Paella Quotes

He tastes of rice with a touch of saffron. He says I taste of seafood. I guess we'd make a good paella.

The people of former times [...] they're dead that's the only thing they have over the living but in their own day they were just as sickening. Picturesqueness: I don't fall for that not for one minute. Stinking filthy dirty washing cabbage-stalks what a pretentious fool you have to be to go into such ecstasies over that! And it's the same thing everywhere all the time whether they're stuffing themselves with chips paella or pizza it's the same crew a filthy crew the rich who trample over you the poor who hate you for your money the old who dodder the young who sneer the men who show off the women who open their legs. I'd rather stay at home reading a thriller although they've become so dreary nowadays. The telly too what a clapped-out set of fools! I was made for another planet altogether I mistook the way.

And it’s the same thing everywhere all the time whether they’re stuffing themselves with chips paella or pizza it’s the same crew a filthy crew the rich who trample over you the poor who hate you for your money the old who dodder the young who sneer the men who show off the women who open their legs. I’d rather stay at home reading a thriller although they’ve become so dreary nowadays. The TV too what a clapped-out set of fools! I was made for another planet altogether I mistook the way.

Méndez, con gesto de ententido, pidiò otra copita de orujo gallego para amenizar la paella. El camarero se la sirviò con gesto de desearle un entierro pomposo, concurrido y lo màs inmediato posible.

Kate Moss famously said that “nothing tastes as good as skinny feels.” So I thought I’d put together a little list of things she’s obviously never tried before that taste so much better than buying into an oppressive body ideal could ever feel: Pasta, pizza, mangoes, avocados, doughnuts, peanut butter, sushi, bacon, chocolate cake, lemon cake, any cake really, blueberries, garlic bread, smoked salmon, poached eggs, apples, roast dinners, cookie dough, sweet potatoes, whipped cream, freshly squeezed orange juice, watermelon, gelato, paella, oh and cheese. You’re welcome, Kate!

Dos gruesos gerontes de las heladas tierras del norte sostienen sus cartas de vinos desde una de las atiborradas terrazas del Sinatra. Están inquietos porque piensan que, como comensales europeos, tienen derecho a decir lo que les dé la gana o bien a guardar silencio. Porque saben que todo lo que coman puede ser cargado en su cuenta y que tienen derecho a una sangría y a un plato de calamares, y que, de no poder pagarla, el hormiguero común pangeico de los soldados de Cristo puede proporcionarles una paella de oficio

Even the moon was embarrassed by the beauty of Barcelona.

¡A las paellas no se les pone limón, nunca!

I watch Jasmine take in the food. “This looks like paella from Rom’s.” “It is.” Surprise flares, quickly banked. “You know my favorite place.” “I think we’ve established that my fascination with you has prodded me to learn all number of things.

Una paella con gambas, guisantes, espárragos, pimiento, chorizo, mejillones, guisantes, calamares, bacalao..., es como ponerse sandalias con calcetines: no está prohibido por ley, pero debería. Hay una costumbre de toda la vida, pero que realmente es muy reciente: afirmar que la paella es

I hope you two had fun up there,” Ruby said later, grinning at us as we descended into the kitchen. “Because Will made paella, and I’m telling you . . . I may eat this and only this for the rest of my life.” “Is Will coming home with us?” Niall asked her from the kitchen. “It was an excruciatingly competitive game of chess we had going,” I said. “Neither of us was willing to give up until it was over.” Will’s smile was sneaky. “I see, chess? Because it sounded like you were hanging pictures.” Niall nodded. “Something was definitely getting nailed up there.” I laugh-coughed down at the floor.

The conversation swings from the brothers Bush to the war in Iraq to the emerging rights of Muslim women to postfeminism to current cinema—Mexican, American, European (Giorgio goes spasmodically mad over Bu-ñuel), and back to Mexican again—to the relative superiority of shrimp over any other kind of taco to the excellence of Ana’s paella, to Ana’s childhood, then to Jimena’s, to the changing role of motherhood in a postindustrial world, to sculpture, then painting, then poetry, then baseball, then Jimena’s inexplicable (to Pablo) fondness for American football (she’s a Dallas Cowboys fan) over real (to Pablo) fútbol, to his admittedly adolescent passion for the game, to the trials of adolescence itself and revelations over the loss of virginity and why we refer to it as a loss and now Óscar and Tomás, arms over each other’s shoulders, are chanting poetry and then Giorgio picks up a guitar and starts to play and this is the Juárez that Pablo loves, this is the city of his soul—the poetry, the passionate discussions (Ana makes her counterpoints jabbing her cigarette like a foil; Jimena’s words flow like a gentle wave across beach sand, washing away the words before; Giorgio trills a jazz saxophone while Pablo plays bass—they are a jazz combo of argument), the ideas flowing with the wine and beer, the lilting music in a black night, this is the gentle heartbeat of the Mexico that he adores, the laughter, the subtle perfume of desert flowers that grow in alleys alongside garbage, and now everyone is singing— México, está muy contento, Dando gracias a millares… —and this is his life—this is his city, these are his friends, his beloved friends, these people, and if this is all that there is or will be, it is enough for him, his world, his life, his city, his people, his sad beautiful Juárez… —empezaré de Durango, Torreón y Ciudad de

