure causes the prawn's brains and wot-not (I'm not being very technical, here, I realise) to instantly implode. For the prawn, it's a tough way to go, but the result for the lucky diner, is much more pleasurable. When you pull it's head off, you are met by splurge of sea green prawn juice that taste so good you just have to slurp it all up. I found myself sucking on it's legs, tail, antenna and eye balls just to make sure I didn't miss a single drop. The plump, firm meat beneath the shell is also just about as good as you're going to get.
Iranian Beluga caviar, again, a la brasa. Now, apparently, it's a heaneous crime against gastronomy to even think about warming caviar, let alone putting it on top of a grill. In actual fact, Bittor and Lennox experimented with this dish for months before finding a suitable method of cooking... A mesh-based pan is lined with seaweed, then laid over smouldering nuggets of applewood, and covered. The caviar steams and smokes for just long enough to get it up to blood temperature. The feeling of tiny warm fish eggs popping in your mouth really is something special.
Pulpolitos a la brasa. Tiny, perfectly tender baby octopus, no bigger than a thumb nail. Squid ink reduction. A sweet / sour, almost Chinese-style sliver of baby onion. A sticky, tangy onion marmalade to balance the salty flavour. Seaweed. Despite there being absolutely nothing on the plate that shouldn't absolutely be there, this is was one of the more complex dishes.
Yema de huevo a la brasa con trufa negra. Slices of black Perigord truffle, which had an almost overwhelming 'woodland' flavour, until you mixed them with the grilled egg which lay underneath. To complete this earthy dish, at the base there was a spoonful of potato puree, sitting in it's own stock. As the yolk ran down into the juices, everything suddenly came together. Never has potato water tasted so good.
Bacalao a la brasa. In my limited experience, I have so far been distinctly underwhelmed by salt cod. This dish, however, certainly raised the bar. Despite having been grilled, the fish was moist and juicy, and the flesh was somehow still translucent. On it's own, it was easily the best salt cod I've ever tasted (I don't claim to have tasted much), but when eaten with the butter sauce, and a slice of the smoked pimiento pepper, it made for a faultlessly balanced combination.
Chistorra a la brasa. This time of year is chorizo-making time, and the beginnings of the batch, where the smallest part of the lower intestine is used as the casing is, in these parts, known as the chistorra. Often, chorizo is made using a mix of offcuts and fat from any old porker that's to hand, before being seasoned with paprika. There's nothing wrong with this, although at Asador Etxebarri, where they make their own chorizo, they do things slightly differently. Instead of using lean meat and adding fat, they choose cuts which are fatty already. The cut in question is the cachucha - or the head - from none other than the famed Iberian black pig. Now that's my kind of chorizo... Instead of using paprika powder, they also dry their own pimiento peppers when they have an abundance in summer, before re-soaking them in winter and using the flesh to give a far more subtle pepper flavour. It's served somewhere between raw and very, very rare, with a couple of tiny bread sticks, and guess what? It tasted completely amazing.
Chuleta de vaca a la brasa. The finest Galician Blonde beef steak, hung for at least four weeks, trimmed of most of the fat, grilled until charred on the outside, yet rare-as-you-like deep, dark red on the inside, served on the bone, with nothing more than a bit of rock salt as a garnish. The thing that sets the Galician Blonde meat apart from a lot of the meat we're used to is it's age. The cattle are bred for working the fields, and that's exactly what they do for at least the first eight years of their lives. After that, they go into retirement, and spend the next six years or more living the easy life, getting fattened up ready for their eventual fate on the dinner table. In the UK, cows for eating are sent to slaughter at around three years, if they're lucky. In North America, they're a lot younger. The Galician way means the cow gets a good life, the farmer gets his field ploughed, and we get a steak that's got the perfect combination of strong flavours from the work out, and marbling from the leisure time. In researching my visit to Asador Etxebarri, I read an awful lot about this steak, and expected very big things. I can honestly say it was without doubt, by far and away, no word of a lie, the most incredible piece of meat I've ever sunk my jaws into. Out of this world.
