Mushroom gateway to jamón
This unsung corner of Spain is home to fabulous food from the surrounding land
Finally, the chef smiled. Huddled under a sunlit chestnut tree, he pointed to dry leaves, opened his pocket knife and in a quick motion dug out the hidden orange mushroom I had missed. An hour later, as a warm autumn breeze ruffled the forest, he had filled our basket with porcini, Amanita caesarea and chanterelles.
Earlier last year, as I enjoyed roasted mushrooms at a tapas bar in New York, a Spanish friend reminisced about picking some with his grandfather near Aracena, a town in southwestern Spain. Nestled in the province of Huelva, the area teemed with mushrooms, oak trees and black pigs, he said. I had never heard of Aracena, but I had savoured jamón Ibérico, the luscious cured ham made from those pigs, and I knew I wanted more. That was enough to set me on a three-day journey to discover this unsung corner of Spain.
I landed in Seville and drove 90 minutes to Aracena, within what was now a national park named Sierra de Aracena y Picos de Aroche. From my hotel room, the view could have illustrated a crash course in Spanish history — ruins of a Gothic-Mudehar cathedral and a Templar castle built over an Almohad fortress vied for attention at the top of the hill.
Research had shown that chef Manolo Fernandez Ribero and his wife, Susi, who own Cafe Bar Manzano on the main square, offered a whole mushroom menu. They had agreed to take me foraging.
Later that night, as I devoured our harvest — grilled, stuffed, baked and fried — I noticed that most ingredients on the regular menu also came from the surrounding land: Aracena cheese from the meadows, chestnuts from the sierra. And jamón, of course.
“Ibérico pigs spend the last months of their lives nearby, gorging on acorns,” Ribero said.
“There!” I screamed the next morning, pointing to the dark-grey pigs burrowing in the soil, almost causing my driving companion to drop the wheel.
We drove through rolling hills covered with Mediterranean forest redolent of rosemary and thyme. Surrounded by pastures dotted with oak trees and framed by low stonewalls, this was the dehesa, an ancient, man-made terrain where most vegetation is cleared except the oak trees and the grasses on which the pigs graze.
It was my first encounter with the Ibérico pigs, the descendant of the Mediterranean wild hog. I got out, a bit uneasy. The hogs gathered around me, sniffing my jeans with their long snouts. One lay down at my feet and I knelt to pet his rugged skin. I was silent, later, on my way to meet Valeriano Ramos, the maestro jamónero at Cinco Jotas, a company started in 1879 and now one of the leading producers of Jamón Ibérico de Bellota. How does one reconcile being an animal lover and a carnivore?
Historians claim that Iberian gourmands have enjoyed cured ham — a pig’s haunch or shoulder rolled in salt and hung in cellars or caves for 18 to 36 months — since prehistoric times. But there are many types of ham. Jamón Serrano (about 90 per cent of the total ham production) comes from white pigs that are fed mostly cereal. Jamón Ibérico comes from black or dark-grey pigs, the Ibérico breed, but only free-range pigs that feed on acorns (bellota) and grasses for the last few months of their lives produce the prized Jamón Ibérico de Bellota. In fact, less than one per cent of all Spanish ham comes from acorn-fed Ibérico animals. The most rare, the most expensive, the best, I was told.
That’s the one I wanted.
“Ibérico pigs spend the last months of their lives … gorging on acorns.” MANOLO FERNANDEZ RIBERO CHEF
At Bodega Cinco Jotas in the town of Jabugo, I inhaled a nutty, earthy smell as I walked the above-ground “cellars” looking for machines, air purifiers or perhaps humidifiers. But all I saw was what looked like a carnivore’s cloisters — successions of red-brick arcades holding an infinite number of hanging hams. Here and there, cracked windows let the crisp air swirl in silence.
“The secret is in the cave,” said Ramos. “We have hams from 2012 to 2016 and most are sold or reserved.”
Ramos, who learned his craft from his father, has worked there for 27 years, and his crew turns the hams regularly to ensure the breeze hits the meat consistently.
Because the ones closer to the windows are exposed to higher and lower temperatures, as well as different air quality, the hams are rotated. More importantly, they are examined and touched by experts, who determine how each ham is progressing. They can turn them or move them around to ensure that all the hams are equally cured and will be of the same quality and taste.
It was time. I sat at a counter in the Cinco Jotas shop, facing a whole pig leg mounted on a metal support. The knife strode along the red meat, carving petals as thin as silk. I slid one in my mouth. Immediately, fat coated my tongue — nutty, woodsy and salty tastes came next. Tender, but just chewy enough for my jaw to need to move slowly. As soon as I could, I reached for another slice.
The next day, I descended into a real cave, the Grutas de la Maravillas that lies under the hill at the centre of Aracena. I was plunged into a world of living rocks, simmering waters and growing crystals. Open to the public since 1914, the cave consists of three levels and a 3,300foot (one kilometre) long path. But when the guide pointed to long, lacy formations hanging from the towering ceilings, I saw only ribbons of jamón. I couldn’t wait for my next stop, a tiny village called Linares de la Sierra, where a simple restaurant named Arrieros had made it into the Bib Gourmant Michelin Guide — good tables at reasonable prices.
Another quick drive and I arrived too early for dinner, so I walked into the hammam, or Turkish bath, a surprising sight in this ancient Moorish village of 300 residents. As it turned out, it was the perfect way to daydream until mealtime in the able hands of co-owner and massage therapist Marie-Jo Nieto.
Night descended, bringing a lightblue glow onto the white buildings as I walked the few steps to Arrieros, the haunt of chef Luismi Lopez.
“I cook the cuisine of the dehesa,” said Lopez as he peeled the outer layer of a mushroom the size of my palm. Lopez went to culinary school at 40, after he lost a bet with his wife when their bar needed a chef.
As I sat in this ancient shed, with its stone floor and whitewashed walls, the chef made a “simple soup” from the pumpkin he had picked from his garden. I felt as if I were drinking the essence of the plant, intense but sweet, with hints of hazelnuts.
Lopez celebrates the Ibérico but goes way beyond jamón. A cut of presa, a shoulder steak, cooked medium-rare, was tender and woodsy while a hamburger made with ground pluma, the end of the loin, was juicy and delicately fatty. Local, tangy Aracena cheese, melted on a toasted slice of crusty bread, transported me back to the meadows.