Classic Spanish recipes from Nieves Barragán Mohacho (2024)

Eighteen years ago, a young woman called Nieves Barragán Mohacho left Santurtzi, the small Basque town where she had grown up and lived all her life, and travelled to London to take up an offer of work in the kitchen at the Barbican branch of the French chain Simply Nico (a friend’s boyfriend was its sous chef). This wasn’t, by any stretch of the imagination, her dream job. Unable to speak English, and without any previous experience, the only position available to her was that of kitchen porter, which meant she spent her days – and what long days they were – cleaning salad and peeling potatoes. But even as she waited for the night bus home to her room in Crystal Palace, bone-tired after a 16-hour shift, Barragán was unable to shake off a powerful sense that this vast and lonely city was exactly where she was meant to be. “I haven’t even started yet,” she would say, when her mother enquired how much longer she was planning on staying.

“Can you imagine it?” she asks, when we meet in a pub in Borough Market at that enchanted summer hour when the stall holders outside are just winding up, and the office workers and City boys are just piling in. “I had to change buses in Brixton at one in the morning, which was not something I told my mum. It was hard. I was the only girl in the kitchen, and sometimes the guys liked to make … jokes. I was working six days a week, trying to learn English as I went along and meanwhile speaking to the other staff mostly in French. But I wanted it so much. I needed action. I didn’t mind the work at all. Whatever I was asked to do, I would become the fastest at it. I was only a porter for three or four months. One day, someone [more senior] wasn’t there, and I was, and I was ready.” Over the next 18 months, she worked her way through every section. “Wow! So much new information. Here were fruit and vegetables I’d never seen before in my life. I started to taste different flavours, to understand the way colour works on a plate.”

Her destiny, however, had yet to reveal itself. What she needed was a patron. She moved on, to a short-lived French place in Chelsea, and thence to Gaudi, a Spanish restaurant in Clerkenwell. Only after this did she hear about Sam and Eddie Hart, Old Etonian brothers who were planning to open a Spanish restaurant called Fino. “We had a long, long conversation,” she says. “It was half in English, and half in Spanish [the Harts’ mother spent some of her childhood in Mallorca].” Bingo. Feeling a connection, she joined Fino as its sous chef in 2003. Four years later, she and the Harts opened Barrafina, a tapas bar in Frith Street whose menu suggested a certain originality and passion on the part of its then unknown female chef – at which point, suddenly there was no stopping her. “People loved what I was doing,” she says. “You could see it on their faces.” (Because she worked in an open kitchen, she could watch her customers as she cooked.) By 2015, not only was she head chef at two Barrafinas, and about to oversee the opening of a third, her kitchen at the Soho original had also won its first Michelin star.

Now, though, it’s all change again. Last February, Barragán left the employ of the Harts after 14 years. It wasn’t them, you understand; it was her. She wanted to strike out alone, and now seemed as good a time as any – though she still feels it as a wrench, tears flooding her eyes when she describes her last night at the stove, the entire restaurant standing to applaud her as the final dish went out. In the autumn, she and José Etura, Barrafina’s general manager, with whom she has worked for more than a decade, will open Sabor, a new restaurant, bar and asador (grill) in Heddon Street, in London’s Piccadilly. Now the contract is finally signed, there is a lot to do: a room to design, staff to hire. But I have the feeling she already knows exactly what she will be cooking there – in fact, I may already know myself. For Barragán is about to publish her first cookbook under her own name (she has previously co-authored a book with Sam and Eddie Hart), also called Sabor. “It means ‘flavour’ in Spanish,” she says, scooping imaginary food from an imaginary pot. “I chose it because sabor is all we think about in my kitchen.” Are the two, then, connected? Will Sabor’s menu (I’m all but certain it’s already written) feature her mum’s braised rabbit and the cuajada – a pudding made with milk and rennet that bears a strong resemblance to junket – of which her father cannot ever get enough? She laughs. “We will see,” she says. (The only thing I can reveal for sure is that upstairs the menu will focus on suckling pig and octopus, the latter to be cooked Galician-style in copper pans with olive oil and paprika.)

Sabor is a vivid compendium of the dishes Barragán grew up eating: the kind of satisfying, unpretentious food her father, a builder, would eat when he arrived home, ravenously hungry after work. “It’s honest, uncomplicated food,” she says. “I still dream of squid cooked in its own ink – a dish I can remember eating when I was eight years old, my mouth all black. So that is in the book, and so is a stew from Rioja in the north made only with potato, chorizo and chicken stock. Every mum in Spain makes it. Oh, it’s so comforting. And as you say, there is a recipe for cuajada, and also for flan [the Spanish version of creme caramel, traditionally eaten with whipped cream and walnuts on the side], puddings which for my father are the equivalent of crack.”

