Category: Recipes: Murcia

Michirones – Fava Bean Stew with Bacon, Serrano Ham, Chorizo and Garlic

When I first heard the word michirones, Manolo and I were strolling through Murcia’s historic center trying to decide where to stop for tapas. He casually suggested we try michirones at El Pepico del Tío Gínes, and I, having been in Murcia for less than one month, literally had no idea what he was talking about. Nothing sounded familiar, which is not surprising in retrospect, for you can’t get much more local than this.

Michirones, I would find out, are fava beans stewed with cured ham, bacon, chorizo, garlic, a good dose of sweet pimentón and bay leaves. This classic Murcian tapa is rustic and hearty, packed with sustenance and a deep cured ham flavor. The pimentón and chorizo turn the broth a vibrant red color that is both warming to look at and to eat.

Michirones are typically served in an earthenware dish strategically placed within reaching distance of everyone at the table. As is the case with many tapas, eating michirones is a communal experience. You help yourself to the beans and meat in the central dish with your fork, and try to get them to your mouth without leaving too much of a trail. (This distance seemed precariously long to me at first.)

This is not to say that the delicious broth goes unconsumed. For soaking up the pimentón spiked liquid, fresh bread is the favored tool, dipped with gusto directly into the common dish.

The bar where I had my first michirones, El Pepico del Tío Gines, was founded in 1935 and is a tradition in itself, with an ambiance you’d expect in an old Spanish bodega –chrome bar, hams hanging from the ceiling, the requisite wooden barrel. I loved my first taste of michirones, unlike anything I had ever eaten, although I struggled to remember how to say what I had eaten. The word just wouldn’t stick.

I can’t remember exactly when the word michirones began flowing off my tongue naturally. I think it was a gradual process, aided by weekly dinners with friends at the cantina of a neighborhood association dedicated to preserving local traditions. We’d invariably order the flavorful michirones, some of the best I’ve had (the restaurant has since closed, sniff, sniff).

After watching Valentina, Manolo’s mom, prepare a batch, I decided it was time to try for myself.

So how about some michirones for dinner?


This recipe is based on Valentina’s version in addition to recipes I consulted in the following books on local cuisine: Las 50 Mejores Recetas de la Cocina Muricana and Memorias de la Cocina Murciana.

The dish is traditionally prepared with unshelled dried fava beans. Peeled and split beans fall apart more easily in the cooking process, which isn’t appropriate for this dish. Keep in mind that the cooking time can vary depending on the size and age of the beans. If the skins are too tough for your liking, simply remove them as you are eating by squeezing on the shell with your fingers to release the soft interior into your mouth. In fact, you often see heaps of fava bean skins on plates when michirones have been served.

I suggest not adding any extra salt until the end, if it is needed. I have found that the cured meats provide enough.

A strong red wine from Jumilla, a wine-producing zone in Murcia, pairs well with the dish.

1 pound dried fava beans, soaked at least overnight*

3 quarts water

⅓ pound dried Spanish chorizo, cut into ¼-inch rounds

¼ pound unsmoked bacon (thick slices are best), cut into 1-inch lengths

1 serrano ham bone, if available

¼ pound thick-sliced serrano ham or proscuitto, cut into 1-inch lengths

1 head of garlic, rinsed

6 bay leaves

1 heaping teaspoon sweet pimentón

1-3 whole dried cayenne peppers (optional, if you like a little kick)

Salt and pepper to taste

Put all ingredients (except salt and pepper) together in a 5-quart soup pot. Bring to a boil over high heat. Boil, uncovered, for 10 minutes and skim off any foam. Lower heat and simmer, partially covered, stirring occasionally, until the beans are tender but not falling apart, about 2-2 ½ hours. Add more water if necessary. (The cooking time can vary depending on the size and age of the beans.) The broth should be intensely red from the pimentón and chorizo, but relatively thin and clear in consistency. Once the beans are cooked, season with salt and pepper to taste.

*NOTE: Some recipes say to soak the beans for 48 hours, changing the water once or twice. I haven’t tried this yet, but am curious to see how much the longer soak decreases the cooking time.

