The croqueta, Spain's elegant answer to the French croquette, reaches perfection in the hands of the housewives of Andalucía. The cooks of Andalucía, says the rest of Spain, fry like a dream. Nowhere else is seafood frittered so exquisitely, and nowhere in the whole peninsula does the croqueta -- a little bolster of flavored béchamel encased in a crisp jacket of finely grated bread crumbs -- reach so marvelous a balance of softness and crunchiness.

As with so many of what were called "made" dishes -- assemblies of ready-cooked foodstuffs -- croquetas are a way of making the most of small amounts of something good. This might be a handful of shrimp or wild-gathered mushrooms, leftover chicken or fish, dried-out bits of cheese or the last of the scraps from the serrano ham bone. The base is a white sauce, known by its French name, béchamel. As with so many labor-intensive little preparations made with cheap ingredients, croquetas are a staple of the tapas bar and one of the ways in which home cooks can demonstrate their skill without the need to purchase expensive ingredients. In the white-washed pueblos of Andalucía (or Andalusia), croquetas are the first thing a child learns to make at mother's knee -- or granny's, since the older generation has more time to teach the young.

The softer the filling, the harder it is to work, the greater the skill required to produce a perfect result. Degrees of softness are achieved by beating more or less liquid into a flour-and-fat roux when making the basic béchamel to which small amounts of flavoring -- grated cheese, scraps of serrano ham, parsley, diced mushrooms -- are added.

The croqueta as poor-folks food is hard to explain, since the béchamel is undeniably French (Spanish cooks are not much enamored of sauces, preferring their food to taste of itself), and the moistening liquid usually recommended is milk, even in Andalucía where fresh milk, a luxury import from the north -- traditionally Asturias -- has only been widely available since village shops acquired refrigerators (within the last 20 years).

The explanation for a recipe that seems entirely out of context might be found a few centuries ago when Spain was politically attached to the Low Countries under the rule of Holy Roman Emperor. Culinary tradeoffs came from both directions. Dutch folklore explains the origin of Holland's beef-stew, the hutzpot, as Spanish, and you'll find kroketten -- larger than Spain's croqueta but made to the same béchamel-based recipe -- sold hot from vending-machines on the streets of Amsterdam.

I acquired my own croqueta-making skills from my neighbors in the remote Andalucían valley where I lived and brought up my young family. As far as I knew then -- my experience included Madrid and the North -- the recipe was pretty much the same all over Spain. Until, that is, a few weeks ago when, while hosting a cooking-week in Gaucín, a white-washed village between Gibraltar and the mountain town of Ronda, I encountered a very different version.

In the old days, Ronda was a summer resort for English naval officers stationed in Gibraltar who made the two-day journey from the coast on horseback. Their staging-post was Gaucín, where the Posada Ingles, English post-house, earned its nickname as a place where a man might rest, sleep and eat. Which might explain why the croquetas of Gaucín are actually the English rissole, bread-crumbed patties made with minced or pounded leftovers from the Sunday roast moistened with the meat's own gravy, as recommended in every Victorian household manual including Mrs. Beeton's. The visitors' book (now vanished, though the Posada itself is up for sale) is full of 19th century complaints about the bed-bugs while recommending the cooking. Meanwhile, the spirit of Englishness lives on in these excellent little mouthfuls.

Chicken and Ham Croquetas

A well-stewed boiling fowl has the best flavor for a croqueta, say the cooks of Gaucín, but leftover roast chicken will do. The meat can be beef, lamb or pork, but it must be thoroughly minced.

Makes about 2 dozen croquetas.

For the filling

For the coating

1. Heat the oil in a large skillet or frying-pan. When it's hot, add the diced onion and fry gently till soft but not golden. Add the finely-chopped chicken and ham, and enough broth or milk to just cover the contents of the pan. Reheat and bubble up for a minute or two. Stir in enough flour to take up the juices and form a thick paste. Turn the paste over the heat with a wooden spoon till it no longer sticks to the sides of the pan (this makes sure the filling won't taste of raw flour). Season with nutmeg, salt and freshly-milled pepper. Transfer to a plate and wait till just cool enough to handle.
2. Dampen your hands in warm water. Pick up nuggets of paste about the size of a quail's egg and roll first into a ball and then into short stubby fingers. Pass this through the egg wash and then roll through the breadcrumbs. Transfer to a plate. Continue until all are done.
3. Heat two-fingers' depth of oil in a frying pan. When the oil hits optimal frying temperature, it will shimmer and take on a blue sheen. Slip in the croquettes a few at a time --- not too many or the oil temperature will drop. Fry them crisp and golden brown. Transfer to kitchen paper to drain and serve hot.

Elisabeth Luard is a British food writer, journalist and broadcaster specializing in the traditional cooking of Europe and Latin America placed in its social, geographical and historical context.

Image: Watercolor of Gaucín. Credit: Elisabeth Luard

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