James
“So, what are we having?” It’s Richard, with the air of having followed his nose.
“Fabada,” I say, brandishing my chorizo, “with some traditional Spanish tapas and accompaniments.”
He leans over my casserole pot, examining the contents, sniffing the steam. “And fabada is what, exactly?”
“The Spanish answer to cassoulet...”
His brows rise… “Ah, yes. An excellent dish. I had it in the south of France on holiday some years ago. Quite a rich dish. Heavy on the beans and pork as I recall.”
“That’s the one. Spanish fabada is a bit different… I have most of the ingredients, chorizo, belly pork, and I can get away with black pudding instead of morcillas. I don’t have the authentic Jamon Iberica, but Parma ham will do.”
Richard’s face is glazing…
Am I talking too much?
Probably…
“…