More Holiday Cookies: Tortas de Recao

In addition to last week’s almond cordial, the anise-flavored torta de recao is another typical Christmas cookie in Murcia. Even though December 25, 2010 has come and gone, the Christmas cookie season won’t be over in Spain until at least January 6, Epiphany. In fact, my friends and I have just made one more batch to make it through the holidays.

Tortas de recao

Far from my original home in this season of traditions, I have found that holiday nostalgia can be shared through cookies. Baking with friends who have grown up with a recipe transforms the mixing and shaping into an act of memory, sparking stories and recollections. As we work together, I feel the encouraging (and sometimes exacting) presence of generations of Murcian mothers, grandmothers and aunts, honored to pass their recipes on.

When three local friends and I set out to make tortas de recao on a recent Saturday, we needed this encouragement – we were all novices in a sense. In fact, many of my friends here are just trying out their wings in terms of holiday cooking. They have seen and participated in the processes year after year, and are now stepping out on their own. They want to be able to carry on the traditions they grew up with, filling their own kitchens and tables with familiar holiday aromas and flavors, such as the anise, almond and honey bite of the tortas de recao.

My friend Santi took on the role of leader, for she had the most experience  – she recently learned to make tortas de recao with her sister-in-law, acknowledged as a pro. Ironically, the least experienced of the crew (guess who) wore an “Old Master” apron.

Santi mixed the dough, plunging her hands in once it was just cool enough to touch, making sure it was smooth. She shaped the dough into balls and showed us how to flatten the cookies and form the edges. She offered tips (and words of warning): quickly shape all the dough while it is warm, for it’s impossible to work otherwise; all cookies should be about the same size for even baking; and be sure the border is high enough to hold in the almonds.

Shaping the dough

The threat of potential pitfalls kept us moving at a clip, and a frenetic energy filled the kitchen. I got frustrated. I just couldn’t get the edge right. I watched Santi and Cari’s nimble fingers forming beautifully crimped rims and tried to imitate the motion, but couldn’t get the same result. I imagined all the mothers and grandmothers in the room cringing over my shoulder. Yet I had to keep moving, and my hands and mind began to loosen up as I worked.

The Assembly line

Can you tell which cookies are mine? I sure can.

Ready for the oven

Nearly six hours and over twelve pounds of flour later, we had twenty dozen golden tortas de recao, which we topped with honey as a final sweet touch. A taste test confirmed we could be proud of our results. I took home five dozen, some of which I gave out to Manolo’s family and friends (they were  tickled by the gesture – tortas de recao from the Americana); some went to the States by plane with my dad (a delicious way to share Christmas in Murcia from afar); and the rest I kept on hand at home to enjoy throughout the holidays. Like many Christmas treats here, these cookies get even better with time, as the honey soaks more deeply into the base.

A kiss of honey

In the end, the oven had been kind to my cookies, and the novice borders didn’t really matter. Since this day, I have seen many tortas de recao in different homes and bakeries throughout Murcia, and can say with authority that no two are the same. To each his own perfection, which may just be in each crunchy, anise-infused bite.

And in the process, through which the bakers’ hands give shape to memories, and traditions are shared and passed along.

Tortas de Recao

These cookies are challenging to make, particularly given the quantities, but are rewarding for all the senses. You could of course reduce the amounts, which would make the recipe easier. Much of the difficulty lies in the fact you have to move quickly to shape the dough while it is warm.

We used a large plastic bin for the dough (one that holds at least 12 quarts) – there is simply too much dough for most domestic standing mixers. An industrial mixer would sure come in handy here!

The recipe calls for mild or light olive oil (suave in Spanish), which is refined and has a milder flavor and higher heating point than extra virgin olive oil. You could use another vegetable oil instead, such as canola or sunflower.

Be sure to bake these cookies in a well-ventilated kitchen. Once the anise liqueur begins to evaporate, the air gets quite boozy, and can even sting the eyes.

Since you add the honey after you have baked these cookies, the flavor is forward and therefore the quality of the honey is particularly important. Many recipes for tortas de recao say to add the honey while the cookies are still warm from the oven for optimal absorption. But you can also add warm honey once all the cookies have baked and cooled, which is a bit less hectic since you are only focusing on one step at a time.

