The Guardian on Spain

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.

Have a look at the insiders guide to northern Spain. You might recognise one of the contributors...

The last supper

My final meal in Galicia, at Restaurante Solla. In a land where food is often best described as gutsy, in all senses of the word, Jose Gonzalez 'Pepe' Solla has created a taste and style all of his own. Thirteen courses of his delicate and subtle take on Galego cuisine followed. Here's some highlights.

Pulpo as I've never seen it before.

Sea urchin for the second time in two days...

The famous "luxury" ribs, as immortalised in my dining companion's book, Everything but the Squeal.

Los chocolates, a coffee, a signed menu, and 45 minute chat with the man Pepe himself.

Sea urchin for breakfast

Fish markets always seem to be a lot of fun... All those odd little under-sea creatures to ogle at. A Coruña's market is particularly good. Here's some snaps from my early morning trip their yesterday.

Preparing my breakfast...

"My claws may be held together with elastic bands, but still, don't mess, yeah?".

My, what beautiful eyes you have.

Obligatory pulpo shot #1.

Local delicacies; Zamburiñas and percebes.

A rape's face. There's a gag in there somewhere, but I'm staying well clear.

Roe. Appetising, non?

Obligatory pulpo shot #2

Tenticle transaction.

Ah... Coruña

I got a good feeling from Coruña from the moment I stepped off the bus. Greeted with bright blue skies and a sense of excitement brought about my arrival in civilisation, I headed for the centre with the sun on my ruck-sack laden back, and a spring in my step. Wide avenues cutting through the city on one side, shiny yachts bobbing about in the harbour on the other, the whole world and their designer dog out for a Saturday morning stroll. The mix of bustling pavement cafes, modernist grandeur in the buildings, and vibrant street culture was quite a change to the farms I'd been used to. This is great, I thought to myself, soaking up the scene in the town square, it's just what I imagine Buenos Aires to be like. Which sort of made me wonder why I didn't just go to Buenos Aires. Bet they don't kill pigs with their bare hands there though, do they!

Coruna, or A Coruña, I should say - or even The City Formally Known as La Coruña, perhaps - has got a bit of everything. A huge sandy beach, a fancy marina, good nightlife, great architecture, a few decent museums, and some of Galicia's most dramatic coastline just a short hop away. Up until recently, it's also had a few problems deciding on what to call itself, although for the time being at least, the city seems to have settled on A Coruña.

Despite the inclusion - or not, as the case may be - of the 'L' becoming a not insignificant political issue in recent years (it's all to do with Galician nationalism, and therefore not something I'm really qualified to poke fun at), it's good to know that the city hasn't been held back. Quite the opposite: Coruña has gone from strength to strength economically, culturally and politically. The post-regency grandeur is now accompanied by a striking contemporary trim.

It's an unashamedly bourgoise city, which makes it very unlike the rest of the province. The locals seem to enjoy nothing more than their evening paseo. Come seven thirty, everyone of Coruña's inhabitants take to the pavements, all dolled up in their snazziest clobber, not a hair out of place, like they're trying to collectively break the record for the most designer labels per capita in Europe. It's by far and away as glam as life gets in Galicia. In fact, this lot could give the England WAGs a run for their (extremely conspicuously displayed) money.

Thankfully all this posing is fringed by some rougher edges. It's not only the boutiques that do a roaring trade around here. There's also a very healthy tapas scene. Ok, maybe healthy isn't the right word, but there's certainly plenty of opportunities to eat a lot of it. I've been staying right in the centre of the 'tapas zone' where making the decision to stop eating can be a demanding exercise in self control. As with the other cities I've visited, each bar specialises in a different dish. Guided by adopted Coruñian John Barlow, who's appetite I first encountered in Santiago, I've visited the bar that's known for tortilla, the bar that's known for roast ham, the bar that's known for croquettes, the bar that's known for chorizo, the bar that's known for chiparones (baby squid), the bar that's known for zamburiñas (tiny scallops), the bar that's known for its home-made liquor (see picture above - inviting, eh?) and the bar that's known for just being very, very cheap.

Normally I tend to avoid places that adorn their walls with huge neon signs, but Meson do Pulpo, on the street of pulpo, in the city that specialises in the stuff... Well I couldn't resist. It tasted a lot better than it did out of a tin!

