My husband and I went to Mallorca once in the early spring when it was just a tad too cool to really beach. And beaching was really what there was to do. Palma, the capital, wasn’t that cultural, and the internal towns were sleepy. Determined to take advantage of being outside one afternoon, I took a nap on the lovely outdoor couch (100% the reason why we booked this particular airbnb) but to stay warm I had to swath myself in a sweatsuit and roll myself up in a loose corner of the upholstered couch cover. The whole vacation had an air of this sort of trying. We drove a death-defying road to visit a monastery, switchbacks for miles, and it was just ok. We tried to eat lots of Spanish food, but many of the restaurants swung German, due to the most frequent tourists. It rained a lot. First world problems of course, but not all vacations can rise to the top.
There were serious highlights though. A dramatic deserted beach that we hiked to through trespassed land; after swimming, we walked up to the rocky shelves that projected out into the water, skimming the surface of the deep, rough ocean. The gorgeous town of Valldemossa, where Chopin and George Sand retreated when sick or in love, or perhaps both. Allioli, the original mayonnaise, fluffy and garlicky, which one dipped everything into. And the sobrasada, a delicious, spicy, spreadable salami.
We first ate sobrasada in a tiny cave-like lunch shop in Valldemossa, a few steps down from the street, where we ordered the only thing served: a platter of sandwiches. And what came to us was one of those unforgettable eating experiences you encounter occasionally, if you’re lucky, when traveling. Four open-faced toasts came, each with a different topping. Cheese—manchego-like, sheep-y, mild, and firm—topped with anchovies and pimentos. Shingled slices of a very rustic meat terrine, liver colored and dappled with distinct squares of fat. A dry chorizo-type of sausage, salty and snappy. And lastly, the sobrasada: a thick smear of meat, flavored and orange-red–colored by hot pimenton, drizzled heavily with honey, anchored with a slice of fig.
Similar to Calabrian ‘nduga (which is flavored with peperoncino instead of pimenton), sobrasada is a cured Spanish pork sausage, quite spicy and very, very rich. It’s best when allowed to come to room temp, when it can be easily squeezed or scooped out of its casing and (most often) spread on bread. Its texture is a bit like finely ground rillettes, or, simply, a meat paste, which is what it is.
I had encountered it earlier that week, unknowingly, in the local Mallorcan grocery store: chubby sausages that softly caved when you touched them, hanging in pairs from pegs. That smoosh was disconcerting to me—in fact, I had wondered if they had gone bad. With only a puny command of Spanish, I opted instead for a thinner, firm little salami, which I could be certain about. But now I know that that pliability was what gives the end product its amazingly spreadable texture.
Fast forward to a year later, when living in London, I discovered a Spanish stand in an outdoor market that had sobrasada, and I was flooded with memories of that picturesque little town. But this time I knew not to be weirded out by its physical pliancy. So I bought the smallest one they had, still quite huge, and we proceeded to eat this very indulgent thing, slowly, until we moved back to the US.
You can do all sorts of things with sobrasada, starting with everything that you can do with a regular salami. If you find one, I recommend getting a small one and experimenting with it. You could put it on a pizza, serve it with cheese, add it to pasta sauce, and more. But the most memorable thing I did with it was also the most crass: I scooped out the last of it to make the world’s richest grilled cheese. On buttered walnut bread, with a sharp English cheddar, the sobrasada basically melted along with the cheese; that rendered fat permeated the bread and made the it even crispier in the pan. To honor Valldemossa, just prior to eating, I pried open the molten sandwich and drizzled in some honey. Sweet, spicy, and crazy rich, it was a decadent treat. Like Mallorca, I am very glad to have had it once, but may never need it again.
Grilled Cheese with Sobrasada
Butter slices of walnut bread or any rustic sourdough. To the unbuttered side, add slices of sharp cheddar and a smear of sobrasada (slices of salami work too, though the result will be a different) to make a sandwich. Cook in a pan, butter side down, on medium-low heat until browned; flip and brown the other side. If the cheese isn’t fully melted yet, cover and continue cooking on low heat—it’s worth the wait. When melty, remove from the pan; pry open and drizzle in honey to taste. Eat immediately. Take a nap.
Ideas for Using Up Sobrasada:
- Spicy elephant ears (weird title): spread a very thin layer of sobrasada and quince jam on puff pastry, roll up, slice, and bake
- With eggs: warm a bit on the side of your fried eggs, make the ultimate egg and cheese
- On pizza: dollop on top prior to baking
- In a fish stew
- Sautéed with calamari or scallops
- To fortify a tomato sauce
- Baked brie: an idea even more decadent than my grilled cheese, but certainly delicious-sounding (a layer of sobrasada and fig jam on top of a wheel of brie, wrapped up in pastry and baked)
- Add bits to proofed bread dough—rolled breadsticks, shaped rolls, etc.
- With cheese: on a cheese plate with something sweet or with just one fresh cheese like burrata, ricotta, or mozzarella
