Jamón

I became interested in jamón last summer when our vegetarian daughter returned from a summer program in Spain no longer a vegetarian. Clare had returned singing the praises of the dry cured melt-in-your-mouth meat that had extended her dietary habits. Jamón is not simply a food. It is ritual in España. I wanted in.

Clare had spent the better part of last summer in Soria, an ancient hill town in the Castilla Leon region of Spain. She took two language courses through Colorado College and lived with a wonderful host family who now counted Clare as the first American that they had ever met. On our journey to the start of the Camino, Amy and I were now being introduced to Sergio, Montse and Sophia as Clare reconnected with her summer hosts. In arranging our rendezvous Clare may have mentioned my fascination with jamón.

Montse and Sergio were smiling and waving through the windshield of our bus as we arrived from Madrid. They walked us to our hotel just off the main square and returned to work. A few hours later we were taking la comida (the meal) with them in a locals-only place a short walk from the square. In fact I think every place is Soria is a locals-only affair as there seem to be no tourists. The meal consisted of three courses and then a 5 mile stroll around the town. It was all merely a warm-up for the main event, jamón!

After an overnight flight across the Atlantic, a two hour bus ride, the meal and our meandering stroll you would expect us to opt for a rest at the hotel but that didn't happen. It was no contest once the offer of a trip to the grocery was floated, and with the goal of a jamón acquisition!

We walked with Sophia, Montse and Sergio through their neighborhood snacking on roasted chestnuts. I heard that jamón was a possible explanation for the Spanish enjoying one of the longest lifespans in Europe. A more plausible explanation was revealed on our crosstown walk. Everyone was outside and about, everyone. Two to ninety-two were all out and moving. They were walking and talking and running and jumping and kicking balls and you name it, but they were all there. At least that's how it seemed.

We did not browse at the grocery. We were on a mission. That mission was now revealed as we stood before a hundred or so dangling hams. Jamón knows how to hang. It spends most of its 18 month life just hanging. Hanging and curing in a cool dry place after a brief roll in salt which is washed off after after two weeks. Sergio explained to the butcher the specifications of our Serrano-to-be. The butcher squeezed the hams and eventually one was deemed worthy. It was brought down and wrapped in a giant sock and thus deposited into our rolling cart by Sophia.

I was given the honor of toting the jamón back to their apartment. With the pride of a true Sorian I marched back through their neighborhood with a dry cured and salted limb in a sock slung over my shoulder. Once at the apartment the jamónera secured the quarry. After a brief explanation of suitable knives Sergio began the carving. I attempted a few slices which were always met with the same criticism, "más fino". It didn't matter. I was in ham heaven. Clare took over carving duties and performed admirably as I turned my attention more to the consumption phase of the operation. This involved bread and wine and cheese and olives and homemade chorizo and all the things that rank highly on my list of edibles. This was next level snacking. I was hooked.

We did not stay for the covering of the jamón as our jet lag had begun to request an audience. A few of the outer slices will be replaced and the carved area covered in the carrying sock. The jamón will remain on the kitchen counter in the jamónera for a few months while it provides thin slices of vegetarian kryptonite. Eventually only bone will remain and the process will be re-enacted, just as it has for hundreds of years all across España. Más fino!