Salsa Espinaler Is a Hot Sauce Without Borders

One of my favorite questions to ask people is to name their desert island hot sauce.

While I commiserate with my fellow capsaicin lovers over our masochistic tendencies, I’m not that interested in the level of heat that your answer indicates you’re capable of enduring. I’m more interested in what your answer says about the kind of balance your palate finds ideal.

Many folks reach for a sauce that leads with the flavors of its add-ins — alliums like garlic and onion, fruits such as papaya and tomato, and herbs and spices like thyme or allspice. Others prefer a vinegar-based sauce that’s just as sour as it is spicy. Then there are some that like life with a little funk, and opt for a fermented hot sauce that layers depth and complexity below the heat.

I sit somewhere in that middle category, dallying every so often with the fruity and funky options on either side. I am a sucker for acidic punch in almost anything I eat, and prefer a vinegar-forward hot sauce. So for the longest time, my answer to this question waffled between Crystal, Tabasco, and Frank’s.

Until, that is, I met Salsa Espinaler.

This iconic Catalan condiment traces its roots to a humble tavern in Vilassar de Mar, a town just north of Barcelona on the Balearic coast. There, in the late 1800s, Miquel Riera y Prat served wine and various pintxos, most of which relied on the abundance of seafood the area has to offer. Salsa Espinaler, he found, amplified the flavors of the food, lending it brightness and subtle heat. That’s exactly what it did to a tin of mackerel I grabbed at a Spanish market on a recent trip to LA.

I was only in California for a few more days, but in that time, I nearly drained the bottle. Luckily, the size I picked up clocked in at 3.1 ounces, a mere 0.3 shy of the TSA carry-on cap. It was almost as if the bottle was made to fly across domestic and international borders, rescuing everything from the blandest airline food to whatever might lie on the other side upon landing. I scattered the last few drops over creamy mac and cheese, into a bloody mary, and over fresh shucked oysters.

When I eventually ran out, it didn’t take much time to get another bottle. I found not only the OG Salsa Espinaler but also its spicier sibling and a variety of the brand’s additional products at cheese shops and Spanish markets in my area, most notably José Andrés’s Mercado Little Spain in Manhattan.

I began exploring the brand’s tinned fish line and found that everything from their mussels to sliced octopus in Galician sauce takes well to a droplet or two of Salsa Espinaler. One of my favorite discoveries was the brand’s potato chips — patatas fritas, the Spanish kind that are sliced thin and fried in olive oil. They carry very little salt, something you won’t miss when you top each chip with a nugget of tinned albacore or a pickled clam. Finish that with Salsa Espinaler and you’ve stumbled upon a truly fantastic pairing. When I eat it, I like to imagine myself sitting at that tavern on the Balearic Coast doing as the Catalans did, enjoying the bounty of the sea in each other’s company.

I haven’t been able to find much on the makeup of the brand’s signature sauce, aside from the bare required minimum ingredient list. “Vinegar, red pepper, cayenne, and spices” is as far as I’ve gotten. That’s fair: when you’re working with so little, guarding the blend of ingredients is key, right along with ensuring those ingredients are of the best possible quality.

It’s that simplicity and attention to quality that make Salsa Espinaler so versatile — and, I would argue, help prevent its flavor from being regionally or culturally pigeonholed. While the sauce proudly touts Spain’s national colors and celebrates a history that’s deeply rooted in Catalan food and drink culture, it’s friendly with many other neighboring cuisines, as well as those that have little in common with its homeland. I’ve finished pozole rojo with it, added it to homemade mole, and placed it on a cheese board, where it was the perfect foil to a rich and creamy Spanish blue Valdeon. It’s been the go-to for weeknight quesadillas, the choice to toss into a hot bowl of buttery popcorn, the perfect companion to any number of soups or stews, and one half of a quick pork dumpling sauce thrown together in a pinch. I’ve dipped pizza bones into it, drizzled it over many a full Irish breakfast, and used it to add a little more acid to a fiery Thai larb.

Salsa Espinaler’s ability to be whoever you need it to be and make friends with whatever you happen to be eating is undeniable. Yes, the composition of my fridge at home is probably just under 50 percent hot sauces and various adjacent condiments, and I absolutely indulge in the flavors of each on a rotating basis. But Salsa Espinaler — the just-spicy-enough virtuoso of versatility — seems to be the one I reach for most. That’s why it rings in as my top candidate for the one and only sauce I’d have with me if found stranded on a desert island (or stuck in an airport with a sandwich in need of seasoning). In fact, there’s a bottle in my bag right now.