Trace the journey of Spain's prized delicacy—jamón ibérico

I watch, tentatively at first, as the pigs lumber around us, their long, dark bristles glinting in the muted morning light. A low chorus of grunts rises and falls across the grassy plain as they press their black hooves into the damp earth. A few approach me with confident curiosity; others remain wholly unbothered by my presence, huddling in groups for warmth.

I’m standing with chef José Pizarro in a dehesa (meadow) near the small town of Higuera de la Sierra, within the Sierra de Aracena National Park. This mountain range near the Portuguese border is dense with woodland vegetation due to higher rainfall than other parts of Spain, and an early morning shower has left a light mist hanging over the shrub-dotted slopes. Wandering through fields framed by gnarled cork trees with scraped rust-coloured trunks, we cross paths with more free-roaming pigs eagerly foraging the season’s first acorns.

Indeed, these are no ordinary pigs. These acorn-munching, pure-bred black pigs — native to the Iberian Peninsula — have thrived in these Mediterranean woodlands for millennia. They’re used for jamón ibérico de bellota, a premium ‘black label’ grade of Spain’s most revered meat. A colour-coded labelling system introduced in 2014 distinguishes jamón ibérico based on breed purity and diet, demonstrating Spain’s determination to safeguard this gastronomic legacy.

The herd around us is being raised for Cinco Jotas, one of Spain’s oldest and most esteemed jamón ibérico de bellota producers — founded by entrepreneur Juan Rafael Sánchez Romero in 1879. Also with me is María Castro Bermúdez, one of the brand’s directors. “There’ll be a blanket of acorns here in a couple of weeks,” she says. “These pigs look for the biggest, sweetest ones. They’re picky!” Alongside acorns, the pigs graze on wild herbs, fruits and mushrooms, a woodland diet that infuses the ham with its prized, layered flavour.

I tasted that complexity the evening before, at the Cinco Jotas tapas bar in central Seville. Sitting outside amid the buzz of aperitivo hour, I found myself compulsively picking at slices that layered sweetness, tartness and nuttiness with bursts of umami, pausing only for sips of sherry. The crisp acidity of the wine — especially in drier styles such as fino — cuts through the jamón’s rich fat, spreading its flavours across the palate and making the pairing a long-standing favourite.

“The pigs have adapted to this hilly landscape with their long legs and thin ankles,” Maria says, pulling me back to the present. “Now it’s montanera season [the roaming period from October to March], they’ll walk around nine miles a day, compared to about four in summer.”

They also have a genetic ability to store more fat inside their muscles, and this exercise helps that fat infiltrate further, key to jamón ibérico’s distinctive taste. “Despite the walking, the pigs will double from around 198lb to 397lb over the next three months from acorn feasting,” Maria explains. Their acorn-heavy diet and natural fat composition result in lard high in oleic acid, the same heart-healthy fat found in olive oil, giving the ham its characteristic melt-in-the-mouth softness.

Masters of the slice

On the drive from the dehesa to Cinco Jotas, I begin to understand the intensive, time-honoured process behind jamón ibérico’s revered flavour. “It’s a minimum five-year cycle,” Maria tells me. “At least two years to raise the pigs, and three to cure the meat”

We make a pit stop in nearby Aracena, a picturesque town of cobbled alleys and whitewashed buildings with coral roofs. The town itself feels infused with the flavours of the region: characterful delis sell preserves made from the abundant mushroom harvest, local olive oil and, of course, jamón ibérico. There’s also a variety of historic confiterías (pastry shops) offering Andalusian specialties such as tocinillo de cielo (a decadent egg-yolk cake) and piononos (tiny rolled sponge cakes soaked in syrup and crowned with toasted cream). It’s a brief taste of the culinary world that frames the pigs’ habitat, and an experience that deepens once we arrive at Cinco Jotas’ cellars, where meat has been aged in the same way for almost 150 years. The facility lies about half an hour from the dehesa, in Jabugo, a town so synonymous with ibérico ham that its main square is named Plaza del Jamón.

