Summary
Introduction to Jamón Ibérico
In the hills outside Seville, a travel journalist meets the very special pigs raised on acorns to become jamón ibérico, one of Spain’s most prized culinary products.
In Andalusia, they say “the hog is king of the dehesa,” referring to the oak-studded landscape in the foothills west of Seville. On a bright fall day, Antonio Perez yodeled across his family’s 600-acre farm, Finca La Barra, and el rey came running—the long-legged, gray-skinned, bristly backed hogs that are indigenous to the region. These animals have a feral appearance, with feet as black as witchcraft. The pata negra, or black hoof, serves as the breed’s signature, its mark of nobility. Air-dried ham is a sacrament in Spanish cuisine, and these pigs fed on acorns, or bellotas, would become the most exalted version: jamón ibérico pata negra de bellota.
Culinary Adventures in Seville
Acorn season is a festive time in the mountain villages around Jabugo, a traditional center of artisanal ham production. As fall rains summon wild mushrooms and yellowing oak trees drop their rich harvest, the area experiences a unique second spring—a season to indulge in food and drink fit for kings.
Upon arriving in Seville, the regional capital, the day before my visit to the dehesa, I was determined to try the ham on the plate before meeting it on the hoof. By 8:30 p.m., the city’s sit-down restaurants had just opened, while bustling tapas bars overflowed with a pre-dinner crowd, offering jamón ibérico sliced thin as lox. The popular traditional spots include Bodeguita Romero and the atmospheric El Rinconcillo, established in 1670.
Culinary-minded adventurers flock to Espacio Eslava, located near Las Setas (“the mushrooms”) in La Encarnación Square. The marble counter is managed by barmen as tidy as Swiss train conductors, and they excel at traditional sevillano tapas. Alternatively, guests can experience the kitchen’s creativity through dishes like huevo con boletus, a wild-mushroom “cake” topped with egg yolk and salted-caramel sauce. Closer to the cathedral, Torres y Garcia offers contemporary fare, including pumpkin pizza and a highly seasoned piece of fresh pork—a delightful by-product of the ham industry.
The Ham-Making Process
The next morning, I met Maria Castro Bermúdez-Coronel, the free-spirited daughter of aristocratic landowners and communication director for ham producer 5J. Pronounced thin-ko ho-tas in the thick Andalusian accent, the company is renowned for its craft and scale, likened to the Dom Pérignon of pata negra. Bermúdez-Coronel had prepared an itinerary to illustrate the ham-making process, from piglet to plate.
As we drove the 90 minutes to Finca La Barra, which raises hogs for 5J, Bermúdez-Coronel described the fall farming calendar. “Normally the first rain comes in September,” she shared, noting that after twenty days, everyone goes out for mushroom picking. Popular varieties include boletus, chanterelles, morels, Amanita caesaria, níscalos, and a unique mushroom called gallipierna, or “chicken leg.”
Unfortunately, my visit coincided with a dry spell, resulting in a scarce mushroom harvest. Nonetheless, we made the most of it. Bermúdez-Coronel organized our first stop at Finca La Barra, with the dual purpose of meeting the hogs and scouting for wild edibles. Upon our arrival, Perez, the farm owner, looked remarkably sturdy, much like the whitewashed ranch house behind him, though his sleek hair and long-lashed amber eyes hinted at a certain charm. “He looks like a matador,” Bermúdez-Coronel remarked approvingly. (I later learned that fighting bulls are also raised nearby, maintaining the woodlands in optimal condition through grazing.)
The Iberian hog sustains a broad agricultural economy, Perez explained as we traversed the rugged property on a barely-there road. A boar, known as un macho, typically fathers numerous hams, while a sow produces two litters of six to eight piglets each year. Each piglet, fattened on a diet of acorns and grass, represents a significant asset. In comparison, corn-fed pigs yield “industrial” ham—in a word, inferior.
At one instance, Bermúdez-Coronel identified a holm oak among the hundreds visible, prompting Perez to knock down a flurry of acorns with a well-thrown stick. Underneath the bitterly tannic inner husk, the interior nut proved to be mild and sweet. “Any time you see an oak tree without acorns on the ground, that is the best one,” she commented. The king hog selects the sweetest acorns first.
The Gastronomic Experience
In the historic center of Jabugo, the buildings feature porous, nougat-colored local stone that retains heat in winter and is whitewashed for better summer reflection. As I stepped out of the car at 5J, the light felt almost tangible. Seeking refuge, I entered a salon with a fireplace made of oak logs. There, mounted in a wooden holder, was the centerpiece of my trip: a cellar-aged ham from an acorn-fed hog, the black hoof still present as a proof of authenticity. A skilled carver elegantly pulled a thin knife across the ham, handing me a ticket-size slice that was deep red, white-marbled, and translucent as stained glass, its heart-healthy fats melting in my fingers.
Dressed in coveralls and hard hats, Bermúdez-Coronel and I toured the bodegas, or cellars, located beneath the tasting room. Hams filled the area—by the thousands, even tens of thousands. The curing process is meticulous, requiring at least two years, sometimes extending up to six. Eventually, an inspector determines the ham’s readiness for sale. During my visit, I observed Manuel Vega Dominguez, known as Inspector 52, as he examined each ham with delicacy, noting their condition in his log.
These inspectors are commonly referred to as “ham sniffers,” as their work primarily involves using their keen sense of smell, coupled with tactile evaluation. Dominguez employed a thin skewer on each ham, lifting it to his nose for a thorough assessment. When he paused over a paleta, a cured front leg, he detected a different aroma, imbued with its flaws. “If it doesn’t smell like the bodegas,” Inspector 52 clarified, “it’s not 5J.”
That afternoon, Bermúdez-Coronel treated me to a special lunch in the enchanting hill town of Linares de la Sierra. We left the car outside the village, navigating the steep cobblestone paths to Restaurante Arrieros. The meal there was the finest I encountered throughout my numerous trips to Andalusia. Chef Luismi Lopez served a delicious tomato soup enhanced with liquid pork fat and a touch of fig jam, a carpaccio made with ibérico (raw pork!), and tender chunks of pork stewed in a rich mixture of sweet spices. It’s clear that pork reigned supreme at Arrieros; dessert was a steamed pudding made from acorn flour.
On my final evening in acorn country, I rejoined Bermúdez-Coronel and her friends at Manzano, a humble tapas bar in Aracena. The chalkboard menu featured an unexpected treat—vegetables. I ordered braised artichokes and grilled asparagus to accompany my ham. When the ham arrived, so did the artichokes and asparagus, each platter generously adorned with ham. The locals erupted in laughter at my astonishment, remarking, “In Spain, ham is a vegetable.”
This piece highlights the rich gastronomic culture and traditions surrounding jamón ibérico and the unique culinary experiences available in Andalusia.
