ABUELITAS KNOW BEST
How to get the most delicious fare at Mercado Feria, one of Sevilla’s outdoor grocery markets, by taking cues from the Spanish grandmothers who know it best.
I have always hated being trained. If I wasn’t good at something immediately, I’d likely quit completely—that is, until I moved to Sevilla, Spain, and discovered that, much like my newfound need for language schooling, grocery shopping required what felt like a secret cultural savvy. Drawn to my neighborhood outdoor market, Mercado Feria, for its artisanal goods and mom-and-pop feel—and fueled by my own obsessive need to cook—I learned quickly that the only way to work the market, to find the best of its offerings and savor its plenty, is to follow the venerated abuelitas as they eat, shop, gossip, and offer unsolicited advice. Turns out, everything I thought I knew about grocery shopping was wrong. Here are the seven things the abuelitas don’t even know they taught me—but I’m sure glad they did.
Don’t hurry. The abuelitas do not rush. Neither should you. When you hear the soft shuffle of the abuelitas’ wrinkled loafers and the hum of their plaid cloths rolling over the cobblestone, that’s your cue. On a Saturday, the grandmas get moving around 8:45. Let them set your pace.
But first, eat breakfast. The adage about never shopping on an empty stomach applies here, too: Give into the whir of the milk steamer and waft of espresso and toasted breads at Bar Algabeño, tucked behind a small church that neighbors the market. This place is no beauty queen, but the coffee is strong, it’s perfectly authentic, and it will only cost you €1.80 (about $2.20). Follow the abuelitas’ cue and step on up to the bar to order a cafe con leche (espresso with milk) and a media con tomate y jamón (a hefty piece of toasted bread served with cured Spanish ham and a small cup of freshly pulped tomato). Look for the self-serve olive oil that notes “intenso” and “sin filtrar”—unfiltered bitter oil likely pressed just a few hours away—and layer it on your toast, along with the blended tomato. Stand at the bar and watch the OG baristas do their morning dance. If they call you “chiqui” (a term of endearment meaning “girl” or “sweetheart”), you know you’ve joined the ranks of the regulars.
Find the chicharrones. Your first stop with the abuelitas after you’ve fueled up is the butcher, a kind of carnivore’s sanctuary: fresh strings of bright red chorizo and black morcilla blood sausage drape above a case of whole-skinned ducks, raw pig ears, and gallons of paprika-infused pork fat.
But focus: You’re here, primarily, for the chicharrones. No, these aren’t the puffed flesh-colored lifeless kind of chips you buy for 99 cents at the gas station. Here, the butcher fries crispy bits of smoky, peppery, garlicky pork skins and throws them into a paper cone. Total seduction. Not even the most ascetic Catholic nuns can make it home without downing half a cone’s worth. And on Saturdays the chicharrones sell out quick—so don’t dawdle too much.
Get to know the butcher. The butcher, who has been taking apart animals since he was 16, is one of those guys who clearly knows far too much but is, by unspoken agreement with his savviest and most faithful costumers, sworn to secrecy. The abuelitas trade gossip and weather reports here while waiting for the butcher to wrap up their orders. Your job is to glean his best advice for cooking Ibérico secreto, (legend has it that one curious and gluttonous butcher stumbled upon a tender “Iberian Secret” hidden inside a large piece of pig fat) and hope that an abuelita chimes in to give you her two cents. Bonus points if the butcher remembers your name next week, as he does all his favorite customers.
Look, but don’t touch. Follow the abuelitas from the butcher to the produce stall. But don’t even try feeling around those potatoes and putting the choicest few in your bag. Here, you generally don’t get to choose your produce and are forced to trust the owners. Tell them how many kilos of potatoes you’re after and they’ll pick out the best ones for you. But just like any cultural experience, there’s a little nuance involved: Look for the stall owner to nod toward a near-to-you head of cauliflower or eggplant. This smallest of gestures means you’re to grab the produce yourself. And of course, find the stall surrounded by a gaggle of abuelitas. Listen closely for what sort of produce they’re praising and purchasing that day and follow their lead.
Cook simply and always with olive oil. The holy grail of coastal markets is just beyond the wild asparagus: the sea creatures. Seafood mongers hack at monstrous chunks of purple tuna and saw through bones of fatty salmon steaks. Live snails creep out of miniature treasure chests; squids and octopus splay out their alien-like bodies—tentacles wrapping around in every direction. You’re in awe, but keep moving, being careful not block the aisles. Stand in the way too long and you’ll hear, “chica!” resound from an abuelita using her walker as both a weapon and makeshift grocery cart.
Step up to the counter, take a cue from the abuelitas, and order a couple handfuls of salmonetes: small coral-tinted fish, generally not much bigger than a sardine. If you’re lucky, a nosy abuelita will interject when you shyly ask the fishmonger how to cook these funny little fish. “Fry them in olive oil! Just toss them into some flour and fry them up!” And because you’re beginning to understand the newfound access you have into the richest culinary knowledge in Spain, you listen. When you get home, dip each fish in flour and place them in a pan of simmering olive oil until they’re golden brown. Set them on a paper towel, sprinkle on a few pinches of salt, and dive in, avoiding the heads and spines. The simplicity of the olive oil-fried salmonetes will not disappoint. The abuelitas practically guarantee it.
Buy the almonds. Every time. Your journey is not yet over. Step into the gourmet deli to find cured Iberian hams, or jamón Ibérico (this salty delicacy is what you ate on your breakfast toast), forming a chandelier around a cluster of well-dressed middle-aged men taking orders from a few abuelitas. Take a number and wait your turn. One of these gentlemen is likely to slice you off a thin piece of jamón if you have the time to listen to him tell you far too much about his ex-wife. The spread of goodies will move you to tears: aged cheeses from every region in Spain, eggs with yolks that stand on their toes, and enough dried lentil varieties to feed an army. But the best option of them all is half a kilo of olive oil- fried almendras, or marcona almonds. If a well-meaning abuelita asks you whether you need such a significant amount—a half kilo equates to just more than a pound—just nod and smile. She’s been eating these delicacies her whole life, but you just got here and have a lot of catching up to do.