The Zamorano and The Pear

by Gustav Ericson

Carpe diem, Part 23

Back in the mountains now, with asters along the road and the singular, slightly ominous tranquility of a late autumn afternoon. Wistfully back in from the beach, always too soon…the eternal yet capricious beach, with a blurred horizon- does it matter where the sea ends and the endless dome of sky begins?  Over here there is not the surge of the waves all night long, nor the perfect white moon rising over the lighthouses far out past P’town. Not the gulls temporarily sated from the remnants of our tapas, nestled on their rooftops for the night, maybe wondering just what these characters are gonna come up with tomorrow. The comfort of tomorrows with no agenda other than to appreciate the sea, monitor the tides, look for the relics washed up in the night, laugh over dinner, read all night. None of that, but here there are those asters, a hint of woodsmoke, the pinkish dry hydrangeas burnished gold in the long last rays of the day. Geese in their inexplicable exodus against tarnished silver skies, and relentless rains on crystal clear, curtainless windows. Here, too, are the heartier appetites of an early autumn- ochre curries on beds of saffron- stained rice, amber apricot chutney alongside, all as lusciously yellow as a late Van Gogh. There’s the couple in the next booth at the Chinese restaurant, caviling quietly as they devour their fragrant, gingery Szechuan. There’s one lone cricket hiding under the grapevines, chirping tiredly. Now there are not white peaches or decent tomatoes, but there are dusky prune plums, the snowy curds of cauliflower, and astonishing arrays of pears and apples, crisp with possibility. The subtle slate tones of a Hubbard squash, secreting yet another golden spectrum. There are startling varieties of potatoes, and the soft shadowy greens of thyme and sage in the garden, utile, perhaps, all the way ‘til Thanksgiving. Time to move the tapas inside, off the porch, and investigate its heartier manifestations.
 
Tapas are the answer for those who delight in the appetizers, the teases, the vibrant and varied textures and savories before the steaming, onerous main course that you so often regret having ordered. I can’t think of a better way to eat. None of my cohorts, archly foodie or otherwise, seem to mind this predilection, because there is always one little dish that they might concentrate on if the others are not to their taste. There are olives, of course, marinated with good Spanish oil, garlic, crushed red pepper, tarragon, and a pinch of curry powder (oops, I divulged!). There is usually Spanish or Portuguese tuna, or large shrimp (!) sautéed quickly in olive oil and garlic, splashed with white wine and/or lemon, strewn with dark green parsley. If you have a rich Manhattanite friend have them bring up some serrano ham, proscuitto’s new rival. Lately at my little casa, there is chorizo, warmed briefly in olive oil, imparting its smoky, rich heat. Once or twice I’ve added a half pound of peeled, cooked chestnuts to the sizzling chorizos, tossing them in the sultry red oil, and I’ve even dared to heighten the affair with a big dusting of pimentón de la vera, that now-ubiquitous Spanish smoked paprika that has replaced white truffle oil in my pantheon of foodie addictions. Splurge, as I did, and score some cazuelas, those shallow Spanish versions of the ramequin, in which you can heat your olives, sizzle your shrimp, or serve any of your tapas. Your inky black Arbequinas or robust pink-gold prawns will look world-class in the terra cotta cazuelas, believe me. There might be crumbly, oleaginous tortas, those crisp yet buttery flatbreads perfect for such repasts, or picos, crusty little baguette-shaped crackers, and sometimes there are boquerones, those celebrated, meltingly tender white anchovies preserved in vinegar.

There is cheese, but of course, and we celebrate the continued availability of Spanish cheeses of impeccable quality. Tapas tradition will always find Manchego, cut in long triangles, served with membrillo (quince paste, and we carry a knock out, home made variety). Manchego is a staple to us now, like feta or Reggiano. It comes from La Mancha, the arid and sultry central plain, where they’ve been making it since ancient Roman times, to Columela’s delight and the world’s benefit. Those Spaniards and their sheep cheese!   We make all sorts of panini with Manchego, and add it to omelets, including that potato and onion tortilla Espanole, which is omnipresent at every true tapas bar, good as a meal with an astringent salad, cubed and speared on sticks, even wrapped up and eaten for lunch the next day. We have crumbled Manchego on ratatouille, creating a variation of Pisto manchego, which is more often served in its home region strewn with a chopped hard-boiled egg. We have encircled cubes of Manchego with the aforementioned boquerones and served them speared with pitted olives on skewers- very authentic, very piquant. It is also our wont to serve Manchego triangles fanned out on a platter with little cubes of membrillo at the base of each buttery isosceles, some marcona almonds strewn nonchalantly around the rim. It is a little surreal, all spokes of cream and amber on its traditional cobalt blue field. At parties, it’s always the first appetizer to go.


If, for whatever reason, you are bored with Manchego, try Roncal, another noble Spanish sheep milk cheese from the Navarre province, where they’ve been perfecting it for three millennia. The Roncal River runs down from the Pyrenéees, up near Basque country. (You might wanna read my ramblings anent Idiazábal, another great sheep milk cheese, slightly smoky, from that region).  Buttery, zesty, slightly granular Roncal was the first Spanish cheese to be awarded the denominacíon de origen (name controlled) status in 1981. We deem it a well-deserved accolade. Also ask us for a taste of Zamorano, hailing from the Castile-Leon province closer to Portugal. It’s another ancient cheese with a racy, ovine tartness and a long aftertaste, increasingly popular with folks hereabout. We offer Roncal and Zamorano in raw milk versions, happily, and these days we offer no less than four varieties of Manchego, as per our customers’ varied preferences. We are proud to purvey Manchego Pasamontes, a raw milk, small production masterpiece, and lately have been offering it in a tub of extra virgin olive oil, in which it can age beautifully for another year, or more, growing spicier and flakier and imparting its piquancy to its oily bath. This is not a shy comestible in any sense of the word—only arugula, red onion and some crusty bread will stand up to it. You might also jazz up your little salad with some piquillo peppers, all crimson and sweet… 