However straightforward, the book also represents a revolution: as she points out, many of the recipe ingredients would once have been all but impossible to track down in this country. Take calcot onions, which come from Catalonia, and are grilled and eaten whole like leeks: “Seven years ago, no one knew what they were. But now you see them even in restaurants serving British food. I’ve been in London for almost two decades, and in that time I’ve seen a revolution in terms of Spanish food. When I arrived, it was paella and that was all.” Barragán takes, rightly, a great deal of the credit for this. “We were the pioneers. Chiperones [baby squid eaten deep fried], goose barnacles, black rice: we were the first to serve all of these things here. It was the open kitchen that helped: it was easy for me to explain to guests what something was, how it would be prepared, and as I did that I became [so far as cooking was concerned] myself.”

When she opened Barrafina, Michelin stars were the last thing on her mind: “I work for the people who come to eat, not the people from Michelin.” She has firm ideas when it comes to restaurants, but mostly disdains both formality and the macho tone you often find among her male peers. When a place really works it has, she thinks, to do with a certain kind of happiness. “The secret is the staff,” she says. “You need to make sure they want to be working there, and you need to look after them, to encourage them, to listen to them. We try to make it a family.” As it happens, I can vouch for her patience. I once spent time in the Barrafina kitchen, learning to make croquetas just as the lunch crowd was about to arrive, and even as I co*cked everything up, she never stopped smiling at me.

Barragán learned she’d won her star from Sam Hart, who called one morning just as she was emerging from the shower. It was astonishing news, but quickly she realised it brought with it fresh expectations. Does she mean she immediately started worrying about losing it? “Exactly!” It was a crazy kind of life, maintaining standards over three restaurants: 13 hours a day, six days a week. Sundays, she says, were never really rest days because there was always too much planning to be done. At first, she used to do two days a week in each place. But this didn’t really work. “I started doing a week at a time in each restaurant. That way, I could see the whole team working.” It was important to her, and to the Harts, that each restaurant maintained its individuality. “It is not a chain. The menu varies from restaurant to restaurant: tuna tartar at Dean Street, kidneys at Adelaide Street, black rice at Drury Lane.”

How hard was it, telling the Harts she was leaving them? Very hard. “I couldn’t talk,” she says. “I started to cry. But they understood. They appreciated I had stayed such a long time, and there were people ready to step up.” Again, her eyes fill up. Well aware that it’s more usual for proprietors and chefs to fall out than to cleave to each other like brothers and sister, she takes what I can only describe as girlish delight in her ongoing relationship with them. “They keep asking me: any news? They’re desperate to know where I will be, and what Iwill be doing. They’ll be at the launch, for sure.” But for all that she misses them, there is to be no looking back. Restless now, she is itching to bed down in her new restaurant. “Iwant to be there,” she says, fiercely. In her mind’s eye, she is already at the plancha, the lunchtime din just about to begin. ofm

Boiled octopus with smoked sweet paprika and ‘cachelos’ potatoes

The amount of olive oil used in this recipe might seem like a lot, but the octopus needs it. Legend has it that drinking water with this dish will give you a pain in your stomach. What you need here is a nice glass of white wine, and albariño, a traditional Galician white, is the best.

“Cachelos” refers to the potatoes, which are boiled in the octopus cooking water: crucially, they shouldn’t be cut smoothly, you want to partially cut into them and then pull them apart so they make a scrunching sound. This way they will have a rough edge and release their starch.

Serves 4-6
onion ½, peeled
bay leaf 1
frozen octopus 1 (approx 2.3kg before defrosting), defrosted
extra virgin olive oil 200ml
smoked sweet paprika 1 tbsp, for sprinkling
capers 50g
fresh chives 1 bunch, chopped
sea salt and freshly ground
black pepper

For the potatoes
potatoes 3 medium
extra virgin olive oil 125ml
sea salt and freshly ground black pepper
smoked hot paprika 1 tbsp, for sprinkling

Fill a large pan with water, add the onion and bay leaf, and put on a medium-high heat. When the water is steaming, take the octopus and (carefully) dip it into the water, then bring it up again. Repeat three times. This relaxes the octopus, making the meat tender.

Gently simmer the octopus according to its weight (20 minutes per kilo) – if the water is boiling too fast it will rip the skin.

