I can’t tell you when I first fell in love with paella, but I can tell you where.
I fell in love with paella in the basement of a little Spanish cafe. Well, it wasn’t really in the basement, but I always sort of fancied myself sitting in the basement of some family-run cafe, lost in the twists and turns of the small streets and alleyways of Madrid. And it really wasn’t a cafe in Madrid. It was more like a restaurant in Mexico City, but that shouldn’t matter all that much. The fact of the matter is that I loved that little sizzling clay platter that the waiter would sit in front of me, all steaming and aromatic, piled high with chicken and sausage and clams and shrimp. That plate of Paella Valenciana was like heaven to me, and every time I went back, I fell that much deeper in love… If you happen to find yourself in Mexico City’s famous Zona Rosa, or “Pink Zone” (so named after the pink color of the pavers in the streets), look for the Antiguo Meson del Perro Andaluz. Order the Valenciana. I don’t think you’ll regret it. Tell them Ricardo sent you. They probably won’t have a clue what you’re talking about, but you might get lucky; some dude named Ricardo might have connections there. If it sucks, blame him.
Of course, I don’t eat meat anymore, so that which I craved can never be mine again. Instead, I have moved on to other things…namely making my own paella, vegetarian style. Great paella, in my experience, is all about the quality of the rice and the presence of the signature color and distinctive flavor of saffron. When I talk about the “quality” of the rice I really mean the characteristics of the rice after it has been cooked. Good paella should never be sticky. It should have a slightly oiled textured without being greasy. It should be wet, not too dry. And it should never, and I mean NEVER, be overcooked. Never.
The secret is in the pan. Saffron is vital, too, but the pan is what allows the cook to influence and tease the rice into a perfect performance. I used to feel like banging my head against a wall out of frustration when my paella wouldn’t come out right. It wasn’t until my parents bought me a paella pan, or “paellera,” that I discovered the unadulterated joy that comes from mastering the art of making paella. OK, “mastering” is a bit of hubris, but I can make a pretty good paella.
In order to make good paella, I had to be willing to screw up and make lots of bad paella. Lots of bad paella. Sticky paella; bland paella; watery paella; undercooked paella; overcooked paella; and just plain nasty paella. Apparently, making good paella is as much art as science, and success and the freedom that comes from success was mine once I let go of the result and learned to embrace the journey. When I paid attention to the path, I avoided all the stumbling and the falling off the road that kills so many travelers each year. Or causes them to make bad paella. The analogy works both ways.
I had an image in my head, a fantasy really, that defined paella for me for years. Nothing I could find in any restaurant could compare to the Valenciana at the Perro Andaluz. I searched, too; for years. I was terrified to try for myself, and I avoided my wife’s pleas for years, too. Then, one day, I gave up, gave in, and made a very mediocre paella. That’s when the journey started; that’s when the fun began.
The one thing that I learned about paella is that, just like anything else in life, you suck as long as you don’t try…then you try and suck a little less. Try again, suck a little less. Again, and even less. Repeat until you no longer suck or just have so much fun trying that the sucking doesn’t even matter any more. Then, you’ll be making great paella and serving it up in the basement of some little cafe, somewhere in the heart of Madrid.
Illuminate Possibilities 