3 kilograms (6 lbs 9 oz) flour

1 liter dry anise liqueur, such as Anís del Mono Seco or Chinchón Seco

1 kilogram (2 lb 3 oz) sugar, plus more for sprinkling

1 liter mild or light olive oil

1 slice lemon zest (about 1 1/2-inches long and 1/2-inch wide)

1/2 to 1 kilogram (1 to 2 lbs) chopped almonds

1 kilogram (2 lb 3 oz)  artisanal honey

Line baking sheets with parchment paper. (We ran out in the end, and placed the cookies directly on the baking sheets as you can see in some of the photos. The cookies didn’t stick much due to the oil content, but the paper certainly made re-use for subsequent batches easier.)

Line a tray with parchment paper for the honey drizzling step.

Cut several five-by-five inch squares of parchment paper (one for each baker). You shape the cookies on these squares, which prevents the dough from sticking to the work surface.

Preheat oven to 375ºF.

Place flour in a large plastic bin. Make a well in the center.

Heat anise liqueur in a large sauce pan over medium-high heat, about 10-15 minutes. Once it begins to steam, add sugar and stir to dissolve. Don’t worry if some crystals remain. (This is a non-conventional step that my friends have added to burn off some of the alcohol in the anise so it doesn’t all burn off in the oven.)

Meanwhile, heat oil and slice of lemon zest in a large sauté pan over medium-high heat, about 10-15 minutes. You know the oil is hot enough once it begins to smoke and the lemon zest has turned golden brown. Remove from heat and discard lemon zest.

Gradually, and very carefully, pour hot oil into the well in the flour. The oil will sizzle and steam. Stir with a wooden spoon, being careful not to scald the plastic bin. At this point, the dough will still be clumpy and dry. It’s good to have two people for this step – one to pour and one to stir. Gradually add anise liqueur and stir to blend. The dough should be smooth. Cover bin with a kitchen towel to hold in heat.

Once dough is just cool enough to touch, break off enough to make a golf-size ball with your hands. The dough will be slightly tacky, but shouldn’t stick too much to your hands. Place ball on pre-cut square of parchment paper and flatten into a round disc, about three- to four-inches in diameter (depending on the size cookie you want), with your fingers. Now comes the tricky part – the borders. Basically, you are crimping the rim of the dough as you would a pie crust. Lift a little dough from the edge, fold it over and gently press down into the base. There is a good picture of the process here. Work your way around the cookie, and don’t be too worried about getting it just right. The important thing is to have a slightly raised rim, creating a shallow nest for the almond topping. Transfer to baking sheets, reshaping into circles if dough has stretched.

Prepping the dough

Pierce the base of the dough in several places with a fork. Sprinkle each cookie with a pinch of sugar, then add about a teaspoon of chopped almonds, filling the base. Gently press almonds with your fingers to set them into dough.

Bake until golden, about 25-30 minutes (based on one baking sheet at a time). If you bake two sheets at once, be sure to rotate them once the cookies on top have begun to brown. Lower heat to 350ºF if the tops are browning too quickly.

Meanwhile, warm honey so that it is more of a liquid than a syrup. Place cookies (either still warm or cooled) on prepared tray and drizzle each with about 1/2 teaspoon of honey. The honey will initially pool in the base, but will seep into the cookie over time. Stack cookies one on top of the other and repeat honey drizzling process. Store fully cooled cookies in an airtight container for up to several weeks.

YIELD: 8-10 dozen cookies, depending on the size.

¡Felices fiestas!

Holiday Cookie Series: Fuensanta’s Almond Cordiales

If you visit a home in Murcia this time of year, you will inevitably be presented with a tray of traditional Christmas sweets to choose from. In addition to the creamy turrón and crumbly polvorones found throughout Spain, the Murcian Christmas tray also includes local treats, such as the almond-packed cordial.

These aromatic cookies are a balancing act between several Mediterranean flavors and textures. The crunchiness of the almonds is offset by moist candied squash, and the first impression of these principal ingredients fades into lingering hints of cinnamon and lemon.

After two years here in Murcia, cordiales have become an essential part of Christmas for me. They have been offered as a welcoming gesture and shared with great pleasure around many a holiday table. It seems no coincidence that cordial, in both English and Spanish, also means from the heart.

In each place I call home, I pick up recipes as comforting souvenirs. I imagine that no matter where I spend my Christmases in the future, these Murcian cookies will be part of my seasonal baking routine, joining the ranks of spiced pumpkin bread and ginger cookies.

