The Pig in Spain
What would you choose as a modern icon of Spain– the Guggenheim in Bilbao? Las Meninas of Velazquez? Maybe a flamenco dancer in polka-dotted flounces? Or the roadside black bulls of Osborne sherry?
Well, when Spaniards were asked the question recently, a huge percentage nominated as their national icon the jamón ibérico – the cured leg of the Iberian pig.
The devotion to the pig and all its many bits in Spain has been attributed to the aftermath of the persecution and expulsion of the Jews and Moors from Spain since both Jewish and Muslim faiths forbade its consumption. In the wake of forced baptisms and conversions, what were called “the new Christians” found it essential to demonstrate great enthusiasm for eating pig. Any distaste for pork could be taken as evidence of heresy. In Toledo, as late as 1568, Elvira del Campo, the wife of a scrivener, was tortured on the rack for days by the Inquisition, accused of being Jewish for her refusal to eat pork.
To avoid auto da fe, the rack or burning at the stake by the Grand Inquisitor, pig-eating became a symbol of a true Spanish Christian.
And, of course the “old” Christians had to equally profess their great love of the pig to show that they had “pure blood”. They still do.
On a recent windy Mid-February Sunday morning, I attended a “matança del porc” – the ritual slaughter of a pig. It took place in the garden of Casa Pepa, a local restaurant set amid ancient olive and orange trees with a fabulous backdrop of the mountains which were the last redoubt of the Valencian moriscos until their expulsion in 1609.
Fortunately, by the time I arrived, the squealing was over and Piggy was already dead. He was lying on a long trestle table, with his head hanging over one end, and was being hosed down before being efficiently butchered.
Three other mournful porcine heads, decorated with wreaths of bay leaves like Roman emperors, presided over the top table.
Long trestle tables were laid out with mounds of other piggy bits – chops, ribs, liver, kidneys, belly, loin, pasta de butifarra, little trotters – they say you can eat every part of the pig except its trot – next to a long line of barbecue grills.
People filed past the tables selecting what they fancied and cooking it themselves, before sitting at one of the tables set up among the olive trees.
There were home-made breads, carafes of rough home-made wine (lethal) and jugs of beer, and later on Pepa served her legendary rice dish, arroz con fesols i naps. After lunch, there was dancing and live music but the star of the day was the pig in all its glory.
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