It's a Pan, It's a Dish, It's Paella - Recap

Alton has a great many cooking vessels hanging in his kitchen, but there is one that is unique – his paella. The word comes ultimately from the Latin patella which means “plate” (and is also the source of the proper term for the kneecap). Alton explains why a paella is unique: it is composed of high carbon steel so that it conducts heat faster than other materials. Like cast iron, he warns, it will rust if not cared for properly. It is very light, unlike most entries in the better classes of cookware. This means it won't heat evenly except over a wide heat source. It is large, but has low sides, so whatever cooks within will be spread thin. The loop handles make it difficult to get this pan into an oven. And it comes in a wide variety of sizes – from very small all the way up to nearly five feet in diameter, but never with a lid. The casual observer might see a dreaded unitasker, but Alton sees... Good Eats!

To understand the paella concept, Alton considers Spanish history. It starts a few hundred years BC when the Romans conquered the Iberian peninsula (of which Spain is part), and among other things introduced a low, wide pan called a patella. This pan had a rounded bottom similar to that of a wok. A few centuries later the Romans were gone and the Moors had invaded. These northern African Islamic people brought with them advanced agricultural practices, among them irrigation. They introduced crops like oranges, saffron and rice, which grew well near Valencia (and still does). And the patella was adapted to become more rice-friendly by flattening out the curved bottom, creating the paella. Eventually the Europeans, desiring to replace this advanced culture with their own Dark Ages culture, drove the Moors out. But the paella and the rice remained.

Using a long, narrow bag, Alton talks about rice. Inside the bag he finds two main structures – a few large, highly branching amylopectin molecules, but mostly long, straight amylose molecules. This ratio makes long grain rice cook up light and fluffy and not sticky, as preferred by most Americans like their rice. But the Moors brought a medium grain rice to Spain. With a smaller bag, Alton shows that rices has a much higher quantity of amylopectin, allowing it to remain firm even when completely cooked. This starch seeps around the rice, promoting stickiness, necessary for paella.

The Internet and its many merchants allow Americans to choose from a wide array of suitable rices. Alton displays a few: arroz bomba, a short grain rice one might call boutique that is and priced accordingly. There's also arroz de Valencia, a mixture of rices, and arroz capasparra, traditionally sold in a large sack. Other good choices include short grain Italian rices such as arborio or risotto. These may be almost too sticky, so of the Italian varieties Alton recommends vialone nano, from the Venito region.

Alton has selected his rice, so he turns his attention to the cooking liquid. He'll be making quite a bit of rice, so he pours a lot of chicken broth – three times as much, by volume, into a kettle that can hold it, and brings that to a simmer. While it heats, he considers the hardware.

Alton needs a wide, even heat source for his large paella. That's hard to accomplish in the kitchen, so he's going to follow the Spaniards' lead: they cook this dish al fresco over a fire of orange twigs and grape vines – neither of which Alton has. But he does have lump charcoal. He weighs out two pounds and lights it using his chimney and some oiled newspaper, and prepares another two pounds to add to the fire later.

There's a third required component: the sofrito. Like the Creole trinity or the French mirepoix, this is a mixture of aromatic vegetables. Here, these are green and red peppers, chopped and cooked in the presence of garlic and grated tomatoes. In a frenetic rush, Alton chops the aromatics. To prepare the tomatoes he cuts them in half and squeezes the seed and pulp into a fine strainer, catching the juices for use them. Then he grates the tomatoes using the large hole side of an ordinary box grater, which effectively skins them (something that would otherwise require parboiling and then shocking them, a tedious process). Alton gets rid of the seeds and pulp and adds the grated flesh to the juice. He's almost got the software ready: all he needs are two spices. First and easiest to obtain is smoked, sweet paprika. That leaves only... saffron. Alton keeps his in a hollowed out space within one of several “Good Eats” books. He must take precautions because of the rarity and expense of this spice.