The great and the grelos

I'm going to put my neck on the line here, with a bit of a bold statement; I think it's fairly safe to say that Spring is finally here. Even in this drizzly, meteorologically-blighted part of the world, it feels as though we've taken a step towards summer, or at least, shuffled away from winter a little bit. With spring comes an abundance of produce from the garden, and in the last week or so, I've yanked radishes from the veg patches, picked field lettuce from the gardens, and grinned from ear to ear as plates of freshly cut asparagus have been placed on the dinner table.

For the Galician gardener this variety comes as something of a relief, as up until now the fresh crop has been limited to some cauliflowers, the odd chard if you're lucky, and a never-ending supply of grelos. I suppose it is for this reason, that grelos are such a bona fide Galician staple. No garden is complete without a patch of their straggly stems, shooting skyward in the hope of finding some sunshine amidst all the rain. They're also the traditional accompaniment to any hearty Galician meal. All the meat in a cocido means nothing without them, you'll inevitably find a few bobbing about in a caldo, and a plate of pink, juicy lacon is naked if deprived of their accompaniment. If it's early spring, and a Galego is doing the cooking, there's a strong chance they'll make their way onto the dinner table somehow, amongst all the potato and pig fat.

Despite sounding like the inhabitants of an alien planet in Star Wars, grelos, along with their relatives, the nabos, are actually part of the turnip family. Both are hardy enough to withstand the frosts of Galicia's raw winters, and eager enough to sprout that they pop up before most other greens have come out of hibernation. As is the case with the turnip, generally only the root of a nabo is eaten. With grelos, the root is discarded and fed to the cows, whilst the humans get the leafy green tops, and turn them into a slimy, over-cooked mush.

If truth be told, spring marks the end of grelo season. As soon as they start to flower, they're past they're best – it's time to chop their heads off and start again for next year. And that sort of makes this post obsolete; like telling you how to roast your turkey on the 6th of January. Anyway, I've started, so I'll finish...

They're barely grown anywhere outside of Galica, certainly not in any great quantity. Even in neighbouring Austurias, which shares similar geography and climate, they are far less of a fixture in both agriculture and diet. Bizarrely, they've never really made it beyond the mountains, which is far less than can be said for the many Galegos who've traded this rainy little corner of Spain for more exotic lands. In fact, so many people left Galicia for South America, that the slang term for a Spanish immigrant there is a Galego, no matter which province they come from.

Another little sociological aside is the curiously Galego trait of morriña, a kind of nostalgic for what they no longer have. For all those who've left the province for pastures new, this means a constant feeling of acute, rose-tinted home-sickness. I've heard stories of ex-pat Galegos welling up at the very mention of their homeland, stopping to clear the lump in their throats before they've even finished telling you about the bad weather. This may explain the huge export market for grelos, which are tinned and shipped to ex-Spanish colonies the world over. Those misty-eyed ex-pats need a taste of home.

Whilst we're on the subject of second-hand trivia, I have it on good authority that morriña is not actually a socio-psychological condition, but a chemical one. Apparently the granite bed rock in Galicia contains abnormally high levels of plutonium. So it's not home sickness those émigrés are suffering from, it's withdrawal symptoms. Xago's Grelos, now with added radioactivity – you can almost see the slogan now...

What was the point of all this again? I think the plutonium must have gone to my head.

Two ways with grelos

Whilst grelos may not be the most glamourous of vegetables, they are certainly ubiquitous. At the Reitoral de Chandrexa, we had so many we ended up feeding the stems to the pigs (for some reason only cows will eat the bulb), whilst at Tanquian, I spent a whole day picking them, and managed to fill twelve carrier bags full. I spent much of that time day dreaming up recipes to use them...

Grelos con salsa de hollandaisa

A variation on the classic asparagus with hollandaise sauce. You could also substitute the grelos for purple sprouting broccoli.

