Jamón
A Vegetarian’s Guide to
BY DAVE FRIEDMAN
Sometime in the last few years, I decided to (mostly) quit eating meat. The idea came from a conversation with my daughter in which she asked me whether eating meat was ethical. Taking into account animal cruelty, runaway capitalism, health, worker safety and the environment, I didn’t have much to tell her, other than, “you know, I don’t really think it is, but I do it anyway.”
This wasn’t a satisfying answer for an eleven-year-old (or myself). So since then, I’ve followed a few loose personal rules when it comes to eating: 1) Don’t cook meat at home, only seafood; 2) Order only vegetarian at restaurants when possible; 3) Don’t act superior; 4) Graciously eat whatever I’m served in someone else’s home. None of this even comes close to Moby-level veganism, but I decided it’s better to cheat on my morals 10 percent of the time than all the time.
Then I moved to Spain. The carnivorous side of Spanish culture comes with some contradiction—they eat less meat but with more gusto. The average American eats 20% more meat in a year (120 kg) than the average Spaniard (100 kg). But meat takes a more central role in culture here. In our neighborhood in the Old City of Valencia, marbled, dry-aged steaks hang in the windows of restaurants like decorations. On the more lowbrow end, bus stop ads for McDonalds feature a sloppy McExtreme cheeseburger stacked with bacon and the slogan “sabor bestial” (“beastly flavor.”)
On pigs and tradition.
In our first few months living in Valencia, we received an invitation to a holiday party for locals, which, as it turned out, was a tribute to jamón, the cured ham that is the national pride of Spain. Although I had mostly sworn off meat by this time, showing up at a ham-centric gathering without a ham offering seemed rude. So we spent a good thirty minutes browsing jamónes at El Corte Ingles, Spain’s “schmancy” grocery store, until we finally splashed out on a small, vacuum-sealed pack of pricey “jamón iberico, 50% bellota.” At the time, the words “Iberico” and “bellota” meant nearly nothing to me, but the ham did look expensive.
Jamón iberico isn’t just ham; it’s arguably the most famous and beloved food in all of Spain. To truly grasp the greatness of jamón iberico, you have to start by conjuring a mental image of a pig. But this isn’t your typical pink, overstuffed pig lounging in a pile of straw at the State Fair. This is an Iberian pig, boasting charcoal-black skin, as if it’s soaked up a lifetime of sun, and it’s a lean machine, sculpted by a diet rich in fiber and exercise.
This pig may spend its entire life on feed, or if it’s living the dream, it gets to indulge in the food of the gods—acorns (that’s what bellota means).
On the grocery shelves, you’ll recognize jamón iberico by its deep red color, and oh, the marbling—meat streaked with delicate veins of intramuscular fat. It’s sliced nearly paper-thin and has a salt-forward, savory flavor and a buttery texture. The acorn-fed diet of the pig adds a nutty undertone. You could toss it into a sandwich or wrap it around a Medjool date, but you’d just be a knucklehead. The Spanish eat jamón iberico naked, with nothing but a drizzle of high-quality olive oil.
Shopping at El Corte Ingles, iberico takes center stage. The back wall behind the deli counter is lined with whole legs hanging either bare or elegantly wrapped in tuxedos of black cloth. A leg of Joselito or Cinco Jotas, among the priciest (and tastiest) jamónes around, can cost more than 700€ a leg.
One of the best things about the market is the charcuterie section, because every Spaniard has their own opinion about what makes jamón great. Each abuelo or abuela might spend a good twenty minutes at the deli counter, lecturing the carnicero on precisely how they want their ham sliced, right down to the size of the sawed-down leg bone, later to be used for pork stock.
Fancy package of iberico in hand, we got to the party, ready to impress our hosts. As it turned out, jamón was the main course, but all the appetizers were jamón too, with a little bread. Like that scene in the movie Being John Malkovich where everybody says “Malkovich” over and over. It was jamón all the way down.
While our hosts were gracious, they ended up tossing our little pack of ham atop a small mountain of other similar packs beside the main attraction, a whole leg of jamón balanced on a jamonero, a wood-and-metal device designed for holding a whole leg of ham steady while you cut it, making it easy to slice thin, even pieces of ham without accidentally cutting off any fingers. Lying next to it was a long knife resembling a medieval murder weapon.
And murder that jamón we did. Despite our initial clumsy attempts, we found our technique, carving hearty chunks of ham that, while lacking finesse, were met (in our memories) with thunderous cheers. As we enjoyed the meat, wine and ambience, surrounded by new friends and the warmth of Spanish hospitality, the jamón transformed from a mere appetizer into a symbol of communal joy. And despite my commitment to a mostly-pescatarian lifestyle, I’ve found that when it comes to jamón, rules are made to be broken.