He has already mastered (or become quite proficient at) a number of skills and techniques such as braises, fricassees, roasting, searing, and sautéing. He was already well versed in pie and pastry making, so teaching him laminated pastry and more difficult cakes and confectionary has proceeded much faster than I anticipated. (I suspect Helena feels the same, though she always pretends to be nonplussed at his progress.) His knowledge and interest in the dishes of other cultures also continues to surprise me. His empanadas, it seems, were only the tip of the bavarois. He makes a delightful curry after the East Indian style, and his fried plantains (both the sweet maduros and the crispy double-fried green ones) have become my new favorite snack before our evening meal. You would love them, Nanay, I am certain. Nanay, I've also taught him most of the rice dishes in my repertoire (as Helena continues to find rice to be rather lowly---though she eats risotto and paella readily enough when they're on the table), and although he was surprised when I first showed him plain, unadulterated rice as you make it, he soon gobbled it up and has been experimenting with more Eastern-inspired rice dishes and desserts and puddings ever since.

Bueno, creo que si pueden empatizar con un señor sin piernas también podrán empatizar con una mujer con la regla. (El Descontento, 91) Estar en un mando intermedio consiste en empezar las cosas, delegarlas y luego supervisarlas. (El Descontento, 162) Quizás el problema de algunas personas, y por algunas personas me refiero a personas como yo, es que pensamos que la vida nos va a ofrecer algo asombroso en el momento menos esperado ... Quizás ese es el secreto de la felicidad: bajar las expectativas, acomodarte, jugar al pádel, hacer paella los domingos, tener un grupo de amigas, hacerte la manicura permanente cada quince días, tener hijos, reciclar, adoptar un perro, irte a vivir a las afueras, tener un jardín, casarte con Carlos (El Descontento, 170)

It’s more an affliction than the expression of any high-minded ideals. I watch Mark Bittman enjoy a perfectly and authentically prepared Spanish paella on TV, after which he demonstrates how his viewers can do it at home—in an aluminum saucepot—and I want to shove my head through the glass of my TV screen and take a giant bite out of his skull, scoop the soft, slurry-like material inside into my paw, and then throw it right back into his smug, fireplug face. The notion that anyone would believe Catherine Zeta-Jones as an obsessively perfectionist chef (particularly given the ridiculously clumsy, 1980s-looking food) in the wretched film No Reservations made me want to vomit blood, hunt down the producers, and kick them slowly to death. (Worse was the fact that the damn thing was a remake of the unusually excellent German chef flick Mostly Martha.) On Hell’s Kitchen, when Gordon Ramsay pretends that the criminally inept, desperately unhealthy gland case in front of him could ever stand a chance in hell of surviving even three minutes as “executive chef of the new Gordon Ramsay restaurant” (the putative grand prize for the finalist), I’m inexplicably actually angry on Gordon’s behalf. And he’s the one making a quarter-million dollars an episode—very contentedly, too, from all reports. The eye-searing “Kwanzaa Cake” clip on YouTube, of Sandra Lee doing things with store-bought angel food cake, canned frosting, and corn nuts, instead of being simply the unintentionally hilarious viral video it should be, makes me mad for all humanity. I. Just. Can’t. Help it. I wish, really, that I was so far up my own ass that I could somehow believe myself to be some kind of standard-bearer for good eating—or ombudsman, or even the deliverer of thoughtful critique. But that wouldn’t be true, would it? I’m just a cranky old fuck with what, I guess, could charitably be called “issues.” And I’m still angry. But eat the fucking fish on Monday already. Okay? I wrote those immortal words about not going for the Monday fish, the ones that’ll haunt me long after I’m crumbs in a can, knowing nothing other than New York City. And times, to be fair, have changed. Okay, I still would advise against the fish special at T.G.I. McSweenigan’s, “A Place for Beer,” on a Monday. Fresh fish, I’d guess, is probably not the main thrust of their business. But things are different now for chefs and cooks. The odds are better than ever that the guy slinging fish and chips back there in the kitchen actually gives a shit about what he’s doing. And even if he doesn’t, these days he has to figure that you might actually know the difference. Back when I wrote the book that changed my life, I was angriest—like a lot of chefs and cooks of my middling abilities—at my customers. They’ve changed. I’ve changed. About them, I’m not angry anymore.