Serves at least four

a bunch of grelos, say 20-30 stems (or a bunch of asparagus / purple sprouting broccoli stems)

two egg yolks

125g unsalted butter

lemon juice

a pinch of salt

Put the egg yolks and butter in a heat proof bowl, and place over a pan of simmering water, as you if you were melting chocolate. Gently whisk as the butter melts, so the two mix together. Keep whisking as you heat, and after a few minutes, the sauce will begin to thicken. Add a pinch of salt, and a squeeze of lemon juice to taste, and remove from the heat.

Meanwhile, steam or boil your greens so they are just tender, and remove to a serving plate. Drizzle the sauce over the top, or use it as a dip.

Lasagne de grelos y castañas

Chestnuts are common as muck in Galicia, but if you can't find them, hazelnuts or walnuts would work just as well. Spinach or broccoli would both make ample substitutes for the grelos.

Serves at least four

one big bunch of grelos (or one large bag of spinach / head of broccoli)

one packet lasagne (or some fresh, home-made stuff if you have the time and the paraphernalia)

a large onion, finely sliced

a couple of cloves of garlic, finely chopped

a large tub of ricotta cheese

nutmeg

a few handfuls of chestnuts (or other unsalted nuts), shelled

salt and pepper

parmesan

Lightly toast the nuts in a dry frying pan, over a medium heat. Keep an eye on them, and give the pan the occasional shake, as they do have a tendency to burn. After a few minutes, they will have a bit of colour, and you'll smell the warm, nutty, aroma. Add a little olive oil to the pan, followed by the onions and garlic. Sauté until the onions are soft and slightly golden. Remove from the heat. Blanch your greens in lightly-salted boiling water for a few minutes. Remove and mix with the onions. Season with salt and pepper to taste.

Lightly grease a suitable oven-proof dish, and put a layer of lasagne on the bottom. Put a layer of the vegetable / nut mixture on top, followed by some generous splodges of ricotta, and a grating of nutmeg. Repeat the layers until you've used up the mixture. Put another layer of lasagne on the top, plus some smaller splodges of ricotta, and a good covering of parmesan. Sprinkle a few more nuts on top, and bake in the oven for half an hour so if using dried pasta, 15 minutes or less if using fresh.

Serve with salad and crusty bread.

Saint´s Week on the Sil

Semana Santa is a big deal here in Spain. Whilst some cities come to a stand still for holy processions, most people simply see it as a good excuse for a holiday. Like many others in the country, I headed for the hills, finding a rather fitting base for Saint's Week in an old church rectory, the Reitoral de Chandrexa, which sits perched on the slopes of the breath taking canyon of the Rio Sil.

The Sil carves it's way across Galicia's inland province of Ourense. This rugged, mountainous area is known as the Ribeira Sacra - one of the country´s best wine regions. As it twists and turns through the province, it creates a series of micro climates, which are perfect for Galicia's hardy and aromatic grape varietals, notably the godello and mencia. Grapes have been grown in the region for more than two thousand years, and when you consider the treacherous lengths that are gone to tend to the vnyards along the canyon, it's not hard to understand why wine making is looked upon here with divine significance.

Whilst there has been some time to visit the wineries (more on that to come), really I came here to work... The vicar has long since left the building, but the rectory is still in good use, now as a small farm and rural guest house. I arrived last week to a healthy measure of wine from the Reitoral's own vinyard, and hot empenada de cerdo – pig pasty – fresh from the oven. Each day is punctuated by the almost-regular chiming of the church bells, which ran 50-odd minutes fast, making their inaccuracy known roughly every fifteen minutes. Still, when the bells tolled three times, meaning it was sometime just after two, it was time to down tools and head to the house for a long lunch.

The cooking is distinctly Galego, but with many inventive twists. Chorizo con castañas, a dish that is typical of these particular hills, because of the abundance of chestnut trees. Lentijas con algas, lentils stewed with seaweed farmed in the shallow rias on the atlantic coast. Filloas – Galicia's version of pancakes – served with queso de pais – soft and creamy cow's milk cheese, made in the next village. Bread baked in the communal stone oven, which is shared with the surrounding households. Home-made jams, honey and juices. Cake made from a traditional recipe, served for breakfast every morning.

Pastel de Ourense

This most traditional of cakes is native to this particular corner of the Ourense province. Interestingly, it's made using a sour dough starter, meaning there's no baking soda or other rising agent. Served at breakfast time and after lunch, it's delicious as it is, but really comes into it's own when dipped into very hot coffee.

