Keep on truckin'

The food tuck scene in London town just stepped up a gear. Meat Wagon and the Eat Street mob have been firing for the last couple of years, but the arrival of a certain BBQ joint, under Hungerford Bridge on the Southbank, marks a smoking hot addition heady world of pimped-out gastro kebab vans. Welcome, Pitt Cue Co.

Get down early, and work your way through the menu of hickory-smoked proteins, banging sides and sauces, and heavy weight liquor to match.

Wings & a Pickleback for breakfast:

Salt beef, pickles, dill sauce and rye for mid-morning snack:
Plus plenty of The Kernel to keep the cogs oiled, and some hickory smoked Old Spot king ribs, rootbeer beans, and slaw for lunch.

This is bigger than my ever-expanding waistline, boys. Keep it coming!

El Museo del Jamón

Aracena is a fairly typical Andalusian pueblo, all white-washed buildings and fountain-centered plazas, tucked away in the mountains of rural northern Huelva. Over an hour's drive from the nearest city, it's verging on the middle of nowhere, except for when it comes to the jamón industry, of which it is virtually the centre of the world.

Or one of four centres (if that's possible?) of the world to be precise; The area around the sierra is one four denominacion de origen, marking jamón of particularly high quality in Spain. The others include Dehesa de Extremadura, Badajoz; Jamon de Guijuelo, Salamanca; and Los Pedroches in Cordoba.

Naturally, upon arriving in Aracena, my first stop was the Museo del Jamón...

Greeted by a wall of hanging hams... Mmm, que huele!

A statue of Alberto Germán Franco, outside the museum, "a tribute to all the people who have worked in the Iberian Pig Sector". I'm proud to be able to claim that applies to me!

Pig country

My first encounter with an Iberian Black... in live form, that is. Cute, eh?

The horn of Salamanca

Picture the scene: It's late spring, sometime in the early eleventh century and the university city of Salamanca is burgeoning as one of the intellectual centres of the Iberian peninsula. In turn, this new found significance has led to increased wealth, and the men at the top with the heavy pockets and loose purse strings are in need of some frivolities to spend their pieces of silver on. Thankfully, help is at hand to ensure that some of it finds it's way back to the working classes, in the form of the world's oldest profession, prostitution.

Meanwhile, Christianity has taken hold big time of late, the hillock that overlooks the river now has a huge cathedral sat upon it, the bishop is pulling no punches on the town council, and all those rich, idol menfolk are being told that those whores to whom they are all so fond of are strictly off limits...

Fast forward a thousand years or so, and Salamanca's working women are still the people to see if you want to spend your disposable income, however, their profession is somewhat less sinful. Nowadays, they've swapped street corners for sweet counters, having taken up residence in the many pastelerias that are to be found across the city. Whilst the shelves are always well stocked with cakes, biscuits and pastries, in this town, centre stage is inevitably given over to Salamanca's trademark savoury treat, the hornazo.

Hornazos are undoubtedly Salamanca's leading contribution to Spanish gastronomy, they are part of the empenada family – essentially a stuffed savoury pie, similar to what we know as a pasty. Empanadas can be found in various guises the length and breadth of the country. In the Balearic Islands they're small and cute, with crimped edges and decorative egg wash. In Madrid, we ate them hot from the oven at El Mercado de San Miguel, filled pimenton and ground pork. In Galicia the pastry is made with grasa de cerdo, and they're filled with berberechos... A cockle pasty, made with pig fat - you wouldn't find that on the stall at Euston Station, would you?

Salamanca's version is, I think it's safe to say, a little more upmarket, and very carnivorous. This being prime pig country, the hornazo is gordy and fat, thick with layers lomo pork fillet, slices of cured salchichon sausage, huge discs of chorizo, generous rashers of jamon iberico, and just incase that wasn't enough protein, a few boiled eggs thrown in for good measure... Say, I don't know, a dozen.

I first encountered the hornazo in Galicia, when a Salamancan guest brought one to the farm I was staying on as a gift. I was so taken with it that I've come to their point of origin to find out more, and to sample the goods on their home turf. Salamanca is one of Spain's most architecturally significant cities, home to the second-oldest university in the country, and an important stop off for pilgrims who are hoping to walk their way to salvation. Meanwhile, I've come here solely on the strength of a meat pie.