Cold as cod.

Give me a reason to push my Dislike button.

La Sagrada Familia is the best thing to come out of Spain since ‘Don Quixote.

Groupies will give you Chlamydia, Edward.” “Right, Virg. Groupies throw underwear on stage. They don’t throw flowers.

Once more I had the sensation of being in the middle of a conversation that had started a few minutes ago without me. But on a morning so full of bright hope, I could be patient. “It was very good paella,” I said. “What did you forget to tell me?

There’s the landmark Columbia Restaurant. Try the paella, or the 1905 salad. That virgin olive oil they use!” Serge kissed his fingertips. “Know why it’s called the 1905 salad? That’s the year they first opened. Very historic. Over a hundred years in the same spot. And you know what that means? Everyone who ate those first salads: all dead.

While there is no proven way to halt the progression of Alzheimer’s, if you do know anyone suffering from the disease, regularly cooking him or her saffron-spiced paella may help.

Four hours later, Gus, Carmen, and Oliver shared a celebratory bottle to toast the best meal they had ever cooked on the fly: plates of paella-inspired risotto with clams, salt-crusted trout with fennel, thinly sliced Wagyu beef with thyme butter, and a trio of cream puffs flavored with ginger, green tea, and chocolate-chili, among other dishes.

if you genuinely get bored while cleaning your teeth, the very oddness of doing it with something chocolate-flavoured, even if you find it repulsive, may help you through that purgatorial couple of minutes. If so, it can’t end here. New flavours will be needed to maintain the novelty – “Bacon Cheese Wham”, “Onion Beef Grind”, “Lemongrass Paella Crash”.

When you hear a Spanish cook describe a paella or a cake, you realize she’s using a much richer repertoire of adjectives than what one of us would use to characterize a book or an important experience.

Better to own a little that is dear to you than have all the potato fields of Sa Pobla.

There was silence at the table now as everyone turned expectantly to look at Avery who was strangely preoccupied with staring at his paella.

La Senza sensed an opportunity and felt a thrill of excitement course through his body like a spicy paella,

¿Qué sabes de España? —Que bailan flamenco, matan toros y comen paella.

I’ve never been in therapy. Who needs it? I’m not some comic-book character with a dark past and a hidden history; I know exactly where I come from, and why I have my ability, and I came to terms with it a long time ago. It made it easier to just chill the fuck out and enjoy life, and fill my brain with important things, like how not to burn paella.

I wanted to backpack through Europe, see the Eiffel Tower in Paris, and experience the pyramids of Egypt. I wanted to feel the energy of Machu Picchu, eat paella in Spain, and enjoy tagine in Morocco. There

Diana talked about visits to Tokyo and Rome. Daisy listened, wistfully recalling her own grand plans. When Beatrice no longer needed bottles or sippie cups or an endless supply of chicken nuggets, Daisy had wanted to travel, and Hal had been perfectly amenable. The problem was that his idea of a perfect vacation was not Europe but, instead, a resort with a golf course that could be reached by a direct flight from Philadelphia International Airport, while Daisy wanted to eat hand-pulled noodles in Singapore and margherita pizza in Rome and warm pain au chocolat in Paris; she wanted to eat in a sushi bar in Tokyo and a trattoria in Tuscany; to eat paella in Madrid and green papaya salad in Thailand; shaved ice in Hawaii and French toast in Hong Kong; she wanted to encourage, in Beatrice, a love of food, of taste, of all the good things in the world. And she'd ended up married to a man who'd once told her that his idea of hell was a nine-course tasting menu.

Chef had made paella, studded with linguica and chunks of lobster meat and fresh clams,