Using a tabletop magnifier, Alton explains why saffron is so expensive. The threads of saffron are the stigmata of a particular fall flowering crocus. (The stigmata are the parts of the pistil that receive pollen grains.) They contain safranal, a powerful aromatic, picrocrocin, which produces a woodsy flavor, and a strong pigment that has been used as a yellow dye for a nearly a thousand years. The crocus does not grow many places, and it takes about 70,000 crocuses to produce just one pound of the spice. As one might expect, there is a long history of fraud associated with something this valuable, so Alton offers a few tips: in some grades, the presence of yellow stiles connected to the stigmas reassures the purchaser that the product is free of dyes. But in higher grades these stiles have been picked away, ironically opening the door to easier fraud. How does one tell? Alton explains that high quality saffron will be expensive. Placed in water, it will quickly tint the water a clear yellow, and the stigmas will not dissolve. Purchasers who see anything else – a murky or reddish tint or dissolving stigmas – have probably been defrauded with a mixture of saffron and safflower stigmas. To avoid such ripoffs Alton advises purchasing small portions of Spanish or Iranian saffron (these are the most well-controlled varieties) from a reputable vendor. Store them tightly sealed in a cool, dark and above all secret location.

Alton breaks with tradition, adding his threads of saffron directly to the rice along with paprika, salt and a little rosemary, using his hands to work these ingredients into the dry rice. Technically, Alton has everything he needs for a paella – but since this dish is typically a whole meal, cooks sometimes add vegetables or meats. In Valencia, paella requires rabbit. A sad looking stuffed rabbit appears, wiping its eyes as if crying, but Alton urges viewers not to fall for this act. Rabbits, he says, are pernicious rodents; over-breeding varmints that would take over the world! Alton, remembering “Night of the Lepus” says eat them before they eat us! He concludes by taunting the rabbit, which suddenly becomes fierce, with a nasty growl and fangs! It doesn't look like Alton will be eating rabbit anytime soon, so he checks the chill chest for alternatives.

To stay true to Valencia tradition, Alton proposes snails... but then concludes his viewers might not be ready for this, and instead chooses chicken legs and thighs tossed in just a bit of kosher salt. For a vegetable, he chooses green beans, although lima beans also work.

Alton moves about half his broth into a thermos for later use. Outside, he spreads his now grey charcoal evenly and adds his reserve two pounds, then sets the grill in place and the paella atop it. He squirts a little oil into the paella and heats that until it shimmers before adding the chicken and cooking it a few minutes per side until it is golden brown and delicious. Then he pushes the chicken to the edge of the paella and adds the aromatics and the beans, allowing them to fry until they start to soften. There's plenty of fat for this part because some cooked out of the chicken. He makes a little hole and adds the tomatoes there, cooking them until the liquid begins to thicken. Then he adds the rice and cooks that for a minute or so. He moves the meat so that it covers as much of the rice as possible, then adds the broth still in his kettle, just barely covering the rice and sets a timer for eight minutes.

After eight minutes the rice has begun to dry out, so Alton adds another dose of liquid (from the thermos) to the dry spots, identifying them by eye. He cooks that for another eight minutes. Tasting it, he concludes that it is just a bit underdone, so he adds a little more liquid to a few dry spots and cooks a little longer. Finally, when he sees the rice is done and no liquid bubbles from underneath, he knows the paella is properly cooked. It won't burn because the charcoal underneath is cooling, nearly consumed. He takes the rice from the heat and finishes the dish by resting it, covered with a cloth. This lets the rice set – it won't crystallize like long grain rice does. Alton recommends fifteen minutes, but a half hour or even and hour would be fine – this is another “your patience will be rewarded” steps.

Alton returns when his paella has rested, and digs in with a large soup spoon (there are special paella spoons for those who wish to observe that tradition). Diners eat the paella right from the paella, assigning themselves the “wedge” closest to their seat. Alton hopes he has shown how the paella is far from an antiquated unitasker, but is instead a powerful arrow in the culinary quiver. And that giant 52” paella? Well, if Led Zeppelin ever tours again...

Share this article with your friends