The recipe here may seem a bit loose, but that's because the landlord here at the Reitoral de Chandrexa has made it so many times, he just kind of throws it together as he goes about his other business. Be aware this is definitely one for the patient cook however, the sour dough means it takes a good half day to make.

Enough for a huge baking tray full

Make a sour dough leavan starter.

Mix with warm water.

Add half kilogram of plain flour. Form into a dough, cover, and leave to rise for five hours.

Cream half a kilogram of butter with twice that volume of sugar (about a kilogram).

Add twelve eggs, and another half kilogram of plain flour to the butter and sugar, and mix well.

Mix the butter / egg mixture together with the dough, and transfer into rectangular cake tins.

Bake in hot oven for 45 mins – an hour. At the Reitoral, they use a old fashioned wood burning stove, with a couple of large chunks of oak in the burner. If you don't have one of them, turn the dial to 180 degrees.

Remove from the oven when the top has turned golden brown and a skewer comes out clean after piercing.

Sprinkle with more sugar and leave to cool.

Serve for breakfast and after lunch with hot coffee for dipping.

Roots, fruits, and cosmic forces

Welcome to Tanquian, a beautiful family finca nestled in the rolling hills of Galicia's Lugo province, which has been my base for the last few weeks. Set in stunning scenery, with a back drop of the snow-covered Sierra de Orense mountains, there are orchards, vinyards, open fields for the horses to graze, some very prolific chickens, an oak forest, and enough fruit trees and bushes for the Tanquian residents to produce a range of delicious jams, chutneys and juices.

The climate and fertile land mean that fruit and vegetables grow here in abundance. Days are spent tending to the land and gardens around the finca, whilst in the evenings, everyone gathers around the big table in the farmhouse kitchen for delicious tapas dinners - salad and vegetables from the garden, local chorizo and cheeses, homemade bread, cakes and deserts, wine from their own grapes, and juices pressed from their own berries.

Life here runs according to permaculture principles, which means working in harmony with nature in a state of 'permanent agriculture'. There is a recognition that everything has an effect on the ecosystem as a whole, therefore every action that is taken - whether that be clearing leaves from the forest floor, cutting back some berry bushes, or diverting a stream for irrigation - should bring multiple benefits. Every effort is made to harness the natural energy that is present throughout, in order to be efficient.

Work is guided not only by seasons and the weather, but by the lunar calendar. According to astrological theory, as the moon and stars move through the zodiac signs, energy is re-distributed throughout the different 'elements' – earth, fire, water, wind, wood. (I know this is all sounding a bit new age, but bare with me for a moment...) Each element corresponds to different aspects of ecological life, so for example, the beginning of a lunar cycle might be good for doing any tasks related to the roots of the plants, whilst at the end of the moon, the energy might be better suited to tasks involving fruits, leaves, branches, and so on. All of this was alien to me, until one sunny spring morning, soon after I'd arrived at Tanquian. Emmely, my host on the finca, turned to me with conviction and said “You know what... today is a good day for planting rasberries”.

“Oh yeah? Why's that, then? Is it something to do with gravity?” I said

“No!” she said, “It's to do with the cosmic forces..."

Now I've always associated this zodiac stuff with the horoscopes in the back of trashy newspapers. But I trust Emmely far more than I trust Mystic Meg, and besides, I've tasted those rasberries; Whatever is going on with the cosmic forces, it's all going right!

So in accordance with the lunar calendar, as well as the rasberries, some days are dedicated entirely to planting garlic or onions (roots), others tending to sapplings and trees (branches), and others harvesting lettuce, kale or spinach (leaves). At the very least, it keeps things interesting.

The lunar calendar also dictates that on some days, the energy isn't really good for doing anything in the garden. The moon obviously likes the odd day off as well... So last week, when we had a nothing day, we made bread and bottled wine from the cask in the bodega; A very pleasant job, because of course, it´s necessary to test some...

Emmely's Super Fácil bread


Nothing beats a morning baking, and what a satisfying and productive use of time for a day when the moon, or more likely the rain, has banned you from the garden! Emmely's method is very easy, and her home-grown, coarse-ground wheat produces wonderfully tasty wholemeal bread flour. The perfect way to re-align your cosmic forces...

