Spanish Road Trip ii: Bodega El Capricho, Jiménez de Jamuz, León

They bring their pick of the day for us to inspect: a huge chuleton, some three and a half pounds of meat from a Portuguese Barrosã, breed similar to the Galician Blonde, an older animal whose meat has been aged for 6 months in the cool dark of the caves. The thick fat is the deep gold of grass-fed cattle, the marbling rich, a crazy paving of slowly laid-down fat: a different proposition entirely from the meat at your supermarket, where the animal has been accelerated to slaughter weight on a high-calorie diet. Long days of dry aging have driven off much of the water content, intensifying the mineral flavours, the pattern of intramuscular fat revealing the slow pace at which the animal grew.

A carpaccio of 180 day-old beef is laid on a slate, sprinkled with large crystals of sea salt and olive oil. They present the first pieces twirled delicately around the tines of a fork, and it’s soon clear why: the fat melts with your heat.

Be patient. Just slip it into your mouth. Despacito. Despacito. Slowly. Don’t rush this, because you may not get another chance. Never mind that hackneyed, ‘melt in the mouth’ beloved of every : just brush it against your lips and feel the fat which dissolve instantly, before it even reaches the warmth of your tongue. Let the rich beef fat coat your lips- it happens in a moment, a light slick of silk preparing you for what is to come, before the delicate depth of the stuff hits you and lingers even as you lick it away. It’s a sensualist’s dream: something you recognise from the finest jamón ibérico de bellota; but from beef…?  You don’t expect ‘delicate’ from The very name connotes heft, muscularity, solidity.  Beefed-up security. Beefy shoulders. So: sit back: drink it all in. Resistance is useless: submission the only option. You may find yourself grinning at the sheer good fortune which brings you to this place. This table. This moment.

And breathe.

The cecina (air-dried beef) is truly something to savour. It’s presented like the ruby petals of some exotic bloom, sliced so thinly the striations of fat make it translucent, delicate yet profoundly rich.

And here is where we came in. David’s hands mimic the opening of theatre curtains; a broadening vista of flavours, as he sets down the tartare. This is as basic as it gets, this majestic meat in its purest form.  Simple, yet rich: layered, luscious, a beefy satin spread,  served with minced chillies, both local and Peruvian, on the side. A heavy rustic sourdough- no flouncy nonsense here- in trencherman slices provides the bite for meat which is as tender as that first kiss under a canopy of stars as the mists roll in.
With no natural light- you are underground, after all- sconces provide the only relief.  The tiny alcoves seem their own little islands in the gloom, which creates a sense of separation, of concentration on your place alone.On the side, a salad of the huge locally-grown tomatoes- firm, bulky, almost meaty- thickly sliced, dressed simply with virgin olive oil, a scattering of sea salt, and perfumed with the local oregano. It’s as uncomplicated as it gets, but carefully assembled: almost a meal in itself. A thing of simple beauty.

Roasted bone marrow is heavily seasoned and dressed with pink grapefruit, the pungent pepper and bright burst of citrus acidity cutting through that intense, buttery richness. It makes me wonder why I haven’t had it like this before. It’s seductive stuff, another step on a journey which is nearing its climax.Then? The beef. The beef  ‘proper’. All of this, of course has just an expertly prolonged tease, foreplay designed to deliver you panting to the act itself.  The consummation. The wooden trolley arrives.  The meat looks beautiful. Typically, I’d be yearning for some glossy béarnaise, but this stuff is too good to add to. It needs to be experienced for what it is, with no distractions.

The chuleton has been maturing for 140 days in those cold rooms which dot the area. We are presented with different muscles on plate, each one sliced differently from the last; and the recommendation-instruction that we eat each with the fat. Those prissy souls- you know the type, that judgemental excision, those lips pursed like a cat’s anus as they trim every last seam of visible fat from their meat- would be well advised to avoid El Capricho, where they rub that rich yellow fat over your plate before serving the meat.

The taste is remarkable for its deep mineral ‘length’, which stays with you between bites; roll the flavours around your mouth like a bold red. This is flavour with a duration and depth which demands to be savoured. There’s something of blue cheese funk in meat that has been carefully cared for, so that it arrives at this point in the optimum condition with deep reserves of umami. Yes, there are more tender cuts: but if that was the sole criterion you’d always order fillet instead of ribeye, and no one needs that. This is beef with legs.It partners beautifully with a 2005 Vina Rioja- nothing adventurous, just the classic companion to this supreme beef, and recommended with fatty (for which read: flavour-packed) meat.

A green apple sorbet is tartly refreshing after that huge meaty payload, the candied hazelnuts and diced apple lightening the load, so to speak. Not that this course is a radical break with precedent: that’s ox fat in the biscuit dough.