The first one is paella-style takikiomi gohan rice ball. You chop up white meat fish, clams, shrimp and squid and fry them in olive oil with garlic and saffron. And in a different pan, you fry finely chopped tomatoes, onions and green pepper in olive oil. You mix those two together and cook them with rice using a broth made from beef shank and chicken bones. Then you make that into a rice ball... ... and wrap it in Parma ham." "Oh my! It sure is something to make a paella-style takikomi gohan into a rice ball." "But when it's wrapped in Parma ham, they match perfectly." "It's completely Western, but it still tastes like a rice ball." "This is a surprise. And the judges seem to like it too." "Next is a rice ball coated in pork flakes. This is a pork flake you often see in Chinese cooking. You cook the lean pork meat in soy sauce seasoned with star anise until it becomes flaky. The filling inside is Dongpo pork--- a Chinese dish made of pork belly that's been slowly braised." "Ooh, the soft Dongpo pork came out as I bit into the rice coated in the sweet and salty pork flakes!" "Ah, the flavor and texture are superb!" "This combination is just wonderful! " "You've made Dongpo pork into such a great rice ball, it's making me cry. It looks Chinese, but it's very much a Japanese rice ball." "Now the judges are taking his side..." "And the last is a deep-fried chicken rice ball. You deep fry chicken that has been marinated in soy sauce with ginger and garlic... ...and then use that as the filling of the rice ball... ... then coat it in red shiso seasonings." "Ah, the rich taste of the deep-fried chicken is something the young people will like. And the red shiso seasoning creates a refreshing aftertaste.

She pressed for details, but Isabella returned with three platters piled high with paella, and the savory aromas roused his hunger. “If there is a Heaven—” Cameron pointed to the chicken-pancetta-mushroom paella, “— they serve this at every meal.”“If there’s a Hell, they serve all three, but only let you choose one.

As soon as we emerge from the tube and walk through the limestone archway on Borough High Street, we are bombarded by purveyors of everything from fresh vegetables and buttery pastries to goat's milk ice cream and soft, eggy strands of pasta. Hugh lets me wander up and down the aisles, and I stop to watch one vendor stir a three-foot-wide paella pan, offering up piping hot bowls of tender prawns and rice to a throng of hungry customers.

I swooned quietly with my first bite. The dish sang with the flavors of Spain and was packed with chunks of browned rabbit, chorizo, and mussels. It was spectacular and camaraderie crushing. "Who made this? Who possibly had time for this?" I was talking through a mouthful of Arboro rice. "I made this once in culinary school and it took an entire day of my life that I'll never get back." "Reza made it." Carlo used an empty mussel shell to pluck the meat out from another shell. "He said he cooked it over an open fire with orange and pine branches for kindling." Carlo grinned at me, a dribble of olive oil snaking its way down his chin. "According to Reza, it's the pine cones, though, that really do the trick. I'm sure you discovered that yourself when you made it on the day you'll never get back." I nibbled on a cut of caramelized chorizo but didn't have the chance to reply.

De diez a una, baño en Ses Illetes. A las dos, paella en el restaurante del Cap de Barbaria. A las siete, al faro de la Mola. Y por la noche unos dancings en el Blue Bar.

Aquella deixadesa institucionalitzada era la bandera de les classes populars, la seua absència de gust pel debat, la criminalització de tot discurs crític i intel·lectual. Aquella aversió no permetia aprofundir ni per descomptat alimentar detalls metafísics que sostingueren la ciutat en un nivell hermenèuticament superior. Tot pegava voltes als tòpics: l’himne, la paella, les falles, la ressaca del conflicte idiomàtic, la misèria moral que emanava de les restes del franquisme. La València literària era una mòmia dissecada, un manual de trinxeres. La il·lustració havia passat de puntetes per davant dels nostres nassos, deixant-nos una ciutat arrasada i servil que es delectava en el seu espill; una ciutat cegada per la llum, la força de les aparences, l’instint de felicitat gregària. Al final aplegava a una conclusió: aquella màscara era una altra variant suïcida de la melancolia.

In Valencia, when you catch snails for your paella, you feed them rosemary for a few days, both to purge them and to give them flavor.

El revoltijo de rostros genera una paella de sensaciones nauseabundas

By the time Lillian had turned twelve ears old, cooking had become her family. It had taught her lessons usually imparted by parents- economy from a limp head of celery left too long in the hydrator, perseverance from the whipping of heavy cream, the power of memories from oregano, whose flavor only grew stronger as it dried. Her love of new ingredients had brought her to Abuelita, the owner of the local Mexican grocery store, who introduced her to avocados and cilantro, and taught her the magic of matching ingredients with personalities to change a person's mood or a life. But the day when twelve-year-old Lillian had handed her mother an apple- fresh-picked from the orchard down the road on an afternoon when Indian summer gave over to autumn- and Lillian's mother had finally looked up from the book she was reading, food achieved a status for Lillian that was almost mystical. "Look how you've grown," Lillian's mother had said, and life had started all over again. There was conversation at dinner, someone else's hand on the brush as it ran through her hair at night. A trip to New York, where they had discovered a secret fondue restaurant, hidden behind wooden shutters during the day, open by candlelight at night. Excursions to farmers' markets and bakeries and a shop that made its own cheese, stretching and pulling the mozzarella like taffy. Finally, Lillian felt like she was cooking for a mother who was paying attention, and she played in an open field of pearl couscous and Thai basil, paella and spanakopita and eggplant Parmesan.