Makes at least four loaves

2 kg wholemeal flour

a generous handful of lighlty-toasted sunflower seeds

1.6 ltr warm water

2 tsp yeast

half a tsp salt

In a large mixing bowl or sauce pan, mix all the ingredients using an electric hand whisk for a couple of minutes. It's a fairly wet mixture, so don't be surprised if it looks a bit sticky, although some flour behaves differently than others, so if you're really worries, add an extra handful of flour and mix again.

Cover and leave to rise in a warm place for an hour or so until it's roughly doubled in size. At Tanquean, Emmely leaves hers behind the free-standing wood oven, in the farmhouse kitchen. If you don't have a free-standing wood oven, or a farm house kitchen, then try the airing cupboard instead.

Shape into loaves, using bread tins if you have them, and leave to rise again for another 20 minutes. Preheat the oven to 210 degrees C. Put the loaves in on a high shelf, and throw a splash of water into the bottom of the oven to create some moisture.

After fifteen minutes, turn the oven down to 180, and back for another hour or so. They're ready when you can poke a skewer in and it comes out clean. Serve when slightly cooled from the oven, with butter, homemade chutney, cheese, and wine from your own bodega!

Santiago, for those that love to eat

Santiago de Compostella. A city that has been attracting holy pilgrims in their droves since the ninth century, when the bones of the apostle Saint James were 'allegedly' discovered here. I say allegedly because the discovery was preceded by Saint James, despite being killed in the Holy Lands, - thousands of miles away from Galicia - re-appeared here, 800 years later(!), firstly in the stars to guide a shepherd home who'd got lost in the hills, and then a second time on the battle field - riding a white charger, no less - and single handedly saw off a whole army of ravaging Moors. Oh, and he sailed half way around the world in a rudderless stone boat as well. With 'facts' like that, it's difficult to know what to believe.

So, following the discovery, a Cathedral was promptly built on the site of his tomb, which has been pulling in the punters ever since. The idea is, you make your way here along El Camino de Santiago, ideally on foot (those Catholics love a bit of masochism, after all) and atone your sins. In return you get to skip the grilling in Purgatory, when that time should come, and head straight up to Heaven. Well, the trend stuck, and those pilgrims kept on coming. Suffice to say that the city is still awash with weary but euphoric-looking travellers, dressed in anoraks and sensible footwear.

Meanwhile, I made my way here by bus, and whilst I'm all for a back-from-the-dead fisherman turned mountain rescue man turned warrior general, the reason I've come, unsurprisingly, is to eat.


My guide for the day is novelist John Barlow. Amongst other things, John wrote the culinary travelogue Everything But The Squeal, a thoroughly entertaining account of his own year-long quest to eat every single part of the pig in his adopted home of Galicia. A man after my own heart, it would seem. Since John has literally just finished guiding a very well-known celebrity chef (I'm naming no names) around the region as part of their research for a new TV series, I reckon I'm in for decent day. I got in touch with John out of the blue, and asked on the off chance if he fancied meeting up, and whilst we were toying around with places to go, he suggested that Santiago was a good place to "just walk around eating". I didn't realise quite how literally he meant that.

We meet at Cafe Paris. It's a fairly run of the mill bar, but it's a suitable starting point, as it marks the beginning of the Paris-Dakar crawl. Paris sits at the top of Rua Franco, and at the bottom is Dakar. In between are probably 30-odd cafes, bars, and other drinking establishments, in each of which you're supposed to have a cup of wine. As well as pilgrims, there are a lot of students in Santiago, and funnily enough, this is a favourite pastime of theirs.

But whilst booze is on the agenda today, it's only playing a supporting role. We're here for the food. John spent a few years living here after he graduated, and now lives up the coast in A Coruña. He's keen to show me around not just the places that have been going strong since well before he was living here, but also some of the new comers that he's heard about on the Galician gastro grapevine. In fact, he seems almost as excited as I am! We set off down Rue Franco, and our eating tour of Santiago is underway.

