Tengo jambre

There aren't many things that the UK does better than anyone else.

Carriage return, begin next paragraph. Think for a moment. Backspace. Type more.

There aren't many things that the UK does better than anyone else that you'd miss.

Nod to self. Continue.

The only sports the UK excels at are the ones that no-one else understands, such as snooker and apologising. Any products I really miss (oh Jaffa Cakes, where art thou?) can be ordered over the internet.

However, having said all that, and all that being true, I still head in one direction when I go home. It's what keeps bringing me back. The true spirit of the UK.

British Bulldog? You were neutered months ago. Vera Lynn? Kiss my arse. There's only one thing the UK does best and wherever I may wander, I don't wonder where I am when I step into a proper supermarket.

I, Andrew, take you, the British supermarket, to be my perfect partner for life, to shop and to feed myself from this day forward, from the frozen food aisle to the bakery, in the pharmacy or in the magazine section, till Sunday opening hours do us part. Do I have a loyalty card?? I'm going to get a flipping tattoo. Wife, thy name is Tesco. Let's never fight again.

I don't care how big French hypermarkets are or what you can get down the mall these days. You go anywhere outside Britain and try and find curry powder and lemongrass, Japanese noodles and fresh jam doughnuts, dragonfruit and sweet chilli sauce in the same store anywhere else in the world.

Which, naturally enough, brings us back here, to the land of shops that over-specialise and the only fruit available in supermarkets is the leftovers. Where in other countries, the microwave is the savour of many a hopeless teenager, here they are left to scavenge for themselves, or just forced to learn how to cook. Given that children here don't leave home until the age of 57 anyway, at least they've got plenty of time for lessons.

Spain is what Findus calls 'a growing market'. If you're lucky, a reasonable sized supermarket will have two freezer cabinets with the total capacity of a small video cassette player. If you're even luckier, you might find something edible in them; it will come as no surprise to hear that what looks like a nutritious frozen seafood paella on the box may not be as good for the digestion as, say, the box itself.

What Spain specialises in, however, is fantastic ingredients, which is all well and good but I'm a self-confessed kitchenphobic. There are silver objects in there that I couldn't begin to guess a use for. For all I know, Osama Bin Laden could be hiding in my spice rack. Al dente? It's a foreign language to me.

However. But. Although. Having said all that. Nevertheless. Despite which. Essentially, do not despair, oh Mother of mine. For maybe I won't starve after all.

When I was young, our school showed us a ten minute cartoon about nutrition. Calcium marched in and gave the teeth and bones a thorough work out; vitamin C battled colds at swordpoint, while Vitamin b5 was in a passionate embrace with a loaf of bread. And, looking benignly down over all of this, was protein. Protein was big. Protein was important for everything. Protein was the general panacea, the all-dancing wonderdog. It was, quite simply, 'good shit'.

Which is great news for me. Since I arrived, I've been mainlining protein and my taste buds feel like they'll live forever. Yes, I'd trade in a whole branch of Sainsbury's for just one decent Spanish charcuter�a.

If ever you need evidence that both Jews and Muslims are barking up the wrong bonsai, I present to you with the humble charcuter�a. If this is temptation then succumbing was never such fun. If this is the food of the gods, they can wait in line like everyone else. If music be the food of love, I'm marrying a singing sow. Two legs good; four trotters better. In short, pass the pigs - I'm getting peckish.

Just as with Kobe beef in Japan (the ones where the cows sit in slings all their lives, are fed pints of Guinness and are massaged daily to give them an incredible flavour - currently high on my list of "Things I'd like to come back as"), pigs here are respected, nurtured and kept safe and warm by smiling farmers who hold cleavers behind their backs.

The whole country is devoted to the jumble Jamon. There are competitions held just in slicing it properly. Madrid has its own museum dedicated to the stuff. There was recently a scandal in Catalonia because a new pig farm was opened in an area which already had a contaminated water supply due to an excess of pig farm slurry. The local politician's argument against the protesters ran along the lines of 'yes, but it's a PIG farm' and most of them had to admit that he had a point.

In the area of Iberia, roughly in the middle space between Barcelona and Madrid, the tastiest pigs roam free, eating as many acorns as they can snuffle, and are then killed and carved into two sections: the legs, and the rest. 'The rest' becomes piquant salami and maybe the odd pork steak. But it's the legs that, in a collection of world delicacies, stand proud and alone.

In the UK, the word 'ham' means something pink, limp, square and containing more water than a cucumber. Here it means something rolled in salt, hung up for several months in a special type of shed where one in four is discarded, before being sent to bars, restaurants and shops to be similarly strung up all over Spain. I don't care what it might do to its psyche in later life - over the cot of my first child will be a fresh jamon, spinning like a mobile.

In the shops, if you can afford it, then the only choice is the Bellota, and if you're really pushing the boat out then go for a Pata Negra, aka black foot. At anything up to about �150 per kilo (more for the hardcore stuff), we're not talking luncheon meat. But oh, is it worth it. Once you've spotted the leg you're after (remember, more streaks of fat means a more succulent, subtle flavour), they'll carve it for you and then you rush home to eat it within the recommended ten minutes, when the flavours are at their peak. And oh.

There's nothing more to be said.

Just oh.

If you've ever tried it, you'll know what I mean. You also won't be able to see the screen through your fat tears of joy.

After building St Basil's Cathedral, the kindly Tsar of the age had the architect's eyes put out so that he could never build anything so beautiful again. Me, I'm ready for my hydrochloric mouthwash. I first tasted proper jamon two months ago and my taste buds haven't stopped tingling since. And, while you're in the charcuteria, why not go for a cheese sufficiently strong to melt glass? In the words of Columbus as he munched on his first french fry, it's all good. Oh so good.

So you can keep your ready meals and your lemongrass, your Tesco's Finest and your magazines with Delia. I don't know the meaning of life but, with every successive mouthful, I'm damn sure that I'm alive. My aura is buzzing on protein pills and I'm staying right here.

Posted by Andrew Losowsky at March 13, 2003 05:15 PM | TrackBack