There are delightful subtleties in the cheese world, and Manchego, Roncal and Zamorano illustrate such nuances beautifully. (You might consider a tasting of all three side by side, for the sake of comparison and kicks.) Their applications vary along with their unique qualities. I would never cook with Roncal, for instance, preferring to serve it simply with some crisp marcona almonds and a glass of Port. Zamorano, in its profundity, would be grand with a spicy pear and a long conversation, not on the beach but near the fire, when the pines are sighing under the weight of snow.

As you come in from raking, its nice to have put a few Bosc pears in the oven with a pat or two of butter and a drizzle of honey…the house will smell wonderful and you might even be glad that summer’s over. With the pears savor some Roncal or Zamorano, noting the interplay of sharp, salty, and buttery with the perfumes of the honey and the spiciness of the pears. Some people would splash the pear with their best balsamic vinegar; others would sprinkle the whole shebang with freshly ground black pepper…I like to concentrate on the flowery notes of the cheese up against those of the honey.

Before you go out to rake, too, it might be fun to twist up the Cauliflower with Manchego Sauce recipe that we include here. By the time you get back in, you will be rewarded with a golden, crusty, outrageously rich gratin that’s substantive enough to serve as a main course with an peppery green salad and good bread. You can also make it the centerpiece for an array of tapas, as it plays well with olives, chorizo, even seafood. And you will never look at cauliflower the same way again.

Favorite Cauliflower, distilled from an old recipe in “Food and Wine” Magazine 

Heat one cup of half-and-half and one cup of whole milk in a small saucepan. Don’t try this with soymilk. Once it is scalded (you will see a little wisp of steam rise from the pan), transfer to your blender or food processor and add a good half-cup of toasted whole almonds. Then whir until finely ground. Be careful, as the milk may explode up the sides of the blender. Please. Go about your business for ten or fifteen minutes to let the almonds infuse into the milk. Preheat the oven to 375º F. Strain the milk through a sieve into a clean saucepan, pressing on the almonds to release their flavors, and keep warm. (You could throw the almonds away but I usually resent such wastefulness and eat them.)  Now make a white sauce: In a heavier saucepan, melt two tablespoons of unsalted butter until foamy yellow, then whisk in two tablespoons of all purpose flour. Cook over medium heat, stirring constantly with your whip, ‘til it is golden and it imparts a nutty, toasty, buttery fragrance into the kitchen which will delight you because you will be reminded of when you first learned how to make puff pastry…. or maybe not. But you’ll dig the smell anyhow. Think, as you stir, of the white birches with their quivering yellow leaves in the mountains on the way home. Add your milk mixture slowly, whisking perpetually, and cook, everstirring, ‘til the sauce thickens. I always cook such a sauce for about four minutes, to cook out any remaining floury tastes. Regard your sauce and realize that you’ve just created a sauce béchamel, one of the five classic French “mother” sauces-so be kind to yourself for the rest of the week. Take off the heat, and whisk in an unstinting cup of coarsely grated Manchego. I use our Manchego el Trigal quite successfully, and it doesn’t break the bank. Now you’ve created a sauce Mornay, however Espagnole this one may be, so pat yourself on the back again. Season with a couple of shakes of pimentón, our newly beloved smoked paprika, and some sea salt to taste. Keep this sauce warm over very low heat, on the back of the stove, while you cook a good-sized head of cauliflower. Look for a nice, tight head of snow-white cauliflower, cradled in its protective green leaves, and cut it into florets. Cook, covered, in your steaming vessel, in a small amount of simmering, sea-salted water,  ‘til it looses its rawness but stays crisp, about five minutes. Tender crisp, like in a stir-fry. Don’t overcook it. Drain very, very well- you don’t want a waterlogged gratin. Now, in a big sauté pan, sauté three or four large chopped shallots in two more tablespoons of butter ‘til they impart their unique aroma and soften, then add your cauliflower and cook, stirring, until all is light gold and you have insured that there is no blanching water hiding in the florets. I stir a situation like this with long chopsticks. Season with salt and pepper from their various mills, and transfer to a buttered gratin or baking dish that will hold it all snugly. I like to use this old pea- green Italian oval baking dish that I bought at a junk shop about fifteen years ago for 5o cents. Wouldn’t part with it now. Spread the sauce Mornay à la peninsule Iberienne, if you will, over the cauliflower, as evenly as you can. Notice (I do every time) how your sauce has been dyed the palest possible pink, from the roasted almonds, and how it contrasts to the stark white of the cauliflower and the subtle lavender of the shallots. Strew lavishly with “Panko” breadcrumbs, those fluffy-crisp, outsized bread crumbs still all the rage in the culinary world, and then sprinkle with some more pimentón. You’ll appreciate an abundance of breadcrumbs, believe me, as the gratin comes out of the preheated oven in about a half-hour, after you’ve gathered up a few more wheelbarrows of leaves. All will be white, gold, rose, bubbly and crusty. Your ethereal pink sauce will have turned to bronze, like those hydrangeas…

Let the gratin rest for at least fifteen minutes before serving. I have friends who, like me, have enjoyed this at room temperature the next day, with some leftover fried red peppers and chorizo, some braising greens wilted in olive oil, some of our new gigande beans, and a laugh or two. You might, too. Hope so.