I landed in Madrid with a chef’s knife in my checked bag and my abuela’s voice in my head: “Si haces paella, hazla bien.” Make it right. I’m a young American chef with a Spanish last name, raised on stories of rice that tastes like the sun-licked fields around Valencia. This trip was my pilgrimage—eat my way across Spain, then end in Valencia to learn the one paella that rejects shortcuts: Paella Valenciana.
Madrid: Warming Up the Palate
Madrid wakes up late and eats long. I made my first stop at a small bar off Plaza Mayor for a bocadillo de calamares—squid rings, crisp as new bills, in good bread. At night I met a friend’s family for cocido madrileño, the city’s three-serve stew: soup first, noodles second, chickpeas and meats last. On another afternoon, I burned my fingers on churros dipped in chocolate thick enough to stand a spoon. It felt like stretching before a marathon.
The North: Salt, Smoke, and Sidra
San Sebastián is a culinary arcade. I popped through pintxo bars like levels in a game: gildas (anchovy–olive–pepper skewers), tortilla slices trembling in the middle, spider crab (txangurro), and charred txuleta steak with nothing but salt and truth. In Bilbao I slurped bacalao al pil-pil, the sauce emulsified by the cook’s wrist more than any blender could achieve.
West in Asturias, a sidrería poured sidra natural from arm’s height, giving the cider fizz and bite. I learned patience over fabada asturiana, a silken bean stew that tastes like a slow afternoon. In Cantabria, I met anchovies so clean and buttery they redefined “salty fish” for me.
Green Coasts and Riverlands
Galicia fed me pulpo a feira—octopus with smoky paprika—and empanada gallega cut in slabs like pie. I tried percebes (goose barnacles), which look like dinosaur toes and taste like ocean royalty. In La Rioja, patatas a la riojana (potatoes, chorizo, peppers) came with Tempranillo that smelled of black cherries and dust roads. Castile answered with cochinillo asado in Segovia, the skin crackling like glass; a wine from Ribera del Duero made everything quieter.
Eastward: Markets and Fire
Barcelona sharpened my produce instincts: pa amb tomàquet taught me to respect tomatoes and good bread; escalivada—smoky ribbons of peppers and eggplant—taught me to slow down. In Aragón, I ate ternasco asado (young lamb) and learned that rosemary is not garnish but doctrine.
Murcia gave me arroz caldero by the Mar Menor—rice built from fishermen’s broth—and salad moje with salt-cured cod that woke up every taste bud.
South: Sun and Acid
Andalucía cooks with light. Salmorejo in Córdoba—tomato, bread, olive oil, garlic—arrives cold and dense, topped with jamón and egg. In Cádiz, pescaíto frito came paper-coned and hot, eaten standing with the Atlantic breathing over my shoulder. I learned to sip fino and manzanilla like adults do: not for getting drunk, but for clarifying taste.
In Extremadura I spread Torta del Casar on bread and understood the word “ooze,” then I walked through dehesa dotted with holm oaks and pigs meant for future jamón ibérico.
Islands, Sweet Things, and Heat
The Balearics whispered breakfast: ensaïmada spirals so airy they almost apologize for the sugar. A friend passed me a slice of sobrassada—spreadable, paprika-rich—and my sandwich game leveled up. A quick hop to the Canaries introduced me to papas arrugadas con mojo, tiny potatoes in wrinkled jackets with bright red and green sauces, plus toasted gofio in desserts and stews.
Back on the mainland near Alicante, I cracked brittle sheets of turrón de Jijona and burned my tongue because patience is not my best quality.
Finally Valencia: The Rice I Came For
Valencia felt familiar before I had words. The market smelled of tomatoes that had a childhood, garrofó beans fat as coins, ferradura (flat green beans) that snapped like good decisions. At the Albufera lagoon, a cook showed me a paella pan blackened by a lifetime’s worth of Sundays and a wood fire fed by orange-tree trimmings. He made me promise: no peas, no chorizo, no seafood—not in Paella Valenciana. “There are many great arroces,” he said, “but only one Valenciana.”
A Short History of Paella Valenciana
Paella was born in the mid-19th century in the fields around Valencia, where rice from the Albufera met what farmers had on hand: rabbit, chicken, sometimes duck; garrofó and green beans; tomato, paprika, saffron, olive oil, water, and salt. It’s cooked wide and shallow so the rice absorbs flavor in a single layer—no lid, no stir, just evaporation and timing. The word paella originally referred to the pan (from Latin patella). The hallmark is socarrat, the caramelized layer where rice kisses the metal—never burnt, always toasted.
What Makes a True Paella Valenciana
- Protein: chicken + rabbit (optionally duck); sometimes snails in season.
- Vegetables & Legumes: ferradura (flat green beans), garrofó (large white butter beans).
- Aromatics: tomato, pimentón dulce (sweet paprika), saffron, rosemary.
- Rice: short-grain Spanish varieties (Bomba, Senia, Bahía).
- Heat: traditionally wood, but a strong, even burner works.
- Never in Valenciana: peas, chorizo, mussels, shrimp. (Delicious elsewhere, just not here.)
