There is no Ibérico or serrano, only Jamón

This is a reblogged post about nice things we’ve got in Spain. As you can see, mum, I appreciate good food.
Also, and the most important thing, this is a post for foodies.
For the ones that understand that food, precisely, the process of cooking, is an art.
Is a chain of mixtures of ingredients, preferably the best ones.
Go basic, mix wisely, master your moves, don’t overprocess.
Get the essence.
Simplicity is genius.
El Hombre, read carefully.

The Not So Innocents Abroad

A tasting of jamón at La Oliva in Granada: Ibérico, serrano, lomo, chorizo, and salchichon.

The novel most responsible for the everlasting romanticization of Jazz Age expat culture in Paris, Ernest Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises, takes place half in Spain. When the pressures of drinking wine and eating oysters in the cafés of Montparnasse became too much to take, Hemingway, his friends, and the characters he modelled after them, escaped to San Sebastián, a beach town on the Bay of Biscay ten miles across the border from France, or to Pamplona, a little further south, where they watched the bullfights.

Alice B. Toklas loved Spain as much as Hemingway. She would have lived there, if Gertrude Stein had agreed, in the town of Avila west of Madrid. “I immediately lost my heart to Avila,” Stein has Toklas recall in the Autobiography, “I must stay in Avila forever I insisted. Gertrude Stein was very  upset, Avila was alright but she insisted, she needed Paris.” Stein…

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