So instead of spending my last day in Salamanca sight seeing, I went to an industrial estate on the south side of the city to meet with Raquel Soria of Hornazo de Salamanca. Hornazo de Salamanca are to hornazos what Heinz are to ketchup, and Raquel is la primera campañera, and therefore something of an authority in the world of luxury meat pies. She says that the secret to a good one is plump, juicy rounds of chorizo, placed on top of the slices of the pork fillet - taken from the finest iberian iberian black pigs - so all the meat stays moist during the cooking.

All well and good, but what does all this have to do with the rich folk yesteryear and their hookers? Well, the hornazo is a dish that marks the passing of Lent and they're traditionally eaten outside "in the field" on Easter Monday. You don't have to be a genius to work out that Christian calender was based around existing pagan festivals, and Lent – a period of austerity, is preceded by celebrations or carnival.

A little excursion into etymology: The word carnival, which is Latin in origin, unsurprisingly holds it's roots close to the word carne, and therefore implies not only meat, but also sex. It appears Salamanca's upper classes found it hard to give up either during Lent, and eventually the only way to put a stop to their loosed-loined behaviour was to banish all the prostitutes from the city, to the other side of the river Tormes. And to make times even tougher, meat was off the menu for forty days and nights as well.

Legend has it that by the time Lent was up, the men were all so gagging for it, they went down to the river to meet the returning hookers, planning to stay there so long, that they all packed a meaty lunch box. I realise that euphomisim was all too obvious, and I apologies, however they are Raquel's words, and not mine, so who am I to argue?

Pressing issues

That age old dilemma... You've finished making your chorizos for the year. Your lacon has been quietly maturing with the legs of jamon in the humadaria. Your panceta is just about ready to be brought up into the kitchen. There's a manita in the bottom of the fridge that you plan to use in a caldo, but those two pigs heads that are hanging in the basement still need to be put to good use... Sound familiar? Not, to me either. Until I came to Galicia, that is, where if you don't have at least half a pig hanging in your store room, plus a couple of live ones in the garden, your house is quite frankly incomplete.

Whilst the 'nose to tail' philosophy is still something of a novelty in Britain, in Galicia, you'd be looked at like a fool if you didn't eat the head, tail, feet, tongue, brains or in fact any other scrap of flesh that it was possible to obtain from an animal carcass without resorting to mechanically-aided extraction.

So, what to do with those spare pigs heads? Make cachucha, of course; Pressed pig's head.

Cachucha

This is the Galego version of what those who adhere to the nose to tail philosophy will know as 'brawn'. The key difference as far as I can see is that the brawn recipes that I've seen use fresh pig's heads, whilst in cachucha, the meat is inevitably salted and lightly smoked. Most don't even use any additional herbs or aromatics, but I've included some here, because a few bay leaves aren't going to offend anyone, and let's face it, if your stock pot contains literally nothing but piggy-smelling face meat, you're going to feel a bit like you're making dog food.

Makes enough for one large terrine

one pig's head, salted and lighlty smoked. On the bone, but split into quarters

bay leaves, thyme, rosemarry, pepper corns (optional)

water

Put the pig's head in a sufficiently large pot, and cover completely with cold water, and leave to soak. Change the water every twelve hours or so for at least a day and a half.

After having changed the water at least three times, drain, rinse, and cover in fresh water, adding the herbs and any other flavours you choose. Bring to the boil, then simmer for three to four hours. Leave to cool. You now have some very tender pig face meat, and some very strong pig stock.

Pick the meat off the face and skull, trimming off any thick layers of fat. A bit of gristle is fine. Cut the ears, nose, and any other large pieces of flesh into strips. Layer and pack tightly into a terrine dish, cover with grease proof paper and tin foil, and use a brick, books, or any other heavy object to press down on the top of the terrine. Leave in a cool place over night, then refrigerate.

Serve in thin slices with toast and chutney.

The day we killed a pig

I awake as if it were any other morning, to the sound of speckled rain on the caravan roof, and a cloak of mist shrouding the basin of Valle de Castaños. The atmosphere is cold and heavy, thick with subdued energy.

As we drive up the steep track, out of the valley, the sky begins to clear. Clouds part above us, almost as if they're making way for the two accomplices to the events that would unfold, later that morning...

