At the foot of the Sierra de Guadarrama, northwest of Madrid, lies the ancient city of Segovia. In a region specializing in wood-roasted meats, Segovia stands out for its numerous centuries-old mesones serving cochinillo (suckling pig). A certified Cochinillo de Segovia is no more than twenty-one days old and weighs between 10 and 12 pounds/4.5 and 5.5 kg. These are slow-roasted whole in oval earthenware dishes with the most minimal of condiments—a bit of lard, salt, and a touch of water—until the skin is crispy and the meat succulent and tender.
To show just how tender, the late Cándido, namesake and founder of the town’s most famous mesón, used to come to the table, brandish a plate, and “slice” the pig with the plate’s edge. A plate! Good theater, but it never took away from the meat that was so tender it didn’t need a knife to be cut.
On my first visit to Segovia nearly fifteen years ago, friends took me there for lunch. By then Cándido had passed away, but his son, Alberto, ran the restaurant and carried on the tradition. The cochinillo was as good as its reputation. While I have had cochinillo many times since, the memory of that meal remains particularly vivid. (A close second is of roasting one in the large, wood-burning oven of a friend’s cortijo, an Andalusian farmhouse, in the olive-covered hills outside Ronda.)
That day in Segovia, we had joined an exodus of madrileños fleeing the city for a sunny spring Sunday in the mountains, and after a lengthy post-meal stroll among the ancient backstreets and the Roman aqueduct, and a coffee in one of the terraces on the plaza, we joined the caravan of traffic for the return drive to the capital. A day’s excursion built around a worthy meal. Something that is an all-too-common Spanish activity.