“Pig snout? Sorry my friend, you’re in the wrong neighborhood for that.”
The butcher’s frank assessment rang in my ears as I exchanged money for a plastic bag of spare ribs and pig ears, scratching my head and wondering where exactly the right neighborhood for pig snout was, and if this was some kind of arcane butcher knowledge that everyone just knows by virtue of wielding a cleaver, or if this sort of thing is advertised in the mystery meat yellow pages and I just missed the memo.
This isn’t primarily a food blog, it’s a wine blog. But above all it’s a Galicia blog, so it feels appropriate to write about one of Galicia’s most signature dishes during the season when it’s consumed. I refer of course to cocido, eaten from January to the beginning of Lent, and the motive of my search for snout.
Cocido, literally translated, means “cooked.” It’s a Spanish dish with infinite variations throughout the country and which traces its origins back to when primitive man first cooked food.
The Neolithic Cocido
Step 1: Master fire, make a fire.
Step 2: Master ceramics, make a pot.
Step 3: Fill the pot with water and assorted meats, acorns, roots and leaves.
Step 4: Place on a fire, boil until edible, repeat steps 3-4 for approximately six millennia.
The Galician take on cocido stands out for its reliance on one particular ingredient: the pig. From snout to tail, Galicians find a use for everything in a masterful demonstration of porcine recycling that was born from necessity. After Porky met his end in the annual November matanza, every single part of him was stuffed, savored, or salted right out of the gate. Especially salted—the preserving method par excellence of the pre-refrigeration era. These salted pig parts could then be de-salted and enjoyed throughout the winter.
“Smoked ham shank? No, definitely not. You should try the deli three blocks over.”
This time I was standing in an Italian salumeria, speaking in Spanish to the prosciutto-cutter on duty. I had secured the ears, but now I needed to track down lacón, another essential cocido ingredient.
Lacón is the foreleg of the pig, cured in the same way as its more famous counterpart jamón. But since no one in their right mind would want to waste a perfectly good jamón with all its melt-in-your-mouth fatty goodness by boiling it up with some chickpeas and greens, into the pot goes the tougher lacón, to be boiled down into smoky, meaty chunks that fall right off the bone.
All of this hard work to recreate cocido at home was an attempt to relive the days of wine and pig parts that I lived in Galicia while warding off morriña—the pangs of nostalgia that every Galician (or honorary Gallego) experiences when they’re far away from terras Galegas.
I ate my first cocido a month after I moved to Spain, to celebrate a family friend’s son’s second birthday. Cocido in diapers—they start them young in Galicia. It was the first time that I had experienced a meal of such proportions: we started off with some anchovies, cheese, bread, olives, and ham. Then came the cocido itself. Plate after plate of every part of the pig you could imagine—are those teeth?—was handed down the table, along with heaps of garbanzos, boiled potatoes, greens, chorizo sausages, and massive hunks of bread to sop up the broth that collected on the bottom of my plate. More wine? Have some more wine. After everything that could be eaten was dutifully consumed, we moved on to dessert, which lasted for three more hours and ended with gin-tonics, licor de hierbas, and whiskeys for all.
I was in awe of the Galician ability to eat. And eat. And eat some more. And then feel just a bit peckish and go back for a sixth helping. Did I mention we went out for a nightcap and a tapa, just because? But it wasn’t until later, when I made a pilgrimage to the dish’s spiritual home, that I became a convert to cocido.
I met Carlos (or “Joe” as everyone calls him for some reason that’s never been fully explained) in a café across from the school where I was teaching English, and I took him on as a private student. We quickly became good friends despite our 25-year age gap, and in February he invited me to a cocido in his hometown of Lalín.
—“Just a few of us,” he told me, “about 30 people.” I had to stop and make sure the number of guests wasn’t getting lost in translation. Did he mean thirteen people?
—“No, no,” he excitedly replied, “thirty people! We decided to keep it on the small side this year.”
And so, on the designated February morning we hopped in his van, stopped to pick up a few friends on the way out of town, and drove the hour and a half to Lalín—the home of the annual Cocido Festival, a parade with floats dedicated to each ingredient of the cocido, a meat auction, and a pig mascot who runs around wearing a sign that says “I’m From Lalín.” I later found out it’s the mayor’s pet pig (strictly off the menu, he’s like a member of the family). You can’t make this stuff up.
Galicians are happiest when they’re eating.
No, I take that back.
Galicians are happiest when they’re forcing others to eat. I guess that’s what happens when you’re part of a historically poor and starving population that never knew where the next meal came from. Every man for himself. Pig out while you can. Quite literally, in the latter case.