This year, I decided it was time to learn how to make my own cordiales, and immediately thought of Fuensanta, my friend Inma’s mother, whose cordiales were not only the first I ever tasted, but also the most flavorful.

We met in Inma’s kitchen on a Saturday in early December, and Fuensanta quickly got to work mixing the ingredients by hand. Instead of measuring, she discussed the quantities with her husband, Paco, who had also come to help. After each step, Paco confirmed the dough looked as it should.

Both fretted that the cookies would run in the oven, thus losing their characteristic dome shape. (While a few did spread a bit, I would argue it doesn’t really matter, for the taste is the same.)

Inma and I joined in when it came time to shape the dough into little balls, which we carefully set on wafer paper (the kind used in communion) for baking.

The golden result was pronounced Christmas cookie tray-worthy. The highest praise of all came from Manolo’s grandfather, who described our cordiales as “como los antiguos” – like they used to make.

Fuensanta’s Almond Cordiales

This recipe is made for sharing. Fuensanta bakes a big batch of her cordiales at the beginning of the holidays and stores them in airtight containers, where they keep for up to several weeks. This means she always has some on hand for holiday visitors. In fact, locals say these cookies get even better with age.

Making the dough is a relatively quick and easy process in Spain, where candied squash (called cabello de angel,angel hair) is available in cans. I haven’t been able to locate this product in the US (let me know if you find it somewhere), so have included a link to an Emeril Lagasse recipe for spaghetti squash jam. This extra step will obviously make the cookies more labor-intensive, but can be done days in advance.

Wafer paper, or oblea, another common ingredient in Spain, is available by the sheet at most local bakeries in Murcia this time of year. In the US, you can find wafer paper on many specialty baking sites on the Internet, such as here, where it comes in packs of 100, and here, where it can be bought in individual sheets. To make one batch, ten sheets would be a safe bet. But the wafers can be omitted without any loss in flavor – simply use parchment paper instead.

With the quantities involved, the entire baking process took us about three hours, since we only baked one sheet at a time. (The ovens here tend to be smaller than in the US.) If you bake two sheets at once (which may take longer than the time given), be sure to rotate them at least once to ensure even browning.

2 1/4 pounds finely chopped almonds

zest of 2 lemons

2 1/4 cups sugar

1 1/2 teaspoons cinnamon

6 eggs

1 1/2 cups candied spaghetti squash

Wafer paper (8 x 11 inch sheets) (optional)

Make candied spaghetti squash, if you are not using canned. Store in a clean jar in the refrigerator for up to a week.

Preheat oven to 350ºF. Line baking sheets with wafer or parchment paper.

Mix almonds, lemon zest, sugar and cinnamon in a large bowl. Fuensanta uses her hands, but a wooden spoon would work, too. Add eggs and mix to blend. At this point, the dough should be goopy, but not runny. Work in candied spaghetti squash with your fingers, breaking up any clumps, until more or less evenly distributed. Be careful not to overmix—you don’t want to release too much water from the squash.

Shape dough into ping-pong-size balls using your hands and set them on prepared baking sheets, spaced about 1-inch apart.

Bake until golden, 20-25 minutes. Allow to cool before serving. If you have used wafer paper, break into individual cookies, making the edges as neat or as rough as you like. The wafer is at its crispest on this first day, and many children (and adults) here like to nibble at the leftover crumbs.

YIELD: 40-50 cookies

Olla Gitana con Peras – Murcia’s Gypsy Stew with Pears

olla gitana 010

With the onset of chilly days, I find myself daydreaming about the soup pot, which had collected dust during Murcia’s long, hot summer. Now, simply imagining the steam rising off a simmering, one-dish meal warms and soothes me. My chilly fingertips typing away at the keyboard long to be wrapped around the promised bowl.

Soup is comfort food in many cultures – a condensed version of the smells, flavors and rituals of one’s childhood. Perhaps this is why a single bowl of fresh, piping hot soup in any language offers reassurance beyond words.

Here in Spain, stews are often called comidas de cuchara, meals which require no more than a soup spoon to eat. Most versions involve an aromatic broth packed with vegetables, beans and meats that easily yield to said spoon. There is comfort in this simplicity – one pot, one dish and one utensil. And the repeated act of lifting each bite to the lips and softly blowing, like I learned as a child, has a calming, meditative effect.