Descending into the red brick cellars, I’m greeted by an intensely briny aroma, similar to bacon but sweeter and smokier with subtle woody notes. A canopy of dangling hams, each with a golden, waxy veneer, forms the ceiling of this vast subterranean network, the main artery of the Cinco Jotas operation. I notice a cluster marked for chef José Pizarro’s London restaurants. Jabugo’s altitude — 2,133 feet above sea level — provides the ideal microclimate for drying, with cool mountain winds slipping through the small cellar windows.

Here, cellar master and calador (professional ham sniffer) Valeriano Ramos, performs quality control tests. “I use all five senses,” he says, massaging a plump thigh before piercing it with a probe called a cala. He brings it to his nose, searching for subtle variations in aroma. From these tests, he determines whether the ham needs more time, air, moisture or whether it’s reached optimal maturity. His specialised sensory skill, refined over nearly 30 years, evokes the precision of a sommelier, reflecting the deep cultural reverence for jamón ibérico.

The craft of this prized meat continues in the tasting room, a stately yet homely parlour warmed by a stone fireplace harbouring crackling flames. With a long, slender knife and impenetrable focus, master jamonero (trained ham carver) Severiano Sánchez carves identical, wafer-thin translucent slices from a weighty bellota loin (retailing for around £600) fastened into a sleek silver clamp. This paraphernalia, and Severiano’s balletic dexterity, also honed over three decades, speaks to the artistry and tradition behind the craft. 

I leave the carving to the experts, but visitors can complete carving courses alongside cellar tours and tastings. I try maza, the lean front of the ham, presented in a perfect circle of overlapping rectangles. It’s juicy and aromatic, while the punta, the loin tip, dissolves instantly on the tongue, bursting with sweet-savoury, spiced flavour.

Sips of Osborne’s fruity Rare Sherry Solera BC 200 between bites make for an intoxicating pairing. “The history and economy of Jabugo and Cinco Jotas are intertwined,” Maria says as we leave, interlocking her fingers illustratively. “But jamón ibérico is beloved across Spain, with regional preferences shaping how it’s enjoyed. In Tenerife, the meat tends to be less cured due to the humidity, while in Catalonia, locals favour paleta (the shoulder or front legs). In the Basque Country, it’s usually stronger and more deeply cured,” Maria states.

Regional reverence

Everywhere I go, the devotion to jamón ibérico is palpable — in markets, on plates and in the pride of those who raise the pigs. In Linares de Sierra, a Huelva village of just 300 inhabitants, a brick archway opens onto a storybook courtyard of pebble mosaic floors, a stone well and citrus trees, leading straight to Arrieros. This rustic restaurant is an ode to ibérico pork, serving not only ham but hearty tomato and fig soup enriched with pork fat, pork tongue in thick gravy, tender pluma (neck) steak, and fragrant curried castañetas (salivary glands). Even the dessert options honour ibérico pork traditions, with peaches in spiced wine — once popular among wealthy slaughterhouse owners — and bruleed acorn pudding.

In much larger Málaga, the palm-fringed Malagueta Beach contrasts with the forests of the Sierra de Aracena, yet the jamón ibérico at Chiringuito Tropicana is just as memorable, its flavours mingling with the salty sea air. The restaurant’s seaside setting lends itself to accompanying dishes of crispy shrimp fritters, sardines grilled on the beach to order, and crusted squid ink rice with dollops of garlicky, lemony aioli. Back in Seville, where I began my journey,

I visit another storied tapas bar: Las Teresas. Jamón ibérico is a staple here, too, and huge hams hang from the ceiling like festive bunting. Behind a counter overflowing with Catholic iconography and faded photographs, barman Aitor Jiménez carves the slabs at astonishing speed. “We get through three hams a day,” he tells me over the hum of animated chatter. “Four a day on weekends. During Holy Week, it’s seven!” Aitor reveals how it underpins both everyday gatherings and grand festivals alike. “You’ll find that many vegetarians in Spain make an exception for jamón ibérico,” Maria says with a smile.

It’s an admiration that shows no signs of slowing. Maria notes that the production of top grade jamón ibérico across Spain has nearly doubled since she began working at Cinco Jotas, rising from just under 9% to 16%. She credits this in part to the introduction of the colour labelling system. “Now it’s easier to identify, far more people are seeking it out and more producers want to make it,” she reveals. And as I fold another slightly tangy slice into my mouth, I can certainly see why.