I frikkin' love cosido.
It's kinda simple, really: boil beef, put it aside, boil the potatoes in the same pot, put 'em aside, boil the cabbage in the same pot, put 'em aside, boil the chickpeas, chorizos, jamon, etc. in the same manner, then throw them together and serve the soup separately. At least that's what my mum told me, I've no idea why you can't just cook 'em all together.
Either way, it's delicious. It looks spare now, but then you have all these condiments you're supposed to put on them:
Let's go through them one by one. Vinegar, rock salt or sea salt or salt with herbs, Worcestershire sauce, and finally, extra virgin olive oil. In that order.
This is what really makes the cosido special.
During family reunions, like over Christmas or New Year's for example, my grand uncles always fight over who makes better cosido. So my grand aunt prepares two giant (seriously, huge) clay pots of the stuff, and my late grand uncle Eddie (God rest his soul) and his brother Horacio each had their own pot to work on.
When they're done, us nephews and nieces have to taste a little from each and proclaim who made the better cosido.
We always end up quietly telling both grand uncles that, yes, tito, yours really is the best, I'm just eating the other one to be polite.
But really, they kind of tasted the same: really freaking good.
You know what I love about cosido? The crunchy cabbage. The soft potatoes that serve contrast to the savory beef chunks with just a hint of sourness from the vinegar. The chickpeas that split in your mouth and spread over your tongue. The salty jamon and chorizo. Savory, sweet, sour, salty, balanced, all together. A spoonful of a little of everything. That's the perfect spoonful.
And after we'd stuffed ourselves on cosido and bread, we'd sip at the piping hot superflavorful soup.
And then have bread pudding or halo-halo for dessert. But that's another story.
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