The first stop is a San Sebastian-style pintxo bar, complete with a huge range of immaculately presented bar-top snacks, most of which include jamon in various guises. John goes for albondigas - meat balls - a tapas classic if ever there was one, whilst I order stuffed calamari. They're packed full of a rich mushroom mixture, with enough garlic to raise a Saint... So far so good.

From here, we head up into the side streets, and end up in a quirky little place that has a sense of un-intended nostalgia about it... I.e. it looks as though it hasn't been decorated for about 45 years. The food is just as characterful as the place, and with our corto – a very small 'cut' of beer - we have some extremely tasty tigres rabiosos, or rabid tigers. A curious thing to be eating in a traditional bar in the historic centre of Santiago, you may think, but the tigers are in fact mussels, and they're rabid because they're cooked in a lip-tingly spicey sauce. Galicia is renowned for it's seafood, and these are well up to standard. The sauce is intensely punchy, but there's still enough sea-side flavour in the plump mussels to come through over the top.

Now we've done traditional and simplistic, it's time to check out a new-comer to Santiago's tapas bar scene. It's a compact little place, perched on the edge of the market. Each morning, they create a short menu of dishes from whatever is good on the stalls that day. It's slick and modern, with as much room taken up by the open kitchen as there is for diners. The look is all dark slate and polished chrome, with a red glow from the heater lamps on the kitchen's pass. I'm in a prime spot for eye-ing up what's coming out of the kitchen, and everything looks great. Whilst I'm um-ing and ah-ing over what we should have, John orders one of everything. Now why didn't I think of that?

First to arrive is the egg. But this is not just any egg. It's a pilgrim-worthy, faith-installing, epiphany-giving kind of egg. You know the sort? Well neither did I until I had a mouthful of this. It's cooked at 63.8 degrees, so it's completely soft, in fact only slightly more coagulated than if it had been raw. It sit swimming in a sauce of smoked potato puree accompanied by nuggets of paprika-loaded chorizo. It's finished with a sprinkling of crisp sour-dough bread crumbs for texture. These ingredients are the most basic of Galician staples, but with just a little inventiveness, they've been turned into something miraculous.

We work our way through the other dishes, washed down with a couple of glasses of the local albariño wine; pulpo shashimi, little parcels of manita - braised pigs trotter, and Berbechos 'Espresso' – cockles cooked for just ten seconds, using steam from the coffee machine. Each one gives a subtle twist to the staples of Galician cuisine, and each one is great. As we finish our last plate, we're still discussing the egg... So we decide to order another, just to make sure we've had huevos fix before hitting the road. And off we go.

On the way, we discuss some of the many larger than life experiences John encountered on his pork-fuelled quest through Galicia... Being showered with angry ants in Laza, being mistaken for a police man at a hippy colony near the Austurian border, having lunch with Fidel Castro's cousin, and then meeting one of the most important figures of General Franco's cabinet. Who ever would have thought that eating pig for a year would take a man such places.

Since eating pig is something that both of us enjoy, the next stop on our tour had to involve jamon. We march up the hill, to a little 'restaurant and rooms' type place where John promises we'll get the best jamon in Santiago. It's just outside the boundaries of the old town, but the place is as traditional as it gets, complete with wood panelling, cured pig legs hanging from the ceiling, and plumes of cigarette smoke thickening the air.

We order a racione of Extremadura de Bellota and some Manchego. In terms of tapas combinations, it's the dream team. We both tuck in, revelling in the amount of fat that's clinging to the rich, almost translucent slivers of meat. This is acorn fed, grade A - the best there is. It doesn't come cheap, but neither does caviar, gold or uranium, and I know which one I'd prefer on my plate.

“I fancy some dessert” John says... My heart sinks a little, assuming that must signal the end of our culinary tour of Santiago. Having said that, we have been eating for the last four hours, and John does have a wife and kid to go home to. Chestnut tart serves it's purpose, but the real star of our postres is some very mature goats cheese. It's the kind of cheese that's so strong it makes your eyes water. My taste buds are still ringing as we put our coats on and head down the road for post-lunch beverage.

