Spain Diary 2: Our Roast Suckling Pig Story in Toledo

My hefty serving of cochinillo, at Restaurante Don Diego, Toledo, Spain.

You are what you eat. And we found out in Spain, just how Filipino we were, when we bit into the crispy skin of their famed cochinillo, or roast suckling pig, and all we could think of were pork dishes from home.   We were in historic Toledo, which has the reputation of being that one city that best offers a window into the Spanish soul.   It is a common saying that if one has only a day to spend in Spain, one should spend it in Toledo.   And we were told that cochinillo was a specialty of the region.  So we we trained our eyes on our culinary goal - to find a good restaurant where we could get a taste of this famed dish.  Thus began an epic journey, a laborious search for good pork.  We felt like knights in search of the holy grail. Seriously.

Behind me, the historic walled city of Toledo, Spain's old capital.

When my husband Oliver purchased a sword from one of Toledo's shops (for they are well known for sword craft as well), we asked the shop owner to recommend a good restaurant. We mentioned cochinillo and they started to swoon - "es muy rico" they kept saying, repeatedly, and with appropriate gestures to match.  They gave us the name of a restaurant, and the name of the person to look for, and directions that didn't really help. We got lost.  Toledo's medieval paths are bound to play tricks on the mind. It is like entering a maze.  And with hunger comes poor judgement.  The cobblestone steps and the hilly terrain didn't help ease our pain. We were tired, confused, and desperate.  I asked for directions at another shop, and mentioned the magic word cochinillo, and the shop owner swooned again, and said "es muy rico!", and proudly pointed us to another restaurant, with a business card this time, and she wrote her name on the piece of paper to show the waiter, so he'd treat us like her guests.  We showed this card to locals, and we were directed up and down, and on and on, through more winding streets, until at last, we walked through the entry arch of a walled compound, and found a restaurant tucked in a corner of an inner courtyard... a secret place frequented by locals.

After a long search, at last! We found this restaurant.

  

Meson Restaurante Corral de Don Diego, it was called.  And the waiter swooned and responded with "es muy rico" as soon as we said the magic word.  Like a prayer, the word cochinillo, when uttered, got a reverent response. You could tell the locals were very proud of this dish.  It will take some time to prepare, we were told. And though we were starving, we said we could wait. We've walked this far and waited this long, surely, we won't quit now? So while waiting for our food, we took the time to appreciate the restaurant's interiors.  We chatted with the owner, who introduced us to a local painter, seated at the bar with what could have been his nth drink for the day.  He painted the murals on the walls of the dining hall, which looked like a mini shrine for the worship of meat.  There were legs of ham hanging from the rafters, and deer antlers displayed on the walls.  It was quaint and cozy, warm and oh so charming. It was a tough choice deciding whether we'd sit indoors, or out in the courtyard.  We later decided to sit outdoors to take in more of Toledo's sights and sounds.

The restaurant's charming interiors.

While waiting for our main course, we started our meal with a lovely spread of vegetables: fresh tomatoes, and grilled asparagus with sea salt, and mushrooms with bacon bits drizzled with olive oil. Oh that was so good.  These are not the usual vegetables we find in the Philippines... not the same size, and not the same texture.  We also ordered a plate of piping hot paella with tasty langoustines.  We were properly primed for the main course. We were so ready for the cochinillo, we summoned the waiter and asked if it was ready...and it was! 

And so it came.  In a plate so huge it felt like a platter, it came. Each of us had a daunting serving of cochinillo that looked like a quarter of a piglet.  My husband, a true meat lover, looked so excited as he started to dig in.  We took our first bites. Then there was silence.  Then we started to chuckle. One can't control the direction one's thoughts would take. A bite of succulent pork will trigger instant associations, unfiltered, uncontrolled.  For Oliver, it was Mang Tomas lechon sauce.  Wala bang sarsa? he asked playfully.   For me, the sauceless roast pork reminded me of lechon Cebu! I was in Toledo, Spain but I was doing a mind trip to Toledo, Cebu!!!  Or more precisely, to Toledo's neighboring town of Carcar, and its wet market where lechon is bought by the kilo, and where Oliver and I had our last pork feast early this year.  Mama was reminded of pritchon, the deep fried suckling pig, especially the one served at our wedding, the one our guests continued to rave about long after Oliver and I exchanged vows.  We were unanimous in thinking this cochinillo is not the best roast pork we've ever had... not that it wasn't any good. It was good. It was worthy of the "es mur rico" phrase the locals described it with. It was rich.  But our palates were proudly Filipino, and completely decolonized. 

My husband, ever the meat lover, excited to dig in.

Of course there's a part of me (and my husband shares this too, I think) that aspires for some degree of cosmopolitan culinary connoisseurship. There's a part of me that wishes for my taste buds a kind of world citizenship.  We wish to savor global cuisine and to appreciate authentic dishes in their own terms, as they are intended by local chefs for their local audience.  Oliver praised the cochinillo's subtle flavors which offered an opportunity to better taste the meat, in its purity, without being masked by too many condiments.  I tried to enjoy the cochinillo's crispy skin as it crackled between my teeth.  "Es muy rico", indeed (although Mama stands by her assessment: "no tiene sabor"). Much as we enjoyed our meal, with our bottle of bubbly, comparisons to our versions of roast pork were inevitable, and a sort of gustatory nationalism surfaced.  Just as the numerous works of masters at Museo del Prado made us want to revisit Juan Luna's "Spolarium" at our National Museum, so too did our cochinillo adventure make us want to have some of our own Pinoy-style lechon.

As luck would have it, my sister was in Cebu while we were in Spain. And she bought a few kilos of lechon Cebu to bring home to Manila.  How fortuitous it was, that she arrived at our house bearing gifts of pork, on the very evening we arrived from the airport.  The lechon we craved was right at our table. It was one warm welcome of the splendid kind. Truly, there's no place like home.