How Spain Eats at Home: A Lesson in Real Paella

Once the sofrito has thickened, in go the green beans, followed by boiling water just to the level of the pan's handles. This cooks for at least half an hour to produce a rich broth. A welcome lull in the process: while the broth simmers we have a beer and a little roasted red pepper, and are swept into an impassioned debate on the etymology of several ingredients, with father and daughter scrambling over each other for volumes of the dictionary.

The broth is what gives the paella its flavor, but the real psych-out begins once the rice is added. The inimitable, the singular and ineffable texture of the paella comes from the anxious balance between flame and liquid in those fateful last minutes:

Elena: When everything is cooked, you check the salt and add the rice. From there it's 18 to 20 minutes, praying that it comes out right.
Laura: 20 minutes of absolute concentration.
Elena: In my case, I'm a little hysterical. Since I became a mother 30 years ago I'm a little hysterical. And I get kind of worked up.
Laura: No, really, it's a very delicate operation, the rice can get overcooked in a heartbeat, and then you have to do the socarrat ...

The trick is this: once the broth is made that's it—no more liquid. You add the rice (always short grain, arborio-type rice), sprinkling it uniformly into the bubbling broth, moving the pan around a little so it distributes evenly, and then do not touch that either. No adding, no stirring: from here on out everything depends upon controlling the level of the fire. For the first five minutes, the rice cooks at full tilt, the water evaporating, the grains swelling. For the next 10 minutes, the cook watches the flame carefully, lowering it to slow evaporation, raising it if the mix looks too brothy. Around the 15th to 17th minute there should be no liquid visible, the rice grains evenly swollen. It looks done.

But no: this is the moment of the socarrat, the moment of truth. Says Elena, "The cook experiences serious psychological agitation. You can't say anything, no way, nor interrupt ... it's like an extreme unction. No opinions!" The flame is turned up. You think its going to burn. You want to turn it off. You have to resist. You can hear it, the socarrat, the rice beginning to stick to the bottom of the pan, beginning to brown. You are sure it's too much, too long ... then suddenly a rich nutty odor sweeps over you, and you turn the flame off. A sigh of relief.

The paella must rest, covered, for two minutes. Traditionally the cover is a sheet of newspaper. "If it is a progressive liberal paper, that's best. Otherwise it tastes rancid!" It smells divine. In the village, this is when you would open the windows to make the neighbors envious. The cook gloats. And when at last the paella is served it is a glory of perfectly individual grains, each gleaming with grease, mingled with the chewy browned grains of the socarrat. It is served with a simple salad of lettuce and tomato and a solid red wine. And perforce it is followed by a siesta.

Recipe: Elena's Traditional Paella

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