Paella & Zucchero

Juramento Restaurant

I like to say that Córdoba is my favorite city in Spain to visit. After four visits, that feeling hasn’t diminished. It is a city so rich in history that it is palpable on every corner and down every tiled alleyway.

We arrived for our first visit in early March 2017, leaving a cold, blustery Madrid behind. The adventure led south on the bullet train, arriving in Córdoba about an hour and forty minutes later. Who knew that the climate could be so different so suddenly?

Exiting the train, we were greeted by bright sunshine and the sweet smell of orange blossom. Spring was in full effect in Córdoba and we began peeling layers off of our overdressed bodies. It was a short walk of maybe twenty minutes to our AirBnb in the historic district. A view of the Mezquita was supposedly visible from the room and the rooftop terrace. The mosque/cathedral encapsulates over a thousand years of Spanish history, from the Moorish invasion to the Reconquista.

The room was everything it was meant to be, but we wanted to get out and explore. My wife is Persian and much of what we read indicated that she would feel at home with the architecture and ornate tile work in Córdoba’s old town.

Narrow streets void of cars, conversations echoing from inner courtyards, each entryway to white, stucco homes lined with beautiful tiles. We were enjoying ourselves thoroughly.

We chose a circuitous way around the old part of Córdoba and stumbled upon a grand square, the Plaza de la Corredera.

It was well into tapas time and the square was teeming with life. A table was found, two glasses of red ordered, and a bowl of olives and another of chips were delivered. Spanish college kids played guitar and sang at the next table. Darkness fell, it cooled off quickly and we enquired about dinner options.

“Nine o’clock ! And don’t eat here”.

A strange response from the waiter but he clarified quickly.

“Go that way, three corners, always left, Juramento. Very, very good.”

He pointed repeatedly in the direction he meant. An arch, more small alleys. A tip from a local. Just the way we liked it. We settled in with another glass of red and soaked in the atmosphere. This was the Spain we had always dreamed of experiencing.

At eight-forty-five, we settled our bill — six Euros ! for the four glasses of red. The bowls of olives and chips were included free of charge … of course.

Juramento was, in fact, exactly where our waiter had said. And it was the embodiment of Andalusian architecture and charm. Old, wooden doors followed by a strange route past a bar and the kitchen door, then through a swinging door into a covered courtyard three stories high. The atrium was filled with plants and lovingly decorated in tiles with geometric patterns in dark pomegranate red and lapis lazuli blue. The moorish style. Most tile designs after the Reconquista feature Spain’s light blue and yellow flowing, flowery designs.

One other table was occupied, and it would remain that way. At that moment we had no idea that the other couple would become our dear friends in Spain.

We feasted on salmorejo, a creamy tomato soup covered in bits of hard boiled egg and jamon, and beef cheek stew with a side of deep fried eggplant drizzled in honey. There was more wine as we had really grown to love the bolder, fruitier reds of Spain.

The other couple were engaged in a passionate discussion. We just couldn’t understand it. After an hour and a half we were stuffed and relaxed, surely a bit buzzed and thought it time to head out. My wife and the other woman chose the same time to head to the restroom. Two guys left to our thoughts. This wasn’t something I was good at. I liked talking to people.

At that moment, I recognized that the music playing was by a famous Italian singer named Zucchero. I looked over at the other gentleman and asked:

“Is it Zucchero?”

A pause, the gentlemen thinking about the song and wondering if he could handle a conversation in English.

“Yes, maybe. Yes !”

I probed further, “Are you from Córdoba?”

“No, Valencia”. We were well on our way.

I pointed to the beautiful tiles, “Very nice tiles”.

“Si! Los azulejos son muy bonitos.”

I had learned a new word ! Azulejos meant tiles.

I gave the ole’ thumbs up and we both smiled.

Just then both ladies returned. Introductions were made and we now knew them as Rosa and Marcelo.

Rosa spoke English quite well, and the conversation blossomed. He was a well known painter, she a professor of Fine Arts at the University of Valencia. They were on a road trip to Sevilla for a gallery opening where his work would be featured a few days later. We told them of our plans to visit Sevilla in a few days and that we would end our trip with ten days in Valencia.

Rosa told us that we should be wary of bad, tourist paella in the center of Valencia and in some of the busier beach areas. Efforts by those places never resulted in good paella. Marcelo asked to get caught up and a flurry of Spanish ensued. Turns out Castilian Spanish is the second fastest spoken language in the world after Japanese. I believed it.

“Marcelo says my paella is the best” and a slight blush was noticeable on her cheeks.

Marcelo had gotten the waiter’s attention and settled his bill. It had been a long drive from Valencia and they had to visit some folks tomorrow before heading on to Sevilla to prepare for the art opening.

We told them how much we had enjoyed the chat and they headed out. We sat back and chatted briefly about how nice they had been and how easily people engaged in conversation here in Spain. Just then, Rosa reappeared in the atrium and handed us a card with an address and phone number and told us we should join them at the opening in Sevilla in two days. We were thrilled that they had made this gesture but had no idea what was to come.

