I arrived late to the art of making paella. For many years I resembled Romero, that character in the Dacsa advertisement who despaired because he was not capable of making the Valencians' most beloved, and most international, dish. And it won't be because I didn't have, and have, good teachers in my family. My grandmother Rosa made them with admirable skill, with great ease; she was always a guarantee of success. Her specialty was winter paella, the one made with artichokes, broad beans and pork ribs (it's my favorite). I never understood from my mother how she is able to make them "by eye", that is, without measuring the water to establish the correct proportionality with the rice, and they come out perfect. She usually adds red pepper and, sometimes, "pilotes", which are a suitable complement to finish melting the palate. Very typical of my region, La Ribera Alta.
In the case of Valencian men, it could be said that in addition to planting a tree, writing a book and having a child (I imagine you are familiar with this popular argument) there is no complete fulfillment if one does not know how to make a paella. I had that pressure. When I was in Brussels, there were quite a few fellow journalists from different countries who asked me for it, and at that time, twenty years ago, I was still not able to give them a correct answer. For them I was a "half Valencian". A Basque correspondent friend, who made fun of my culinary inability, invited me to his house one day to eat one because he told me that they turned out great. The surprise was to see that it was a conglomerate of rice, chorizo and Frankfurt sausages (no chicken, no rabbit, no Bajoca or anything). More incredible was seeing how the rest of the guests accepted her, which convinced me at once that I should get involved in the matter. I took up the challenge.
Since one is methodical by nature, I turned to the written manual (there are hundreds) and, obviously, to maternal advice. It took a while, but I think I got it, but not without some resounding failures. Then came the period in which I observed that among quite a few Valencian "boomers" there is a sense of competition about who is capable of doing it better. There is a lot of testosterone in this fight, and it is still curious: cooking paellas has sometimes become a macho fight, and I am not exaggerating. There are some, and I have seen them, who prohibit their wives, girlfriends, daughters and friends from entering the kitchen while they are making the paella, or they only count on them to act as "pinches", that is, to cut meats, prepare vegetables and distribute beers to open stomachs. Which could be interpreted as a markedly sexist attitude.
Once the skill is acquired, one has the possibility of officiating the event, because that is what it is about, as if it were a druid. Especially if the paella is made for many people, which is when you sit down to eat it and observe that the companions utter many praises towards your work. Since you are at that age where compliments matter, these comments tend to feed the ego while you think, at that very moment, what can be improved for the next date. The normal thing is that even if some detail has been failed, the praise is positive. Although there is always the typical idiot who, presented as an "expert" on the subject, suggests some improvement. Since the person who writes this is educated, he accepts it in public with gratitude, even though what he wants is to send him to the galleys and eat paella with chorizo for the rest of his life.
PS: Paella with chorizo is a criminal act, as my admired Paco Alonso would say. No matter how much my other admired Pedro Vallín defends her, with a profusion of messages, in the digital ecosystem.