It's the tail end of pig killing 'season', which takes place from late Autumn until Carnival, the week before Lent. In the past, almost all rural families would have kept a house pig, supplementing it's grazing on the land with kitchen scraps and other dregs - a kind of gardener-cum-waste disposal unit. Come 11th November, a feast day in honour of St Martin, the pigs would have been duly fattened, and ready to lay down their lives for the benefit of their owner's sustenance over the long, hard winter. After having been salted, cured, smoked and preserved, the yield from one pig would keep a family going for a whole year.

The traditions of November 11th have given way to a popular saying in Spain, "A cada cerdo le llega su San Martín" – “Every pig has it's St Martin's Day”. Andreas has been given a pig by a friend... And today is that pig's St Martin's Day.

We arrive at our destination. A collection of houses on a bleak patch of land, where the mountains plato, 800 metres above sea level. The remnants of snow lay underfoot, and there's a bitter chill in the air, the kind that makes you shudder like a skeleton's rasping it's knuckles up your spinal chord.

We stand huddled in the shed to one side of the yard, where a pot of water has been set to boil on an open fire. One of the men gathers together buckets and towels, whilst another stirs a tin pan, half-full with a murky liquid that looks like potato scraps boiled in muddy water. I hope to myself that this isn't the pig's last supper, or worse still, our pre-sacrificio snack. The tallest of the men, the matador, who will carry out the killing, flits between the fire and his collection of freshly sharpened knives. As a forth man barks something at me in his thick, Austurian accent, I nod and smile, trying my best to hide the nerves that have taken hold of my stomach. As everyone busies themselves around the yard, I suspect I'm not the only one who is feeling just a little uneasy.

Probably ten minutes pass... I'm not sure if final preparations were being made for the killing, if we were waiting for the frozen rain to pass, or if it was simply to allow time for everyone to drink an extra cupful of wine. An elderly man strolls over from one of the houses across the road. He looks well into his seventies, if not older, but his eyes are bright, and he walks tall and broad. The kind of man I imagine to have taken part in events like these hundreds of times before. He looks over the yard, and says something to the matador in a tone that asks "well, are you going to do it or not?"

The next thing I know, the matador is inside the pig pen, whilst the rest of us are huddling around the gate. I've been handed the end of a rope and instructed to hold on tight. It takes probably 20 seconds for the matador to get hold of one of the pigs, but with the high-pitched squealing and fear-fuelled instinct that makes the animals literally run for their lives, it seem like far longer. After a short struggle, the unfortunate beast is dragged out of the pen by a noose around it's snout - something which in itself must be excruciatingly painful. As the pig is pulled into the centre of the courtyard it lets out a blood-curdlingly expressive screech; less a squeal, more a scream of terror.

Three of us take the strain of the noose at the snout and ropes at the rear, whilst the matador grabs his knife. It's a long, vicious looking tool; tough and rigid, the blade and handle carved from a single piece of metal. As he stands over the pig, the screaming stops. Pigs are intelligent beasts, and it would appear that this one knows it's fate. In a single movement, the matador plunges the knife deep into the throat, going through the gullet and down to the heart. Another shriek This time agony rather than fear. The ropes tighten in our hands as the pig bucks and kicks, eventually flipping itself almost a metre into the air. With one last violent spasm, it drops to it's side, hitting the ground with an audible thud. Blood seeps from it's neck turning the green grass a muddy red. The twitching stops and the pig lies still. Finally, it is dead. The whole process lasted around a minute.

We haul the pig into a long shallow bath, where it will be cleaned and prepared for butchering. We have to work quickly now, as this must be done whilst the body is still warm and rigor mortis has yet to set in. As one man pours boiling water over the body, we each take a knife and begin shaving off the thick hairs that adorn it's skin. At first I'm almost hesitant to touch it. I kneel down and grab it's thigh. It's warm, pink and fleshy, almost disturbingly similar to that of a human. But with each stroke of the knife, turned flat against the contours of it's body, I begin to consider it less as an animal, and more as the piece of meat that it will become.

With blood still dripping from the gaping hole in it's neck, we winch the pig up so it's hanging from the rafters. The knot slips, and the animal falls back to the floor. I feel myself wincing, almost upset by the lapse of dignity that this hulk of flesh has been subjected to. I have heard about this being done using tractors, fork-lifts, or other machinery, but where we've gone is back to basics; rope and man power are all that's to hand. 