Rosa sped off again and we just smiled at each other. What luck ! A chance to experience something most tourists never would.

We enjoyed our remaining time in Córdoba and caught a train to Sevilla — it’s only about an hour’s ride. We wanted to settle in and find out if the gallery was anywhere near our hotel. By chance, it was. Not that Sevilla is small, but our hotel was in the center as was the gallery.

At seven o’clock that evening we were on our way. Strolling past the cathedral and down alleys lined with more fragrant orange trees in full blossom, we navigated ancient paths teeming with people. It was, once again, tapas time and few experiences can top a Spanish city and its people enjoying hours of conversation and small bites shared among friends.

We found the gallery and it was crowded. Clearly, Marcelo was a well-known and respected artist. His works were a fascinating mix of still life and architectural themes. Muted colors and shadows. They were captivating.

Eventually, we found Rosa and Marcelo and they were genuinely happy to see us. The exhibition had gone well, was ending shortly, and would we join them for dinner. We were thrilled. What followed were three to four hours of fine dining, drinks, and, for us, broken conversation in Spanish, Italian, French, English and German. Lots of hand gestures as well… This group of fourteen were clearly old friends, some from Valencia, and others from France and other parts of Spain.

The evening ended with us quite tipsy and stuffed to the gills, but also with another invitation from Rosa and Marcelo. But this time, it would be at their place just outside Valencia for paella. We couldn’t believe our luck and eagerly accepted. We would reach out when we arrived in Valencia the following week.

Ten days later, we were in Valencia. I was working remotely that week. My wife had a friend in from Vienna and they toured the city’s markets and museums, drinking horchata and eating crema catalana. It’s a wonderful custard dish very much like crème brûlée.

On the first Saturday we spent in Valencia, Marcelo and Rosa picked us up near the Torres de Quart, one of the imposing fortress towers still left around the edge of Valencia’s old town. Built in the late 15th century, this relic still shows the scars of musket shot and cannonball fire from past conflicts.

It was a sunny, Spring day and warm even for Valencia. I was in shirt sleeves but had a sweater handy for the evening. Marcelo and Rosa drove us out of town and north towards their village of Betera. We were almost immediately in the midst of sprawling orange groves and the smell of the blossoms was intoxicating.

Our new friends had a quaint, lovingly restored cottage hidden by high walls covered in bougainvillea. Within the walls were a garden full of fruit trees and vegetable beds and even a decent sized greenhouse. Everything was showing signs of life and, as avid gardeners ourselves, we loved it. Tucked away in the back corner was a second building which Marcelo had converted into his studio. A quick tour was in order and we saw many beautiful paintings that he had made or was working on.

But it was now time for paella ! and Rosa summoned me to her outdoor kitchen. A brick workspace with a large central opening to hold the large, double ringed gas burner. This element was hooked up to a propane tank and provided maximum heat evenly across the bottom of the paella pan.

Rosa started with a sofrito of onion, garlic, tomatoes and some paprika. She fried that up in olive oil. Olive oil in Spain is head and shoulders above any other I have ever tried. It’s no wonder the Italians import a huge volume of Spanish olives to make much of their olive oil.

Once the sofrito was ready, Rosa set it aside and started browning the chicken and rabbit. She also formed a ring of white and green beans around the edges to brown as well. This was classic Valencian paella. When these were ready, and there was ample fond in the pan, Rosa brought back the sofrito and some magical mixing took place, incorporating all of these ingredients together while scraping all the fond into the mix.

Next came the rice which was stirred around to get the grains coated with the oil and the sofrito. And, finally, the broth was added and bubbled wildly as Rosa expertly controlled the heat to the double ringed burner. The fragrant smell was a joy to experience. Rosa mentioned that from here on no stirring would take place. It’s tempting to think you must but don’t and there is a reason.

Soccarat. That highly prized, crispy and caramelized layer of rice grains on the bottom of the pan. People will do just about anything for several spoonfuls of this amazing part of the paella.

About fifteen to twenty minutes later the paella was ready and I was given the honors of carrying the paellera from that outdoor kitchen to the table set up under the fig tree in the garden. Marcelo and my wife had set the table and there was wine and salad and bread.

My wife and I revelled in the experience. The generosity of our hosts and new friends. The atmosphere in that secret garden nestled away in a suburb of Valencia, well off the beaten path.

We ate and chatted for hours. Afternoon turned into evening and candles came out. Dessert was served with more wine. Crickets provided background rhythms and the herbs in the garden added a fragrance to it all as the evening dew settled on them.

We have had many great experiences in our lives, but this remains so very high on our list. I write this almost nine years later and we remain friends with Marcelo and Rosa. Each time we visit we are given the same wonderful experience in their lovely garden. No other paella ever lives up to hers. It’s the love and passion that she puts into her cooking, and it’s the environment that completes the memorable experience.

And it all started with a song from Zucchero.