We step into a smart-looking bar that's just off the main thorough fares of the old town. John tells me he often takes people here in summertime, as they have a fabulous courtyard, where you feel like you've escaped from the world. Well, it isn't summertime. It's the end of February. And it's raining. Hard. Apparently Galicia gets 150 days of rain a year. I've been in the region a week and a bit, and it feels like we've had 150 days worth of rain already. Still, the other good thing about this bar is the beer. We order a couple of bottles of Estrella Galicia Especial (“it tastes good, and it'll get yer pissed”, nods John, slipping into his native West Yorkshire accent), sit back and watch the rain fall down.

“So what do you reckon about dinner then?”, he says. “We could go to Casa Marcelo, if you like?” Casa Marcelo is regarded as being one of the best restaurants in Galicia, and Head Chef, Marcelo Tejedor, who trained with Juan Mari Arzak, is certainly a player in Spain's culinary A-League... And to think I thought our eating was done for the day!

With a table booked for a quarter to ten, we have more than enough time for a couple of apertifs. And one must-see drinking spot in Santiago is O Gato Negro - The Black Cat. We arrive just before the evening rush, and bag a spot at the bar.

O Gato Negro was immortalised in John's book in a chapter dedicated to the Galician delicacy of Chiccarones – pork that's been slow cooked in it's own fat, until it literally disintegrates into a kind of stringy-looking paté. Which I reckon sounds pretty good. The other thing that the Black Cat is known for is it's empanades – large, flat, savoury pies, although everything that the little old lady in the kitchen is knocking looks pretty good to me. But we're going for dinner at a Michelin-starred restaurant in an hour, and those slices of pie could comfortably feed two hungry pilgrims, fresh off the Camino. For once, will power reigns supreme over gluttony, and I decide to stick to the vino.

From here, it's down to Dakar, the end of the student booze run, and our last stop before dinner. Dakar is a funny little place... There's a sense of faded grandeur from the big mirrors, alabaster fittings, and gilded sign writing on the walls, but in reality, it's just a bit scuzzy. I've come across a few of these places now on my tour of Northern Spain, particularly in Galicia... A place can look as classy as a prince's palace, but there's no hiding that lingering smell of boiled octopus and stale cigarette smoke. When our drinks arrive, the waiter also brings some complimentary orejo - boiled pigs ear. It's by far and away the worst thing we've eaten all day, but it seems to suit our surroundings. We sip our beers, eat our pigs ear, and watch the cross-eyed students roll in, as the clock ticks ever closer towards dinner.

Casa Marcelo is tucked away in a behind a modest doorway on Rua Hortas, a quaint, higgledy piggledy street that leads down the hill away from the cathedral. The dining room is understated, drawing the eye towards the large open kitchen that takes up easily two thirds of the room. It somehow manages to be both formal and homely, with the sense that you can saunter up the steps and lean against the work surfaces for a chat. Which is exactly what I did.

Everyday, Marcelo prepares a new menu degustacion, based on what's in season and what he feels like cooking. The cuisine could be described as modern Galician... There's a sense of experimentation, but nothing that would put off the conservative palettes of the Galego diners. We start with a 'Mojito' of frozen rhubarb, served on ice in a take away container. It's a nice bit of theatre, and great for opening up the taste buds, as from there on in, the meal incorporates a delicate range of subtle flavours.

Highlights were undoubtedly melt-in-the mouth mackerel in a smoky pimenton sauce, and signature dish pil-pil de limón – steamed hake with the subtlest flavours of lemon zest and green pepper. Both epitomised the house style of simple cuisine, executed with creative flare. In fact every one of the ten courses demonstrated the high level of technical expertise that Marcelo commands in his kitchen.

Desserts included a piña colada, served with a plume of what looked like liquid nitrogen 'smoke', followed by another orejo. This one had nothing to do with a pig, however; It was in fact the pastry variety. Galician's may not actually go as far as to eat pig's head for afters, but they do name their desserts after them.

We stumble out of the restaurant and make our way up the street. With twelve hours worth of food and drink in my belly, I feel as wobbly on my feet as those pilgrims who've walked half way across Europe, and almost as wobbly as some of those students. I may not have come for the holy spirit, but I'm definitely a convert to the joys of this city. That was Santiago, for those that love to eat.

Everything but the Squeal, by John Barlow, is available from all good book shops. If you are remotely interested in pigs, Spain, or the slightly bizarre escapades of an émigré Northerner, then it comes highly recommended.