Infusión de fruitos silvestres con helado de queso. The sweetness of the wild fruits, less a puree, and more a syrup, just on the softer side of tart. Creamy, almost sour cheese ice cream, gradually fusing with the wild fruit flavours as it melted. Clean and lip-smackingly fresh. There could not be a better dish to follow that steak... I'm running out of superlatives here, but with this, I think they found perfection.
Torrija con helado de leche reducida. If the meal hasn't done so already, this dish confirms Bittor's status as a genius. The torrija is a Basque speciality – a kind of warm custard cake – brilliantly executed, but in my book it could only play a supporting role to it's accompaniment on the plate - a singular quinnell of smoked milk ice cream. The deep, rich, intensely smoky flavour literally blew my taste buds. “Unreal” I muttered to myself as I came to, having been in a daze since the first mouthful.
I remember the day like it was yesterday. The kind of barmy late September afternoon that makes you forget winter ever existed. It was a Thursday, around 3pm, and I'd engineered a 'meeting' that allowed me to skip work for the rest of the day in favour of a trip to Borough Market. I'd gone in search of Mediterranean produce for a feast I was cooking the following day, inspired by a week long stage at Moro.
Clutching a loaf of the perfect sourdough for my Moroccan bread salad starter, I headed to Brindisa to sample their fine selection of jamon. I stood at the counter, five legs of dark, glistening meat in front of me, the ham carver behind them, carefully trimming off inviting little slivers.
I chatted to the carver as he sliced, discussing the characteristics of each ham, each of them with a distinct, nutty flavour. Each of them entirely unique. He told me about how the pata negra or black pigs roam in a dense woodland area, almost the size of Wales. He told me how they graze on acorns that fall from the oak trees, some of them over two thousand years old. He told me about the animal husbandry, the farmers who tend to the them, and how when the men go out to bring the pigs in for slaughter, they sometimes don't return for days. He told me about the curing process, the air drying, sometimes for 24 months or more, and how the subtle climactic differences brought about by the geography of the curing houses has such a profound effect on the finished product. I stood there and listened for at least half an hour, completely and utterly compelled.
In front of me lay some of the finest examples of jamon iberico in the country, if not the world. A meat that is intrinsically related to it's surroundings – a true product of nature, enhanced by craft skills that haven't changed for generations, plus the investment of a lot of time, effort, and love. I left the shop with a few slices of sweet, nutty Extramadura de Bellota, a couple of pots of ham fat, a bag of iberico bones, and a very big smile on my face.
The jamon itself went down a treat the following evening. I used it in a pre-dinner tapa, on toast smeared with a little roast garlic puree, still just warm enough to melt the fat from the jamon as it lay on top. The bones, however, lasted a lot longer... The carver advised me to keep them in the freezer, using a chunk at a time to make rich, deeply flavoured stock. In fact, those humble bones contain so much flavour, you can use each one again and again – three times at least, if you're lucky. They made their mark on many a meal; With lentils in a thick, comforting winter soup; In a braise with a smoked ham hock and white beans, for one of the most flavoursome - and cheap – Sunday dinners I've had in a long time; Added to caramelised onions for an Iberian take on the classic French onion soup; and in a rich, hearty, and supremely unctuous Basque-style chicken stew. And they're still going... I even gave away the final - unused - bones as leaving gifts. (You lucky boys!)
It's funny how little acts sometimes make such a big impression... Who would have thought a bag of pig bones could change the course of my life forever? With each and every meal I made with them, I thought more and more about the process that brought about these incredible flavours. I suppose you could say I developed something of an obsession with jamon, or at least a very strong desire to find out more.
And so yesterday, I left London for Spain, where I'll be living for the foreseeable future, in search of the finest jamon in the land! As I type, I'm sat in a pintxo bar in the casco viejo de Bilbao, an array of gastronomic treats in front of me, and a glass of vino tinto at my side. Over the coming months, I will eat my way through Pais Vasco, Austurias and then Galicia, before heading south to Extramadura, where the black pigs roam free, and so shall I...
Spanish onion soup
My Iberian take on the French bistro classic. This is a dish for the patient cook – the key is in caramelising the onions for as long as possible. Up to an hour on a very low heat is ideal, and in fact works perfectly, as you can boil up the stock at the same time. Pour yourself a couple of glasses of Madeira whilst you wait, and it will fly by.