For me, Murcia’s olla gitana, or gypsy stew, is particularly inviting. As is the case with most stews around the world, it is a dish of ingenuity, a hearty and satisfying blend of ingredients at hand. This vegetarian stew showcases the diverse fruit and vegetable offerings of Murcia’s long-cultivated lands.

Yet the olla gitana is more than delicious nourishment – it is also evocative. The seasoning blend, for instance (extra virgin olive oil, sweet paprika, saffron and mint), recalls the region’s diverse roots, from Romans to Moors to the Roma people who lend the stew its name. And the warm-hued spices give the dish itself  a sunny appearance, reflective of Murcia’s Southern Mediterranean climate.

This is a traveler’s stew, or, more precisely, a dish whose ingredients from far and wide, and the people who carried them, have found their home, right here in my soup pot.

Olla Gitana con Peras – Murcia’s Gypsy Stew with Pears

I first learned to make olla gitana in the kitchen of Valentina, a gifted home cook in Murcia (who also happens to be my boyfriend’s mother). The recipe that follows is based on Valentina’s version with some additions, such as pears, inspired by several recipes I found in local cookbooks, including a tome on regional gastronomy entitled, “Region de Murcia – El libro de la gastronomía.”

Most traditional recipes call for saffron, which imparts the dish with a golden hue and smoky essence. However, due to the cost of this luxury spice, many home cooks I have met here use a natural yellow food color instead, as brightness is considered an essential quality. An olla gitana without saffron is delicious in its own right, but a pinch of saffron certainly deepens the regional flavor of the stew.

1 cup dried chickpeas, soaked overnight

1 cup dried white beans (such as Great Northern, navy or cannellini beans), soaked overnight

2 quarts plus 3 cups water

2 teaspoons salt

½ pound Italian flat beans or green beans, trimmed and cut into 1 ½ -2-inch lengths

1 pound pumpkin or butternut squash, peeled and cut into 2-inch cubes

3 medium potatoes, peeled and quartered

3 medium or 4 small, slightly underripe pears, peeled, halved and cored

4 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil

1 large yellow onion, diced

2 medium ripe tomatoes, peeled and chopped, or grated (see note below)

1 teaspoon sweet paprika

A pinch of saffron threads

½ teaspoon dried mint

Salt and pepper to taste

Drain chickpeas and white beans and rinse well. Transfer to a large pot and add the water; bring to a boil. Allow to gently boil over medium heat for 10 minutes, then skim off and discard any foam that has collected on the surface. Reduce heat to medium-low and simmer until chickpeas and beans are partially tender, after about 45 minutes. Add the salt and green beans, pumpkin, potatoes and pears. Return to a simmer and cook uncovered until vegetables have softened, another 20 minutes or so.

Meanwhile, heat olive oil in a frying pan over medium heat. Add onion and sauté until translucent and just beginning to turn golden. Then add tomatoes and cook, stirring frequently, until reduced, about 7 minutes. Remove sauce from heat and stir in paprika (Valentina says that adding paprika over heat can make it turn bitter). The sauce will have a paste-like consistency. Add to the pot with the cooked beans and vegetables, stirring to distribute the color and flavor.

Crush saffron threads between your fingers and add to the pot; stir in mint. Simmer for another 10-15 minutes, until flavors are blended. Vegetables will be falling-apart tender.

If you find the broth is too thin, remove ½ cup of the cooked chickpeas and white beans from the pot and mash to a purée in a mortar and pestle (or using a food processor). Return purée to the stew.

Remove stew from heat, and allow it to rest for 10 minutes before serving, giving flavors time to settle. Taste for seasoning, adding salt and pepper to taste.

I particularly enjoy this stew with a warming glass of hearty red wine, such as  Monastrell from Jumilla, a wine-producing zone in Murcia.

Yield: 6-8 servings

NOTE: Grating is a quick and easy way to peel tomatoes, and is a favorite method of many Spanish cooks. Cut the tomato in half (from top to bottom), and gently grate over a bowl, flesh side-down, using the large holes of the grater. The tougher skin will not pass through the holes, and you will be left with a tomato purée perfect for sautéing in this recipe.