While the octopus is cooking, prepare the cachelos. Peel the potatoes. Partially cut into them, then pull them apart into chunky, uneven-edged pieces around 3cm in size.

To check if the octopus is cooked, take a toothpick and jab it into the thickest part. If it goes through cleanly, with no resistance, it is cooked, but if it feels like there’s something preventing you from pushing through, then it needs to cook for longer, otherwise it will be chewy, which isn’t nice. When you are happy it is cooked, carefully remove it from the pan to a tray (keeping the cooking water) and leave to cool down.

While the octopus is cooling, add the potatoes to the octopus cooking water and boil until nice and soft. The water will turn the potatoes a light blue-purple and will give them lots of flavour. Remove the potatoes to a colander with a spider or slotted spoon – don’t pour them out to drain, as they will smash. Put into a serving bowl with the olive oil, salt, pepper and paprika. It’s a lot of paprika, but you don’t get tired of it.

Cut the octopus into 2cm thick angled chunks – it’s traditional to use scissors, but probably easier to do this on a board with a knife. Put the 200ml of olive oil into a pan and put on a medium-low heat. When warm, add the chunks of octopus and cook for a couple of minutes. Take the pan off the heat but leave the octopus to rest for 3-4 minutes, then remove with a slotted spoon to your plate or serving dish. Dress with the olive oil from the pan, the paprika, capers, chives, salt and pepper, and serve with the potatoes.

Pork belly and mojo verde

This recipe uses a pestle and mortar to make a lumpier mojo verde that’s good for serving alongside meat, but you could make a smoother, creamier sauce for marinating. Just put all the ingredients, except the coriander, into a blender. Whiz together, adding the coriander halfway through, then blend again until green and creamy with some small flecks of herb.

Instead of pork belly, you could grill lamb cutlets and serve them with the mojo verde dotted around, or marinate chicken in the smoother version of the sauce.

Serves 6-8
pork belly 1 x 4-5kg piece, rib bones intact
sea salt and freshly ground black pepper
cumin seeds 2 tbsp
extra virgin olive oil for drizzling

For the mojo verde
spring onions 1 bunch
garlic 4 cloves
fresh coriander 2 big bunches (equal to around 6-8 of the 40g supermarket packets)
cumin seeds 2 tsp
moscatel vinegar 125ml
dried chillies 2
sea salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste
extra virgin olive oil 200ml

Preheat the oven to 180C/gas mark 4.

Line a roasting tray with greaseproof paper. Score the skin of the pork belly quite deeply (around 1cm), then place it skin side down on the paper-lined tray. Season the top of the pork belly with salt, pepper and cumin seeds and cook for 1½-2 hours. The skin should be very crispy and the meat must be tender – if it’s not quite there yet, turn it over and cook it for another 10 minutes.

Make the mojo verde while the pork belly is cooking: roughly chop the spring onions, garlic and herbs and add them gradually to a pestle and mortar with the rest of the ingredients, dribbling in the olive oil bit by bit and mashing together.

Spoon some mojo verde on to each plate, then top with 1-2cm thick pork belly slices and drizzle over a little olive oil to finish.

Potato and chorizo stew

This stew from Rioja is simple but you do need to cut the potatoes correctly to ensure that their starch thickens the liquid. Everyone loves this – it’s a very weekend-y, comforting dish. You can’t get it wrong. In Spain, every mum makes this.

Serves 4
potatoes 4
mild or spicy cooking chorizo 240g
extra virgin olive oil 25ml, plus more to serve
Spanish onion 1 large, julienned
bay leaves 2
white wine 100ml
chicken stock 1 litre, or water, or a 50/50 mixture of both
sea salt and freshly ground black pepper
flat-leaf parsley leaves 2 tbsp, chopped

Peel the potatoes. Partially cut into them, then pull them apart into chunky, uneven-edged pieces around 3cm in size. Cut the chorizo to half the size of the potatoes.

Put the olive oil into a big pan on a medium heat, then add the onion and cook gently for about 15 minutes, without colouring. Add the chorizo and when it starts to caramelise, add the potatoes, bay leaves and wine. Cook until the wine has evaporated, then add the chicken stock and/or water and season.

Half cover the pan with a lid, and continue cooking on a low-medium heat. The more slowly you cook it, the more starch will come out of the potatoes – it should take about 25 minutes. When the potatoes are cooked through, add the parsley.

Serve with a drizzle of olive oil to finish, and bread to dip.