For the stock
a Jamon Iberico bone (or other pig bone – ask your butcher)
a couple of carrots, peeled and sliced in half
a couple of sticks of celery, cut into chunks
an onion, skinned and sliced in half
a couple of bay leaves
half a dozen black pepper corns
For the soup
a knob of butter or a couple of chunks jamon fat
olive oil
white or Spanish onions – two or three per person, finely sliced
garlic – a small clove per person, chopped
thyme – the leaves of a sprig or two person
balsamic vinegar
bay leaves
salt and pepper
Madeira, sherry, or fino (alternatively you can use white wine) – a good slug per person
ham stock – half a pint per person
lentils – a handful per person (optional)
First, make the stock: Put all the ingredients into a large pot, and cover with cold water. Cover, bring to the boil, and simmer for at least an hour and a half. Make sure the bone remains completely submerged.
Whilst this stock bubbles away, slice your onions. Heat the oil and butter (or ham fat) in a large pan. Add the onions when the butter begins to colour, or the fat has rendered and is beginning to smoke. Cook on a medium heat for a few minutes until they begin to soften. Add the garlic, thyme, and bay leaves, and season with salt, which helps extract water from the onions. Add the balsamic, and stir until it evaporates. The sugar will help the caramelisation. Turn the heat down and continue to cook over a low heat for as long as possible – at least 30 minutes, if not an hour. The onions should reduce in size by a third or more, and become a dark caramel colour.
Strain the stock of all the veg, bones and aromatics. If you like, you can fish out the carrots and celery and chop them finely to add to the soup. At this stage, for a heartier, more filling soup, you can add a handful of lentils per person and cook for another 20 minutes until the lentils are tender. Check the seasoning and adjust if necessary. Alternatively, heat through for ten minutes and serve with a slice of toasted baguette, rubbed with garlic, and topped with melted manchego, cheddar, parmesan, or other hard cheese, and a sprinkling of thyme.
Chicken and ham stew
This stew is extremely tasty, wholesome, and warming. A great alternative to Sunday roast. The best results come from a smoked ham hock, but any smoked pork - such as bacon, pancetta, or even chorizo – will be great.
Enough for four and some leftovers
1 litre ham stock, as before
olive oil
a couple of chunks jamon fat (optional)
a ham hock (or a couple of chorizo sausages, sliced into chunks, or six slices of smoked bacon or pancetta, cut into pieces)
6 chicken thighs
salt and pepper
a glass red wine
2 onions, sliced
2-3 cloves garlic, sliced
a heaped teaspoon harissa paste
2 bay leaves
6 sun-dried tomatoes, cut into pieces
black olives, pitted
basmati rice (about 3 mugs full)
one tin of tomatoes or a couple of handfuls of chopped fresh tomatoes
If using a ham hock, put it in a pan with cold water, bring up to the boil, take off the heat immediately, then rinse. This gets rid of the excess salt. Simmer the ham in the stock for 45 minutes, making sure it remains covered. Remove from the stock, and keep the stock warm on a low heat whilst you trim away any fat from the hock, then pick the meat off the bone. Keep to one side.
Heat a little oil in a large sauce pan or casserole, along with the jamon fat if using. If using chorizo, bacon or pancetta, add to the pan, and brown. When the pork is beginning to colour, add the chicken pieces, and brown on all sides, seasoning as you go. Remove and put to one side on a warm plate. Add the glass of wine, stir and reduce, in order to release the flavours from the pan.
Add the onions and cook for a couple of minutes until they begin to soften. Add the garlic and cook for another couple of minutes, then the harissa, bay leaves, sun-dried tomatoes, and olives. Add the rice, and stir so everything is coated. Return the chicken, ham, or chorizo / bacon / pancetta to the pan, then the tomatoes and stock. All the rice and chicken should be just covered in liquid. Bring to the boil, then simmer for on the stove top for 45 minutes with the slightly ajar, or cook in the oven on a medium heat for in a covered casserole for 30 minutes, before removing the lid and cooking for another 15 minutes, so the dish begins to form a slight crust on the top.
Serve with lots of steamed greens, and a glass of Rioja.
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