Finally, the pig is risen to the height of one of the beams, legs akimbo, ready to be cut open. The matador takes his knife and scores the flesh from the anus to the rib cage. With utmost care, he teases out the intestines and stomach. One slip of the knife, and we would all be covered in whatever the pig had eaten for dinner. Once the delicate work is done, he places an axe on the sternum, and using a hammer, splits the ribcage in two, one blow at a time. With the heart, lungs, liver and kidneys neatly away, he yanks the wind pipe clean out. He turns to Andreas, knife in one bloodied hand, fleshy, pink-grey tube in the other, offering up the innards as a final piece of bounty... "Para los peros" is Andreas' response; We already have more than enough offal to contend with.

The matador slings the wind pipe to the dogs, rubs his hands clean with a towel, and begins walking away from the scene, to house on the other side of the road. His work here is done.

We gather in the small kitchen, leaning against the walls and work surfaces as platers of jamon, fried chorizo and cheese are laid out on the table. There is only one chair in the room and only the matador is sitting. There are no cutlery or plates - the men use their own pocket knives to pick up the food, and pieces of bread to catch any juices. As everyone eats their meat, cheese and bread, drinking wine, and sharing the occasional chuckle, the atmosphere begins to flatten. It's only two o'clock, but it feels like we've packed a lot into our morning. There's a lull in conversation. The matador drains his cup of wine, flips his knife blade back into the handle, and stands. "Bueno," he says, in a tone that implies right, that's enough, as opposed to OK, good, as it's usually used, and walks out of the kitchen. That's the end of that.

***

So now I've taken part in the killing of a pig. A powerful and at times disturbing experience. Official legislation states that a stun-gun should be used to render the animal unconscious, so it can then be bled to death. But the method used here is one that hasn't changed for centuries... It wasn't sacrificial, or celebratory, but there was a certain sense of ritual. Ritual that has been passed down through generations. Ritual that, for right or wrong, is quickly dying out.

Could the killing have been faster, more dignified, less painful? I suspect so, yes. But at least the suffering was preceded by a decent life. It's diet was varied. It had the company of other animals. A sheltered pen, and a yard to roam in. When you compare it's existence to that of an intensively-reared, industrial pig, which may be slaughtered under conditions that meet the terms of official good practice, but have spent their lives living in a pen so small they can't even turn around, there is a lot to be said for tradition. A minute of fear and pain versus a lifetime of miserable discomfort...

***

The following day, feeling just a little sore-headed after having spent the entirety of the previous day drinking, we set about butchering the carcass and preserving the meat. Andreas has turned the table in his workshop into a temporary butcher's block, and enlisted the help of two friends from the village. Neither are professionally trained, but they get to work quickly, cleanly and efficiently, showing expertise as they split and joint the carcass. The shoulders, thighs, ribs, belly, bacon, trotters and head are trimmed and prepared for salting, whilst the off-cuts are minced - along with a healthy dose of fat - in order to make chorizo. There's a lot of work, but with four pairs of hands, the task is complete by lunchtime.

Sat in a circle in the kitchen, we tuck into slices of mouth-wateringly tender lomo - the back fillet - marinated in lots of garlic and oil, and cooked over the open fire. The butchers refuse my offer of cutlery and plates, using only their own pocket knives to cut chunks of bread off the loaf, and skewer each piece of meat. Another carnivorous feast, eaten with primal machismo.

After lunch, we salt the meat in an old cast-iron bath, and make the chorizo mix by adding garlic, parsley, salt and lots of both sweet and hot paprika to the mince. Once again, the day has been lubricated with lots of local wine, and by five o'clock, with the work done, I'm glad of a rest in the courtyard. I sit and contemplate the previous day's events, whilst taking in the last of the afternoon sun.

Offal is on the menu for dinner, and while Andreas cooks up a thick, northern Europen-style stew made from the kidneys, liver and lungs, I slice the heart thinly and marinade it in garlic, thyme, and oil, as I had done with the ox heart at St John. This will be our starter, along with the pig's brains, pan-fried and served with lots of bread. By the time it gets to the stew, I'm almost full, but make my way through a bowlful, despite the floppy texture of the lung making me feel slightly queasy. As I mop up the remaining juices, Andreas immediately offers me another ladle full. For the first time during my stay at Valle de Castaños, I don't really fancy seconds. After two days of pig, the whole pig, and nothing but the pig, for now at least, I've finally had enough.

Ham is where the heart is

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.