Chicory, anchovy and salmorejo salad

Salmorejo and gazpacho are both cold soups from the south of Spain, but whereas gazpacho is made from cucumber, spring onions and peppers, salmorejo contains more bread, garlic and tomato, and is always finished with chopped hard-boiled egg and cubed jamón.

There is a lot going on in this fresh, crunchy salad – it’s definitely not boring.

For the salmorejo
ripe tomatoes 4
red pepper ¼
garlic 2 cloves
bread 50g, crusts removed
sherry vinegar 30ml
extra virgin olive oil 125ml

To make the salmorejo, put all the ingredients into a food processor or blender and blend to a creamy, gazpacho-like consistency.

Spoon the salmorejo on to a large platter or plate, place the chicory on top, and add an anchovy to each chicory quarter. Sprinkle over the cubes of jamón, the watercress and the chopped eggs.

To make the dressing, shake the olive oil, Moscatel vinegar, salt and pepper together in a jar, and drizzle over the chicory.

Serve with large spoons for scooping up the chicory and salmorejo.

Braised hispi cabbage with garlic cream sauce

The way the cabbage is cooked means you have to cut into it in the same way you would a steak.

To make the garlic cream sauce, halve the garlic cloves and remove the green middle section, if there is one. Roughly chop, put into a saucepan and cover with water. Bring to the boil, then rinse, add fresh water and bring to the boil again. Repeat this three times: the garlic should be soft and mild-tasting. Drain a final time, then pour over the cream, season and add the stock or water. Bring to the boil, season again, then blend until smooth.

Preheat your oven to 180C/gas mark 4. Roast the pine nuts for 30-40 seconds, until they are golden brown, then set aside.

Bring a large pan of salted water to the boil. Add the cabbages – if they’re not too big, boil them whole, otherwise cut them in half. Remove to drain when they are soft (pierce with a toothpick to check). If whole, halve or quarter, depending on their size. Drizzle over about 40ml of olive oil and season.

Put 40ml of olive oil into a pan on a medium heat. Cook the cabbages until golden brown and caramelised on each side, adding more oil to the pan as necessary. Remove the cabbages from the pan.

Add 20ml of olive oil to the pan, lower the heat slightly, and cook the shallots gently for a couple of minutes. Add the pine nuts, and finally the parsley. Sprinkle the contents of the pan over the cabbages, and finish with smoked paprika.

Pear tart

This recipe makes enough pastry for two tarts but you can always freeze one half.

To make the sweet pastry, mix the ingredients in a food processor or by hand until they come together. Divide into two flat balls, wrap in clingfilm and refrigerate.

To make the crema pastelera, put the milk into a pan on a low heat and infuse with the cinnamon, vanilla and lemon zest until steaming – around 15-18 minutes.

Turn off the heat and leave to cool, then pass through a sieve to make a smooth mixture. Whisk the egg yolks with the sugar until pale and creamy and the sugar has dissolved. Add the cornflour and mix again, making sure there are no lumps. Add the infused milk bit by bit, then return to the heat. Cook on a very low heat until it thickens to a bechamel consistency and holds together – around 15-20 minutes, depending on the size of your pan.

Peel the pears, cut them into quarters and remove the core. Put them into a large, flat pan with the butter and sugar and place on a medium-low heat. Cook for 15-20 minutes, until everything melts together and they caramelise, then remove from the heat.

Preheat your oven to 180C/gas mark 4 and grease a tart tin (26cm, with a removable bottom) with a little butter.

Flour a sheet of baking paper and place it on a work surface somewhere cool. Remove one ball of pastry from the fridge, place it on the baking paper, and roll it out as quickly as possible to a circle at least 4cm bigger than your tin and around 3mm thick. If your pastry gets too warm and starts to melt, put it back into the fridge to cool down.

Put your hand underneath the baking paper and gently turn the pastry out into the tin, then mould it into shape, making sure the sides are 90 degrees.

Trim the sides but leave ½cm extra, as it will shrink when it bakes: you can shape it later. Prick the base all over with a fork to help it cook through and not puff up. Put it back into the fridge for 5-10 minutes or until it is cold (otherwise the butter may melt too quickly when it goes into the oven).

Bake for 15-20 minutes, keeping an eye on it and turning it so it cooks evenly. When nice and golden, leave to cool down, then fill it halfway up with the cooled crema.

Put it back into the fridge for 20-30 minutes to set.

Place the pear pieces on top of the crema until it’s completely covered, and dust with icing sugar before serving.

Sabor by Nieves Barragán Mohacho (Penguin Group, £25). To order a copy for £21.25, go to bookshop.theguardian.com or call 0330 333 6846.