Going Home

In August when many of the apartments of the older sections of Madrid, lacking air conditioning, become stiflingly hot, the Madrilenos flock to Casa de Campo on evenings and weekends. There they do what Spaniards have done for centuries. They create culinary magic in the broad grassy fields. They make paella.

They’ve packed the car with lawn chairs and tableware and the children. They’ve brought chilled wine and agua gaseoso to mix in when the kids get thirsty for a sip or two at dinner. The pantry has been raided for a bag of the fat, round arroz Valencia and a small jug has been filled out of the household olive oil supply. Maybe an onion gets thrown in as well. Most importantly, they’ve dug out the blackened round flat-bottomed paella itself. For years I called it a paella pan, not realizing that was classic redundancy. Before my time in Spain ended I’d been to the neighborhood ferreteria twice and the owner did not smile at my gaffe when I sought my own pans. I got the standard family size the first time that would feed eight reasonable people or four Americans. Then I had a squadron party and bought the 75 centimeter “grande” that nicely handles the job for two dozen of your closest associates provided you can find a fire large enough to set it over. An old Weber kettle does the job nicely.

The family has also stopped at the Mercado. That’s the important part because freshness is everything. There are as many paella as there are old Spanish grandmothers with a secret recipe. Depending upon what region of this diverse country you came from there will be different essentials. Mariscos prevail, but there is no standard shellfish. They might be any of a dozen different forms of shrimp, ranging from the tiny gambas to the crimson red carboneras or the lobster like cigalas and langoustinos. Mussels or clams appear often and sliced rings of calamari as well. A few from coastal regions will add rough fish. Chicken, with or without bone, and bits of pork are used if available as well as rabbit. Chorizo is favored by some southerners. The question of other vegetables in the dish is much like the debate in Texas regarding whether or not frijoles have any place in a proper chili con carne. If used, it will likely be peas and a few strips of red or green sweet bell pepper. Saffron threads, of course are absolutely essential.

At the park, they set a charcoal fire and feed it with bits of twigs and vines they find nearby. The kids play, the parents talk, the components are slowly added to the paella and when traditional dinner time arrives, the sun is on the western horizon and the temperatures have dropped in the dry high desert air. The table is set, the wine is opened and life doesn’t get much better.

I ate a lot of paella during my years in Spain, but never had one done this way:

Perfect Paella

I’d sure like to make the pilgrimage for some of that crusty rice. But even if I don’t, I’d like to thank the Journal for a flood of wonderful memories of paellas enjoyed at so many great places. My first and most regular paella stop was in the little village of Torrejon de Ardoz, just outside the base main gate. The Torrejon Hostal was a friendly whitewashed building with a patio dining area for al fresco meals through most of the year. The paella was tolerable, the summer sangria was too sugary, and the gravy spotted vest of the waiter who greeted us each visit and merrily tossed wine corks over his shoulder into the parking lot made it all a great memory. About half-way through my time in Spain, they tore down the rustic old hostel and built a six story hotel to replace it. The restaurant was still there and the recipes didn’t change, but an air conditioned dining room was never quite the same as the dirt floor patio.

Supposedly the best place in Madrid for paella was El Callejon. Made irretrievably famous by Hemingway, the name comes from the passage between the arena wall and the bull-ring barricade where the toreros seek shelter during the bullfights. Papa claimed it was the best paella in Madrid, but didn’t compare to the Mediterranean coast cities. Of course that was 1930 and much has changed since then.

There you could get a dozen variations, but all took at least half an hour to prepare. That allowed time for tapas and a few chatos of tinto before the feast. In the spring, when available, the angulas were an absolute requirement. A sizzling plate of hot olive oil spiced with some tiny deep red hot peppers and slices of garlic then mounded with a double handful of the inch long tiny eels that migrate each year from the Sargasso Sea to the north coast of Spain where they either breed another generation or appear at dinner tables for those who can find the delicacy. Flipped once or twice in the fiery hot oil and they are absolute heaven. For the main course, the Paella Valenciana was my usual default choice.

Just outside wall of Toledo, in the flood plain groves north of town beside the river Tagus, there was a beautiful country villa that welcomed on chilly winter nights with a roaring fireplace, good wine and a specialty of codornices or quail. Not bad paella either.

The most memorable paella was the one that my housekeeper made for me during the week before I departed Spain. She invited us to her tiny house and built a paella that exceeded anything we’d had before, while apologizing that it was missing the best ingredient—tiny “song birds,” plucked clean and roasted intact in the dish. When the meal finished, her husband sent their oldest son to the corner for puros de Habana for both of us and then invited us to pack up the cars and head to the Plaza de Toros Madrid for a bull fight. We did, but I couldn’t accept his hospitality to the point of letting him get the tickets. He had strained his meager resources way too much already. We sat sol y sombra in the contrabarrera (the second row in from the wall) and had a hell of a time. Even without the songbirds. They were luckier than the bulls that day.