I landed in Barcelona with calloused hands and a sushi knife wrapped in cloth—tools of a Japanese kitchen that had taught me to listen to fish. Spain felt like a cousin I’d never met: a country where people gather around small plates the way my friends back home gather around a sushi counter—leaning in, curious, hungry for the next bite. I came to chase one dish, Pulpo a la Gallega—octopus, potatoes, olive oil, paprika, and salt—but Spain fed me a whole new vocabulary first.
Barcelona: Tapas as a New Tempo
Barcelona moves to a rhythm I recognized—market to table—yet it speaks in fire and smoke more than rice and vinegar.
- La Boqueria strolls: I watched glistening sardines and monkfish heads stacked like a quiet choir. At a counter I ate boquerones en vinagre, the acid so clean it cut through jet lag.
- Pa amb tomàquet: bread, ripe tomato, olive oil, salt. It’s simplicity with swagger; the kind of restraint every sushi chef respects.
- Bomba de la Barceloneta: a deep-fried potato-and-meat orb with a spicy sauce that reminded me of the controlled burn we seek with wasabi—heat that lifts, not bludgeons.
- Escalivada & romesco: smoky ribbons of pepper and eggplant, almond-thick romesco—textures I don’t see in sashimi, but I loved how the nuts played like a second bass line.
- Esqueixada de bacallà: shredded salt cod with onion and tomato—salt-managed fish, not unlike our shiromi cured lightly with kombu.
- Botifarra & white beans: pork and legume comfort, a lesson in fat as seasoning.
- Crema catalana: citrus-zested custard under glassy caramel, the crack like breaking through thin ice.
Every plate rewired what I listen for: smoke instead of seaweed, paprika instead of wasabi, olive oil instead of shoyu. And it primed me for Madrid.
Madrid: Heat, Brass, and Late-Night Salt
Madrid taught me to respect the griddle’s authority.
- Bocadillo de calamares: rings, crisp and honest, in bread that didn’t apologize.
- Patatas bravas (the Madrid way): fried potato architecture with a vermillion brava sauce and garlicky alioli—balance by contrast.
- Tortilla de patatas: barely set center, a kind of omelet custard; I thought of tamagoyaki and smiled.
- Callos a la madrileña: tripe stew with paprika and chorizo—collagen and spice in a handshake.
- Cocido madrileño: a procession of broth, noodles, then chickpeas and meats; a meal that teaches patience.
- Oreja a la plancha & torreznos: textures that demand confidence with heat.
- Churros con chocolate: thick, almost spoon-standing chocolate; a sweetness that punctuates the night like a cymbal.
Tapas in Barcelona felt coastal and bright; Madrid felt grounded, iron-pan sure. Both cities made me ready for Galicia, where Spain whispers back to the sea—and where octopus becomes a sermon.
A Short History of Pulpo a la Gallega (Pulpo á Feira)
Pulpo a la Gallega—literally “Galician-style octopus,” often called pulpo á feira (“fair-style octopus”)—is a dish born of markets and pilgrim roads. In inland Galician towns and along routes feeding into Santiago de Compostela, pulpeiras (octopus cooks, often women) simmered whole octopus in large, often copper cauldrons, then sheared the tentacles with scissors onto wooden plates, crowning them with coarse salt, pimentón (sweet and/or hot paprika), and good olive oil. Slices rested on a bed of cachelos, local boiled potatoes, which drank the paprika-stained oil like they’d been waiting all day.
Its genius is its humility: no lemon, no garlic, no theatrics—just tenderness, seasoning, and the warmth of wood under the bite. The dish traveled from fairs and village markets to taverns and then to the world, but it never lost its four-beat rhythm: octopus, potato, oil, paprika.
Listening to Octopus: A Sushi Chef’s Translation
In Japan, we tenderize tako by massaging with salt (sometimes grated daikon), and we value the line between bounce and silk. In Galicia, cooks “asustan” the octopus—dipping it into boiling water three times to make the skin set and the flesh relax—then simmer until the thickest point accepts a skewer with gentle resistance. Both traditions ask the same question: How do you keep character without keeping chewiness?
Two more truths carry across oceans:
- Cold is a tenderizer. Freezing breaks down fiber; many of the best pulpos are frozen-then-thawed before cooking.
- Time is seasoning. Letting octopus rest in its hot liquor briefly after cooking evens out texture the way we rest rice after seasoning.
