A Report From Wine Explorer Diego Samper – A Paella Recipe That Survived Disasters
Paris, France
Dear Wine Explorer,
The paellera only came out for one thing. When my dad pulled that wide, shallow pan from the garage, we knew the house would soon fill with people, smoke, and chaos.
I didn’t expect so many of you to ask for the recipe. But wine and food always go together—especially when both demand respect for craft.
This is my paella recipe—the one I grew up with. Like a great vintage, it developed over time. Each iteration taught us something about heat, timing, and the alchemy that happens when simple ingredients meet fire and patience.
In our wine club, we curate bottles made by hands, not machines. Paella follows the same philosophy—just in a pan.
We weren’t near the coast. The dish became our terroir: suburban backyard, wood smoke, whatever the market had that day. Modest. Nothing flashy.
Just the backyard and the BBQ. Doctors. Artists. Family friends. The doorbell would ring. By the time the fire was ready, the yard was full of voices and laughter, children playing while the adults gathered near the flames.
My dad lit the fire and watched it like one of his patients—calm, focused, precise. He liked the beginning. The heat rising. The meat searing. The first curl of smoke from the wood.
Until the clouds rolled in.
I remember the times it got rained out. This was the only time they’d improvise—the only time. Everything else was planned, measured, ready. But when nature interfered with the fire—the heart of everything—all bets were off.
Someone would sit under an umbrella, especially during the final crucial minutes when the socarrat was forming. If the wind picked up too, forget it.
Sometimes they’d surrender completely and rush the whole pan inside, trying to finish it across three kitchen burners at once, frantically adjusting flames to keep it even.
My dad cursing at the sky. My mom directing traffic in the kitchen. Pure chaos.
Not ideal. But they learned to make it work. The only exception to the rule.
Inside, my mom prepped—shrimp, broth, vegetables. Quiet focus. No wasted motion. She knew that once the rice hit the pan and the broth followed, everything changed. The fire had to be just right. High at the start, low by the end.
She had everything ready.
Download the complete family paella recipe and step-by-step instructions here →
Dad always started with the meat—chicken, pork, chorizo in pieces. The seafood would come later—shrimp or squid, langostinos if the price was right.
But meat came first. A surf-and-turf paella—because why not?
I’d watch him work… the sizzle, the careful browning.
If you stood close enough, he’d flick you a little piece of chorizo to try. That would buy you time if lunch was taking too long.
My mom would say, “un puñado de camarones por persona”—a handful of shrimp per person. Then came green beans. A sweet pepper. Always onion. Always garlic.
And the saffron. Real saffron. Just a pinch, bloomed in warm broth. It’s expensive—not because it’s rare, but because it’s work.
Mom made the stock earlier—the most important part. She’d ask the butcher for bones, the fishmonger for shrimp shells. Nothing went to waste. A good broth sets the tone.
Then came the rice. Short-grain. Bomba, when they could find it. I watched them spread it across the pan, mix it gently with everything else. Then the hot broth went in. Steam rose. The real waiting began.
This is knowledge that lives in your hands, not in your phone.
Mom and Dad with one of their creations
They’d stir once. Then step back. Let the rice figure it out.
Refill your wine glass.
Don’t wander too far. Glass in hand. Maybe a splash in the pan if no one’s looking. Like W.C. Fields said: “I cook with wine. Sometimes I even add it to the food.”
While cooking, they’d open something crisp and bright—a Sancerre or Vermentino. Wine that wouldn’t compete with the building flavors.
The waiting. The watching. Dad adjusting the flame. Mom tasting the broth. And then—the socarrat. The bottom would crisp slightly at the end. The golden crust that gives you crunch, depth, and proof you were paying attention.
And if you burn it a little? That’s fine. We’ve all burned a few. You’ll learn—just serve from the top next time.
When the socarrat formed and they called everyone to the table, out came the reserves. Bold reds that could stand up to saffron and smoke. Malbec. Cabernet. The kind of wines you save for moments that matter.
Just before serving: a few olives for decoration—never too many.
This wasn’t just a recipe. It was resistance—against rushing, against shortcuts, against letting machines choose for us. Fire. Patience. Whatever was on hand.
People lingered. Talked. Laughed. Another glass poured. Maybe one more olive.
These recipes weren’t just shared. They were lived.
Whether it’s grapes or rice, some things are worth doing by hand.
Let me know how yours turns out…
Write me: explorers@bonnerprivatewines.com
And after all this? A siesta.
Salud,
Diego Samper
Bonner Private Wines
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