Complete Step-by-Step Recipe: Paella Valenciana (Serves 6)
Time: About 1 hour 20 minutes (20 min prep, ~60 min cooking)
Pan: 46–50 cm (18–20 in) paella pan
Heat: Paella burner, large gas burner, powerful grill, or wood fire
Ingredients
Meats
- 900 g (2 lb) chicken, bone-in thighs/drumsticks, cut into small chunks
- 600 g (1⅓ lb) rabbit, jointed, cut into small chunks (sub extra chicken if needed)
- Optional: 6–10 clean snails (caracoles) or a few small duck pieces
Vegetables & Legumes
- 200 g (7 oz) ferradura (flat green beans; sub romano beans), cut into 4–5 cm pieces
- 200 g (7 oz) garrofó (large white/butter/Lima beans), fresh or pre-cooked and rinsed
- 2 medium ripe tomatoes, grated (about 300 g / 1¼ cups)
- 2–3 garlic cloves, minced (optional but helpful if your tomatoes are mild)
Rice & Seasoning
- 540 g (about 2¾ cups) Bomba rice
- If using Senia/Bahía/Calasparra (non-Bomba), use 480 g / 2⅓ cups
- 1 Tbsp pimentón dulce (sweet paprika)
- A generous pinch (0.3 g) saffron threads
- 120 ml (½ cup) olive oil (extra virgin or good refined olive oil for high heat)
- 2–3 sprigs fresh rosemary
- Fine salt and freshly ground black pepper
Liquid
- For Bomba: ~2.8–3.0 L (12–12¾ cups) hot water or light poultry stock
- For Senia/Bahía/Calasparra: ~1.2–1.4 L (5–6 cups) hot liquid
- Ratios by volume: Bomba 3.5–4:1; Senia/Bahía ≈ 2.5:1. Always keep extra hot water on standby.
Optional, Seasonal (Valencian families do this in winter): 2–3 small artichokes, trimmed and quartered
Equipment
- Paella pan, long metal spoon, heatproof gloves, kettle of hot water/stock, paper towels
- If on wood: orange/lemon tree trimmings or hardwood; if on gas: even flame that reaches pan edges
Method
- Mise en Place
Warm your stock/water. Grate tomatoes; measure paprika and saffron. Cut meats into even pieces. Pat very dry and season all meat with salt and pepper. - Build the Foundation (High Heat)
Add olive oil to the paella pan over lively heat. When shimmering, salt the oil lightly (prevents sticking). Brown the chicken and rabbit thoroughly, 12–15 minutes total, turning until golden with crispy edges. Don’t rush; this is flavor. - Vegetables In
Push meat to the rim. Add the flat green beans (and artichokes if using) to the center. Sauté 2–3 minutes until glossy. Stir the meat back through. - Paprika & Tomato (Sofrito)
Create a small clearing in the center. Add paprika; stir 10 seconds to wake it up—don’t burn it. Immediately add grated tomato (and garlic if using). Cook, stirring, until the tomato thickens and the oil turns brick-red, 4–6 minutes. - Make the Broth In-Pan
Pour in hot water/stock to come nearly to the pan’s rivets (or about ¾ up the side). Crumble saffron between fingertips and add. Lay in the garrofó and snails (if using). Taste and salt assertively—the liquid should taste slightly saltier than you like, because rice will mellow it. Simmer 20–25 minutes to tenderize meat and legumes and to develop a deep, ruddy broth. Adjust heat to maintain a happy simmer; add hot water as needed to keep level. - Set the Rice (The Point of No Return)
Raise heat to bring liquid to a rolling boil. Sprinkle rice evenly across the pan in a thin, uniform layer—do not dump in one spot. Use the spoon once to level rice, nudging so kernels are evenly distributed. From here on, no stirring. - Cook the Rice (Two Speeds)
- Fast phase (High heat), 8–10 min: Bubbles should be lively; liquid reduces and rice begins to stand up.
- Gentle phase (Medium–low), 6–8 min: Lay rosemary sprigs on top. You want a steady tick-tick simmer; rotate the pan for even cooking. If using non-Bomba rice, this second phase is slightly shorter.
- Form the Socarrat (Final 60–90 seconds)
When liquid sits just below the surface and the sound shifts from bubbling to a faint crackle, raise heat for about a minute to toast the bottom. You’ll smell “toasty” not “burnt.” If unsure, test by nudging a spoon at the edge—you should feel gentle resistance and hear a whispery scratch. - Rest
Kill the heat. Remove rosemary. Cover the pan loosely with a clean towel or foil and rest 5–10 minutes. The surface will matte over; the rice finishes with its own steam. - Serve
Bring the pan to the table. Eat from the outer ring inward, scraping bottom bits with your spoon. Lemon wedges are acceptable; arguments about lemon are eternal.
Notes, Swaps & Truths
- Rice choice matters. Bomba is forgiving and drinks more liquid; Senia/Bahía deliver a creamier chew but require tighter timing.
- Beans: If you can’t find garrofó, use large Lima or butter beans. Ferradura ≈ romano or other flat green beans.
- No peas, no chorizo, no seafood—that’s another (excellent) rice dish, just not Valenciana.
- Heat source: Wood fire adds smoke and uneven heat, which is part of the charm; a strong ring burner is perfectly respectable.
- Salt boldly. Under-seasoned broth equals bland rice.
- Pan size guide: 34–36 cm (2–3 servings), 40 cm (4), 46–50 cm (6–8), 55–60 cm (10–12). Keep rice to a thin, single layer.
Aftertaste: What Spain Taught Me
Spain taught me that dishes aren’t recipes; they’re places. Paella Valenciana isn’t a pile of rice with “stuff.” It’s Albufera water, huerta vegetables, meat from land that raised you, and fire that needs watching. Everywhere I went—pintxos in the Basque Country, octopus in Galicia, salmorejo in Córdoba—people cooked what their place gave them. Valencia’s gift is rice and restraint.
I left with saffron threads in my pocket and a paella pan that won’t fit in any normal cabinet. When I cook this back home, I’ll hear that Valencian cook: no peas, no chorizo—just patience, good rice, and a little crackle at the end that says you did it right.