Pulpo a la Gallega: Complete Step-by-Step Recipe (Serves 4)
Time: ~1 hour active (plus thawing if frozen)
Difficulty: Moderate (technique > tools)
Ingredients
- Octopus: 1 whole, 1.5–2.0 kg (3.3–4.4 lb), cleaned
- Prefer previously frozen (or freeze fresh 24–48 hours, then thaw in the fridge)
- Potatoes (cachelos style): 800 g–1 kg (1.75–2.2 lb), waxy (Yukon Gold or similar)
- Bay leaves: 2–3
- Extra-virgin olive oil: 60–80 ml (4–5 Tbsp), more to taste
- Paprika: 2–3 tsp total
- ideally a mix of pimentón dulce (sweet) and pimentón picante (hot); smoked (de la Vera) optional for depth
- Coarse sea salt (for finishing)
- Optional broth aromatics: ½ onion and a small piece of celery or leek (keep it minimal)
Note: Don’t salt the octopus’ cooking water; season on the plate. Salt during simmering can tighten the outer layer.
Equipment
- Large stockpot (at least 8–10 liters)
- Tongs
- Kitchen shears (for authentic slicing) or a sharp knife
- Wooden plates or boards (traditional; they help absorb surface moisture and keep texture)
Method
- Prep the Octopus (10 min)
- If not already cleaned, remove the beak and eyes. Rinse well, especially the head sac.
- Pat dry. If fresh (never frozen), freeze 24–48 hours and thaw to help tenderize.
- Heat the Pot (10 min)
- Bring a large pot of unsalted water to a rolling boil with 2 bay leaves (and optional onion/celery for a light broth).
- “Asustar” the Octopus (1–2 min)
- Grasp the head, dip the tentacles into the boiling water for 3–5 seconds, lift out; repeat three times. You’ll see the tentacles curl and the skin set—like blanching kombu to lock color and texture.
- Gentle Simmer (35–50 min)
- Submerge the octopus completely. Reduce to a gentle simmer—not a boil.
- Cook 35–45 minutes for a 1.5–2 kg octopus, checking at 30 minutes.
- Test doneness by sliding a skewer into the thickest tentacle. It should enter with little resistance but not feel mushy.
- Rest in Liquor (10 min)
- Turn off heat and rest the octopus in its hot liquid for 10 minutes. This evens internal texture—like letting steak rest off the grill.
- Cook the Potatoes (while octopus rests)
- In a second pot, simmer potatoes in well-salted water with 1 bay leaf until just tender (15–20 minutes depending on size).
- Drain, peel while warm if skins are thick, and slice into 1–1.5 cm (½ in) rounds.
- Slice the Octopus (5 min)
- Lift the octopus out; let excess water drip off. Use kitchen shears to cut the tentacles into 1–1.5 cm (½ in) coins. Slice some head meat too—it’s tender and flavorful.
- Plate the Galician Way
- Arrange warm potato slices on a wooden plate.
- Scatter octopus coins over the potatoes.
- Season in this order: coarse sea salt → paprika (sweet, then a hint of hot) → a generous drizzle of olive oil.
- If using smoked paprika, go light; it should support, not dominate.
- Serve Immediately
- Eat warm, not hot. The olive oil should glisten; the paprika should bloom. Traditionally, no lemon—its acid can overshadow the oil-and-paprika perfume.
Technique Notes & Troubleshooting
- Too firm? Keep simmering in 5-minute increments; texture turns a corner suddenly. Vigorous boiling can toughen the exterior—keep it gentle.
- Skin sloughing off? The initial triple dip (asustar) helps set it. Avoid rough stirring.
- Flavor flat? Don’t be shy with salt and olive oil at plating; the potatoes absorb seasoning. A pinch of hot paprika lifts the finish.
- Make-ahead: You can cook and slice the octopus a few hours ahead; warm briefly in its liquor or in olive oil before plating.
Pairing
- Albariño or Godello from Galicia—bright acid, stone fruit, saline edge—are classic. Or pour a chilled txakoli if you like a little spritz.
Why It Works: From Tsukiji to the Dehesa (and Back to the Sea)
Pulpo a la Gallega whispers the same truths I learned breaking down fish at dawn markets in Tokyo:
- Respect the main ingredient. No mask, only frame.
- Season at the end. Let texture lead; finish with clarity.
- Honor temperature. Warm, not hot—like nigiri rice at body heat.
Spanish cooks listen to octopus the way a sushi chef listens to tuna. Different languages, same craft.
Tapas Notes from a First-Timer (Quick Guide)
If you’re following my trail:
- In Barcelona, hunt for pa amb tomàquet, bomba, esqueixada, escalivada, boquerones, botifarra, and finish with crema catalana.
- In Madrid, start with a bocadillo de calamares, then bravas, tortilla, callos, cocido, maybe oreja or torreznos, and end with churros con chocolate.
And when you reach Galicia—whether in a market stall or a tiny bar with wooden plates—order Pulpo a la Gallega. Eat slowly. Listen. The octopus will tell you when you’ve done it right.
