The last time I cooked for don Juan we were back at home in Seville and he had been up to his old tricks. He arrived late after ‘visiting’ a member of the nobility whose life he had probably just ruined and whose family would now be dishonoured.
He was sweating, his sword hung loose at his side and he was holding a hessian sack. He laid it down on the table and out rolled a dozen or so oranges - the bitter ones. The ones that, having fallen from the dark-leaved trees, lay rotting in the streets and squares all over the city at this time of the year. No edible oranges these. Where eating oranges were bright, round and sweet, these were dull, misshapen and sour as all hell. Instead of juice, they were all pith and pips and if you were stupid enough to take a bite you could feel it at the top of your brain. But they smelt good and the autumn city was heavy with the tang of the decomposing fruit.
‘You know,’ he began, letting the sack clunk onto the table ‘in Spain we only use these oranges for cleaning the intestines of our pigs before we make our embutidos.’
‘Embuttwhats?’ I asked.
He shook his head.
‘Joder, how long have you been in Spain?’ he said, scratching his beard which was beginning to come away from his jaw. ‘Our cured sausages. Chorizo? Salchichon? Ring a bell?’
‘And what do you want me to do with them?’
‘I want you to see if you can make something edible with them.’
‘Like what?’
‘I don't know, you lazy dog. You’re the chef.’
I shrugged. The logic was sound.
I washed a kilo of the oranges and a lemon and put them on to boil covered in ample water, three litres say, keeping them under the surface with a plate.
His beard had come away completely now and lay like a merkin on the table. He unbuckled his weapon and let it fall to the stone floor with a clang. Next came the wide brimmed hat, its feather flashing, then the wig with its long dark curls. He pulled a dagger from the wide purple sash around his waist. Under his long tailed shirt a wide bandage went around and around his torso, pulled tight and tucked in firmly at the back.
He lifted up his arms.
‘Come on then. Get on with it.’
I untucked the linen and then began circling, unwinding him until he became a she and her breasts fell free. She shook herself and scratched under both boobs. Then she sat on the bench and lifted a boot for me to remove. Then the other. And still no word of thanks.
‘And clean that, will you?’ she said, pointing at the sack. Never my favourite job, I did however have to admire the workmanship of the contraption I pulled out. It was a leather harness she had designed and made herself. She called it her burlador. It was all buckles and straps and rings, with a bull's horn as its centerpiece. She had worked on the end of the horn for days, sanding and polishing it until its head was rounded and smooth. No wonder she, he, struck fear in the hearts of many men of Seville. Having said that, it was rumoured that many more were willing to pay for it and readily. But as I say, rumoured. I wouldn't know.
I detached the horn and took it outside to clean later. When I came back in she was asleep on the table. So much for no rest for the wicked.
I tested the oranges and saw they needed a good while longer. I put a kilo and a half of sugar in the low oven of the range and went out a roving myself. The moon was up and the narrow twisting streets of the old quarter, el casco antiguo, shone with its many delights, not all of them gastronomic.
As I stumbled back to the palace hours later, guided by the sweet and sharp smell of the boiled oranges, I knew what I had in mind would be good.
Don Juan was still asleep, a puddle of drool pooling on the table. I poured myself a glass of fino and lifted out an orange. It was soft and heavy, but the skin still firm.
I pulled them all out of the water and halved each one, leaving them open to cool a moment. I scooped the pips and pulp back into the water in the pan, the flesh coming away easily and leaving the sodden skin hollow like a goblet. When all the pulp was in the pan, I added another litre of water and put it back on to simmer. Whilst it bubbled gently, taking on all the pectin it would ever need, I chopped the skins to the thickness of bacon rind. After about an hour of simmering the pulp I sieved it and squished the pulp with the back of a spoon to get as much of the sticky liquid back into the pan as possible. Then I stirred in the warmed sugar which dissolved almost instantly. I added the chopped skins and brought the whole lot to the boil. When it was bubbling dangerously, seething and roiling, I took doña Juana by the hair and shoved her head into the churning liquid.
Not really. I quite like my boss.
No, instead I put the pan in the oven and got the temperature to a steady 160ºC. I figured it would take two to three hours. Just enough time.
I woke my lord-lady-lady-lord and we went upstairs. She needed taking down a peg or two and so did I.
When we came back down, I took the pan out of the oven, marvelling at the dark pungent delight I had made.
‘What is it?’ she asked.
‘I think I’m going to call it marmalade, after the cat.’ I replied, offering her some of my creation spread on buttered toast.
She took it, eyeing it suspiciously. Biting off the tiniest corner, she winced in horror and spat it straight back out.
‘That’s disgusting,’ she said. ‘It tastes like disinfectant. You English are mad.’
https://www.vkngjewelry.com/en-gb/products/brass-rimmed-polished-drinking-horn-with-stand
Never too early for a peggin (no g, according to Lord Internet). Revives the spirit. Freshens the mind. What it does physically is probably better left unsaid.
No you haven’t. But I look forward to hearing the answer in person rather than on here