“Are you sure you don’t want just a little more?” Milagros, Joe’s mom, asked me with genuine concern as I struggled to lift a fork full of the fourth helping of chorizo to my mouth, sweat collecting on my brow. “Veña, un pouquiño máis,” she said, using the diminutive of the diminutive to convey the absolute smallness of the tiny portion that would be forced on me next.
I nodded my agreement, watching the pile of grelos (sort of like collard greens, except in Galicia they have their own designation of origin) on my plate growing steadily higher. After four heroic bouts in the ring (not including dessert and coffee liqueur), I waddled into the backyard and lowered myself into a chair, dazedly petting Terry, their snaggle-toothed collie.
I had never experienced eating of such proportions. And despite my groaning belt buckle, I was in love.
The pandemic interrupted the tradition of heading to Lalín, but I made sure to go back every year afterwards. So, after trading Galicia for New York City, why not try to recreate it in my apartment kitchen? Forget Julie and Julia, this was a mix of equal parts nostalgia and curiosity. Would it taste the same? Was I worthy of carrying on the yearly cocido tradition? And where the hell could I find pig snout?
In the end, I had to compromise. My lacón was smoked pork neck from the Greek market two avenues away. There was no snout (this time). But my chickpeas, greens, potatoes, chorizo, and assorted pork parts were right on the money. I followed the recipe below, and three hours later I was stuffing my face with pure, unadulterated Galicia.
If anyone out there is crazy enough to think about recreating cocido at home, just call me. There are leftovers. But since this is a wine blog, here are four pairing ideas from the experts, should you find yourself craving a bit of Galicia on a plate.
Adrian McManus, wine travel consultant, North West Iberia Wine Tours, A Coruña:
I like the Mencía from Bodegas Guímaro—good acidity, nervy, and with no wood. And try salting your own pig ears!
Carlota Cabanas, sommelier of Restaurante Cabanas, Lalín:
The amazing thing about cocido is that since it’s a dish with so many ingredients, it can be really versatile in pairings. I would pair cocido with the ‘Ancestral’ Caíño Tinto from Bodegas Albamar because it helps to cut through a lot of the fatty meats and refresh the palate to continue eating.
Phil Gonzalez, Tomiño Taberna Galega, New York City:
Definitely a red wine. Something light-bodied with low alcohol and high acid like Rodri Mendez’s Goliardo Tinto, or something a bit rounder and fuller like Luis Anxo Rodriguez’s ‘Escolma’ Tinto.
Óscar Gil, Viños Manuel Gil, Lalín:
The typical pairing (and the one that defends our Galician heritage) would be a red wine from Ribeiro, but I also like sparkling wines or Sherry like a manzanilla or amontillado. The key is good acidity that cuts through the fat of the cocido.
Cocido Gallego
- 1 bag dry chickpeas
- 2 bunches collard greens
- 2 pig ears
- 5 whole peeled potatoes
- A bit of lard
- 4 chorizos
- Pig snout
- Spare ribs, cut into 3 sections
- 1/2 a smoked pork shank (lacón), or other smoked and cured pork meat
- Water and salt
- 12 hours before cooking, leave the chickpeas to soak in a large pot.
- Add water to the largest pot you own, put it on medium high heat, and when it starts to boil add the chickpeas. It’s best to put them in a tied up cheesecloth if you have it.
- Immediately add the pieces of pork (except the chorizos that will be cooked separately).
- Let everything cook over medium heat in the pot for an hour and a half to two hours. As a Galician would say, “it depends.” Halfway through the cooking time, add a few pinches of salt. As the meat becomes fork-tender and done, remove it. Normally first the ear, and lastly the ribs. Cut the ears into slices and the rest of the meat into equal pieces.
- In another pot, add the greens, potatoes, a bit of lard, and the chorizos on top. Bring to a boil and let simmer. You may have to skim with a spoon to remove the fat from the broth. The chorizos are usually done in 15-20 minutes but you can leave them in the whole time. Finally, arrange everything on separate plates or all together in a large dish and serve with your wine of choice.
Moitas grazas Noah!!!
Xa sabes que aquí terás sempre a túa casa.
the article is very complete and interesting. Hope to see you soon. And I am also glad that you are very successful in your new walk in life. a big hug for you and another for Julie.
I once had a cocido when someone, way into the meal, served me a whole chicken breast on the bone (from the pot, like everything else). ‘Here, have a pause with something light,’ he said as if he was doing me a kindness…