For the uninitiated traveler, finding the best of what Spain's tapas bars have to offer takes some doing. Not so at Seville's popular Bodeguita Romero, where everyone knows you get the pringa.
'blood sausage' on Serious Eats
The last time I made blood sausage, I stood by myself in my kitchen with one hand ladling a creamy blood mixture into casings supported by the other hand, thinking, why I am lading blood into intestines at two in the morning? Blood sausage—with its pudding-like texture of blood and fat, creamy in the center and crispy when browned in fat—is well worth the trouble if you can procure fresh blood.
Though you can cook the links whole, cutting them into sections exposes more surface area to be fried in oil. To do so, simply cut the links into sections and brown on both sides for a minute or so over low heat, until the surface of the blood sausage takes on a crusty texture from the oil.
There hasn't been much discussion of blood on this column because it's just so hard to find a reliable source for fresh blood. But then it occurred to me that blood sausage might be a good thing to discuss. Making it delicious requires very little work: just brown the sausage in a pan and serve it with potatoes, apples, or anything that complements the slightly liverish, iron-rich taste of blood.
Rotwurst, which translates as "red sausage," is one of many types of blutwurst (blood sausage) in Germany. It's made mostly from pork blood, rind, some liver, speck and grütze (groats) spiced with cloves, marjoram, thyme and cinnamon. The delicate taste might actually surprise you. There's a slight touch of metallic blood flavor, sure, but it's nicely complemented by the spices, especially the underlying cinnamon.
The English breakfast is a massive undertaking. While its exact composition varies across the British Isles, ordering a full fry-up will get usually you bacon, eggs, sausages, potatoes, baked beans, mushrooms, tomato, and toast, at a minimum. And on this piled-high plate sits the brekker’s most notorious member—thick slices of black pudding. Translation? Blood sausage. Good morning, indeed. I’d lived in London for several months before I first tasted black pudding. The idea of blood sausage had never appealed to me, and since I cooked for myself in my little flat kitchen, I hadn’t yet confronted the full-on breakfast. Until I visited an Irish friend, that is. He opened his refrigerator one morning to find it nearly empty. “All...