The Vermut Hour: How Spain Drinks Before Lunch, and How to Do It in Your Kitchen
At about one o'clock on a Sunday in Barcelona, a large part of the city stops what it is doing and goes to make vermouth. The Catalan phrase is fer el vermut, and it does not mean mixing anything. It means standing or sitting at a bodega, a corner bar or a friend's kitchen table with a short glass of red vermouth over ice, an orange slice, an olive on a stick, and a spread of small salty things, and staying there until lunch, which is at three. Nobody is in a hurry. That is the entire point.
The vermut hour is the most exportable ritual in Spanish food, because it requires no cooking, almost no equipment, and a pantry that fits in one cabinet: tins, olives, chips, a sharp sauce and a bottle of something cold. This guide explains where it came from, what is on the table, how the tins and olives are chosen, what to pour if you are not drinking, and how to run one at home in the time it takes to open the tins.
Where it came from
Vermouth is wine fortified with spirit and flavored with wormwood and a long list of botanicals, and it was born as a commercial product in Turin in the 1780s. Spain adopted it enthusiastically in the nineteenth century, and Catalonia made it its own. The town of Reus, south of Barcelona, became a vermouth-producing center with dozens of houses, and the drink settled into a specific slot in the day: the hour before the big midday meal, when appetite needs waking and company needs gathering. The bitterness of the wormwood is functional. Vermouth is an aperitif in the literal sense, from the Latin for "to open."
The tradition faded in the 1990s and roared back in the 2010s, as young Barcelona rediscovered its grandparents' bodegas, and the old-fashioned vermuteria with marble tables, siphons and tins on the wall became the coolest place in the city. It is now a Sunday institution again from Bilbao to Madrid to Seville, each with a local accent.
What is in the glass
Red vermouth, over ice, with a slice of orange and a green olive, sometimes topped with a splash of soda from a siphon. That is the whole recipe. Bars pour from their own barrel, vermut de grifo, which is younger and sweeter than the bottled versions, and the proper accompaniment is a plate of chips and a dish of olives that arrive without being asked for. Sherry, particularly a cold fino or manzanilla, is the Andalusian alternative, and a small cold beer, a caña, is acceptable anywhere.
If you are not drinking, the tradition adapts more gracefully than most. The bitterness and the cold are what matter. A zero-proof aperitif over ice with orange, a sparkling tea in a short glass, or plain soda water with a squeeze of lemon and, if trace alcohol is acceptable, a dash of bitters, all do the job.
What is on the table
Olives. Always. The Spanish default is the small green Manzanilla, often stuffed with anchovy, and Espinaler's anchovy-stuffed olives are the version most Barcelona bars would recognize. Our olive guide covers the rest.
Chips. Thick, salty potato chips fried in olive oil, eaten by the handful. Torres, the Barcelona chip maker, is the standard, and the extra virgin olive oil chips and the Iberian ham chips are the two to open. Spaniards put a chip in their mouth with an olive. Try it.
Conservas. This is where the vermut hour becomes serious food. Tins of cockles, mussels in escabeche, razor clams, small sardines, tuna belly and anchovies are opened and eaten straight from the tin with a fork or on a chip, and the quality of the tin is the quality of the afternoon. Galician shellfish are the classics, and our guides to Conservas de Cambados and razor clams explain why. Portuguese sardines, like the ones in our José Gourmet guide, are equally welcome. Everything we carry is in the tinned fish collection.
The sauce. One bottle separates a Catalan vermut from an ordinary snack. Espinaler's sauce, a sharp, thin, paprika-and-vinegar dressing with a whisper of chile, has been made by the family since 1896 at their bar in Vilassar de Mar, up the coast from Barcelona, expressly to shake over tinned shellfish and chips. Shake a few drops onto a cockle, a mussel or a chip. It is the flavor of the whole tradition in one bottle, and it is why it belongs on the shelf.
Jamón and cheese. A few slices of jamón or a wedge of Manchego make the table more generous, but they are not required. The vermut hour is not a meal; lunch is coming.
Bread. A few slices of good bread rubbed with tomato and drizzled with olive oil, pa amb tomàquet, if you want one cooked thing on the table. It takes three minutes.
How to host one at home
Set the time. Sunday, one o'clock, or Saturday at six if lunch does not suit. Tell people it ends when lunch begins and that they are staying for lunch, or that it ends at three and they are not. Both are correct.
Chill everything. Vermouth, sherry, sparkling tea and soda all go in the refrigerator the night before. Fill a bowl with ice. Put out short glasses, not wine glasses; the vermut is a tumbler drink.
Open the tins at the table, not in the kitchen. Two or three tins for four people is right: one shellfish, one sardine or mackerel, one anchovy. Put the tins on small plates with forks and lemon wedges and the Espinaler bottle. Put out the olives in a bowl with a saucer for pits, the chips in a bowl, the bread on a board. Do not plate anything.
Pour. Red vermouth over ice, orange slice, olive on a pick, a splash of soda if you like it lighter. Sit down. The host's job is done. Our dinner-party pantry guide covers what to keep on hand so that this can happen on a whim, which is how it should happen.
The etiquette
Eat from the tin. Share everything. Take one olive and one chip at a time. Do not ask what is in the sauce. Order another round if the conversation is good, and it usually is. If someone brings a better tin than yours, open theirs next.
Everything for a vermut hour, tins, olives, chips, sauce, jamón and the zero-proof alternatives, is at 263 Josephine Street in Cherry Creek, Denver, and ships nationwide from theambrosianpantry.com. Sunday at one. You know where you'll be.
