A FEW YEARS AGO, I WAS INVITED TO PARTICIPATE IN A PAELLA-MAKING COMPETITION TO CELEBRATE THE OPENING OF A BRANCH OF THE CULINARY INSTITUTE OF AMERICA IN SAN ANTONIO, TEXAS.
The school was to specialize in Latin-influenced cooking, so it invited Latin-American cooks, Spanish cooks, and a few American cooks—a total of 40 chefs in all—to compete against one another to make this iconic Spanish dish.
Spain has been a huge influence on me as a chef. Yet the reason I was invited to compete in the paella competition had nothing to do with my love of Spain, and everything to do with my wife, who is from San Antonio.
Despite my familiarity with Spanish cuisine, at the time of the competition, I had never made paella in my life. In fact, I’d only just eaten it for the first time on my honeymoon in Spain. Paella had always seemed like a one-note rice and seafood dish with no depth of flavor. But one warm summer afternoon in Marbella, we decided to order paella Valenciana, the variety you see most often there. It had subtlety and depth and its rice had texture from what I learned was the socarrat. The socarrat—the gooey-crispy layer of rice that lines the bottom of the pan—is the sign of well-made paella. Like the outer crusty parts of a casserole or the ends of just about anything baked, the socarrat is the best and most coveted part of paella.
Back in California, I embarked on my usual obsessive research, which I do with any new dish—this time for paella. For the competition, I brought a cooler full of goodies with me from Los Angeles to San Antonio, including a whole suckling pig that I’d cooked in duck fat, a big jar of preserved lemons that I’d canned during citrus season, and some Southern California delicacies such as spicy, flavorful Fresno chiles (we California chefs love them) and green garlic. The night before the competition, I made my first paella in Emily’s mother Jackie’s kitchen, and it was a disaster. The rice was overcooked and soggy; there was no depth of flavor. It was good practice, though. At the competition, I made some game day adjustments. But most important was the mojo factor: I absolutely love competition. It pushes me to do the best I can.
For my competition paella, the socarrat was flavorful from all the juices it had absorbed from the pork confit, preserved lemons, fortified stock, and rabbit meatballs. And the frenched rabbit racks that I put in were the game changer. I won the competition, and since then I love making paella.
My preferred method for making paella is outdoors over a wood-burning fire, the way it was traditionally done–and according to purists in Spain the only acceptable way to make it. It’s also the most surefire way to get a socarrat. The most common way to cook paella outdoors today is on a propane paella burner, which you can buy through the same online sources that sell paella pans. (For the paella-specific items, see Sources.) You can also use a kettle grill. If you build a fire on the ground, set up a screen around it to keep it from spreading. I use perforated sheet metal clasped together with metal ties or rivets.
36-inch paella pan
Large paella tripod
Long-handled paella scraper 6 to 8 bushels of seasoned hardwood (preferably oak, apple, or alder) or 8 to 10 bags of lump charcoal (see Cooking Fuel Comparison Chart
Kindling or newspaper