By the time Lillian had turned twelve years old, cooking had become her family. It had taught her lessons usually imparted by parents- economy from a limp head of celery left too long in the hydrator, perseverance from the whipping of heavy cream, the power of memories from oregano, whose flavor only grew stronger as it dried. Her love of new ingredients had brought her to Abuelita, the owner of the local Mexican grocery store, who introduced her to avocados and cilantro, and taught her the magic of matching ingredients with personalities to change a person's mood or a life. But the day when twelve-year-old Lillian had handed her mother an apple- fresh-picked from the orchard down the road on an afternoon when Indian summer gave over to autumn- and Lillian's mother had finally looked up from the book she was reading, food achieved a status for Lillian that was almost mystical. "Look how you've grown," Lillian's mother had said, and life had started all over again. There was conversation at dinner, someone else's hand on the brush as it ran through her hair at night. A trip to New York, where they had discovered a secret fondue restaurant, hidden behind wooden shutters during the day, open by candlelight at night. Excursions to farmers' markets and bakeries and a shop that made its own cheese, stretching and pulling the mozzarella like taffy. Finally, Lillian felt like she was cooking for a mother who was paying attention, and she played in an open field of pearl couscous and Thai basil, paella and spanakopita and eggplant Parmesan.

SHRIMP PAELLA Serves 4 Prep time: 10 minutes Cook time: 25 minutes DAIRY-FREE | GLUTEN-FREE | QUICK & EASY Paella is the national dish of Spain. It usually consists of saffron-scented rice cooked with vegetables and topped with a mixture of seafood, sausage, and other meats. This simplified version includes shrimp and peas. A paella pan is the ideal cooking vessel, but a large cast-iron skillet is a fine substitute. 2 tablespoons olive oil 1 medium onion, diced 1 red bell pepper, diced 3 cloves garlic, minced Pinch of saffron (about 8 threads) ¼ teaspoon hot paprika 1 teaspoon salt ½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper 3 cups chicken broth, divided 1 cup short-grain white rice 1 pound peeled and deveined large shrimp 1 cup frozen peas, thawed 1. Heat the oil in a wide, heavy skillet set over medium heat. Add the onion and bell pepper and cook, stirring frequently, until the vegetables are softened, about 6 minutes. Add the garlic, saffron, paprika, salt, and pepper and stir to mix. Stir in 2½ cups of broth, and the rice. 2. Bring the mixture to a boil, then lower the heat to low, cover, and simmer until the rice is nearly cooked through, about 12 minutes. Scatter the shrimp and peas over the rice and add the remaining ½ cup of broth. Place the lid back on the skillet and cook for about 5 minutes more, until the shrimp are just cooked through. Serve immediately.

I realized boiling is called for only when cooking vegetables, grains, and pasta; reducing sauces; and hard-cooking eggs. I could bring everything else—and I mean everything—to a boil and then swiftly reduce it to a simmer to cook through, whether I was cooking over a live fire, on the stove, or in an oven. Since simmering water is gentler than boiling water, it won’t jostle delicate foods so much that they fall apart or agitate tougher foods so much that they overcook on the surface before cooking through completely. Beans. Braises. Paella. Jasmine Rice. Chicken Vindaloo. Pozole. Quinoa. Stews. Risotto. Chili. Béchamel sauce. Potato gratin. Tomato sauce. Chicken stock. Polenta. Oatmeal. Thai curry. It didn’t matter—this applied to everything cooked in liquid.

People forget that saffron is the backbone of a flower," he said, still sniffing. "They get so preoccupied with saffron's cost that they forget what saffron really is." "My boyfriend used to study crocuses in college," I said, unsure where the conversation was going, but determined to set it on stable ground. 'He harvested the strands for a pilot dining hall program, but gave me the best ones to cook with." "A match made in heaven." "Yeah," I said. "He's great..." But we weren't here to discuss my love life. What were we here to discuss? "And what did you make with the saffron?" Michael Saltz asked. "My specialty is a rice stew with ginger and flounder." He had brought the conversation back to food and I felt more at ease. "Like a paella?" "No, not like a paella. I don't use shellfish, because..." "Oh, right, allergic! Yes, how could I forget?" He had an excellent memory. Or maybe just for me. "It has an Asian flair," I continued. "The saffron adds a taste of the sun. You have the pillowy sea element of the flounder and the earthiness of the rice, and I think the farminess of the saffron- that rustic, rough flavor- brings the dish together.