Olive Me

I’m sorry that tonight’s dinner is out of focus, but I think if you take a good look, you will understand why. Xesca was my saucy backdrop at D.O. in Barcelona’s Gràcia neighborhood. Here is her decolletage behind a superb platillo of escarxofa confitada amb botifarra negra. A neatly trimmed artichoke heart, gone tender in an olive oil bath, but with its flat top caramelized, the whole thing settled into a dab of pureed potatoes and topped with a few slices of blood sausage, also slightly crisped on the edges.

Then, Gambes amb favetes i menta, seared red shrimp, that special breed from Palamós (head-on, how else around here?), with a scattering of ingredients from a classic Catalan spring salad: fresh favas, mint, and lemon zest. Nice, though we felt funny about the little coral-colored eggs that filled each shell and asked for an opinion from the kitchen. Answer: “Those are considered a good thing.” Which is indeed a good thing, because by the time we got that report we had eaten them all.

See, we started down this path to a few platillos thinking we’d eat light. But these are the pig’s feet that threw us giddily off course. Canelons de peus de porc amb salsa de vi negre that were pure unctuous pigginess, wrapped in a thin sheet of pasta (after mingling heavily with the Italians in the middle ages, the Catalans came away in posession of the cannolo form); around them, a thin drizzle of fruity red wine sauce. (This is what platillos are all about, by the way––a Catalan small plates tradition that goes back to the days before “small plates” were actually small.)

Here is the cleverest idea yet regarding the problem of calçots for city folks: roast them en papillotte. Though these were a little underdone, the fiber involved, we figured, was an excellent counterbalance to the pig’s feet.

Dessert. Just one, and really good: a sliver of genoise formed a base for a Canut de Formatge Idiazabal amb Codony. It was a lovely little cannolo, wrapped in thin slices of quince paste and filled with Idiazabal cheese-spiked cream.

D.O. Carrer Verdi, 36, Barcelona. Tel: +93-218-96-73. Open Mon-Sun from 8pm to 1am. Closed Tuesdays.

I take back all those unflattering things I’ve said in the past about Bilbao. That stuff about how it’s the “the Pittsburgh of Spain.” Yes, it’s an iron city. Yes, the Ría that runs through it is brown. And yes, it’s annoying, if not panic-inducing, that the Guggenheim Bilbao is now listed in 1000 Places to See Before You Die. But the city that inspired a planning cliché, “the Bilbao effect” (build a Big-Name-Architect museum and you’ll soon be polishing up your rusting economy with wads of tourist dollars), is more than all that.

A month ago, we set out on the Camino de Santiago from here. There are historical arguments for starting in Bilbao – the city has figured on Camino trail maps since the 1300s – but I chose it for practical reasons: You can get to Bilbao from just about anywhere. And yes, there’s Gehry’s museum.

But while the Guggenheim lends this departure point an Oz-like glow, for me the real Bilbao effects, the things I want to go back for, are these:

Its green, green heart. You fly into Bilbao over rounded hills. “It’s like a fairytale,” said Ed, looking out the window at forests, meadows, and farmhouses coming into view through a mist. The Guggenheim is famously sited up against the city’s industrial edge, but here’s what nobody tells you: it looks pretty swell against that green farmland too.

Its good, good eats. The market has a whole floor, icy and sweet-smelling, dedicated to fish. An encouraging first stop. Afterwards, my Bilbaina colleague, Carmen, pointed us to her favorite bar on the Plaza Nueva for a pintxo (peppers and tuna and cod and countless other little bar bites) and a zurito (a little beer). The tap is a bronze hand by Lorenzo Quinn. And the fluffy scrambled eggs they fed us as a vehicle for buttery sautéed cèpes, well those cured our jet-lag, I swear.

Big colorful windows. It rained a few times on our first day here. Then again, the sun came out a few times, too. The Basques track it all from their pretty enclosed balconies, sometimes painted bright colors.

The Euskotran. The walks from old city to new couldn’t be better: fifteen minutes along pretty 19^th century boulevards and grandly gardened roundabouts or an equally easy stroll via the promenade along the river (and you get to cross Calatrava’s glass bridge). But it’s just so sweet the way this little tram zips quietly along the grass.

Bilbao’s big girl. You gotta love her. And also the shop selling boinas, those huge rain-worthy Basque berets. And the windows full of hiking gear including stuff for the people who are into ropes. Bilbao is just that kind of hearty, practical place.

Ongi etorri! Actually, nobody welcomed us with this greeting when we touched down in Euskal Herria (that’s the Basque Country, to you). But, with our comfort in mind, the airport did offer this helpful invitation to the komunak. Just the fact that the Basques have Euskara, their very own language that no one else can figure out, makes me want to write them a love letter in lemon juice.

In all, the plan was to land in Bilbao and get on the Camino without looking back. But that’s not the way it went.

For one thing, there was that last lunch at another of Carmen’s favorite places, a restaurant whose name I cannot bring myself to reveal (except to my clients): beautiful ham, and a “Rioja with Ribera tendencies” (my god, what was that?), a luscious stew of garbanzos with lobster, tiny squid with slow-cooked onions, a delicate shell of a cream puff, coffee on the terrace overlooking the city.

As I was leaving, the gracious owner-maitre, Patricio Valiño, discreetly handed me something. “Oh madam, I believe you dropped this…” It was the button from my pants which had, it seems, miraculously shrunk during our Camino journey.

Those Michelin star folks are troublemakers, if you ask me. A couple of years ago, their meddling came between me and my favorite Barcelona lunch date:  Restaurant Saüc. It’s not that Saüc’s star wasn’t well-deserved, it’s just that it brought lots of new suitors to the table. Prices went up and our lunchtime thing had to end.

We have “La Crisis” to thank for a recent e-mail from the restaurant, wooing with a 27 Euro prix fixe lunch special. The note also mentions a pumpkin salad, beef cheeks with wild mushrooms, almond and pear tart with sheeps’ milk ice cream.  You better believe I’ll go running back for more. (more…)

I don’t really know Alberto Romero but thanks to the Internet, I have seen what he has for breakfast and I love him for his dedication to one of Spain’s perfect meals: a little crema-topped café with a glass of water back, olive-oily bites of crunchy fried dough in the form of a churro (or a puffier porra, since he’s in Madrid), and that excellent newspaper, El País.  Thanks, Alberto, for the photo above.

I rejoice when I hear that Starbucks has overextended itself and may have to close a few stores. As if that sameness they bring to city streetscapes weren’t tiresome enough, the coffee — ordinary beans, overroasted — just isn’t that good. And it gets my goat that the megachain has made inroads in Spain, where a well-priced, very good cup of coffee, served up quickly enough to make takeout seem like a waste of effort, is a long-established tradition.

Walk into any decent bar here and order a café con leche.  You get a nice, dark, crema-covered shot with freshly steamed milk for maybe a Euro twenty-five. (more…)

Even before La Crisis took hold, the smart chefs in Barcelona detected a growing fancy food fatigue in this trend-crazed city.  Several of them set out to focus on toning down the tricks,  emphasizing top-quality ingredients over knock-out design, and keeping prices within reach.  Their “bistronomics” — economical bistros — are one of the best things to happen to good eating in Barcelona in a long time.   (Lisa Abend wrote about the movement in the New York Times last July).

My best meal in Barcelona in 2008 was at one of these wise little places, Embat, where chef-owners Santi Rebés and Fidel Puig are doing their own fine thing with flavor lessons well-learned in the kitchen at Espai Sucre where they cooked before. (more…)

Fina Puigdevall is probably the most committed locavore among her fellow Michelin star-winning Catalan chefs.  Her restaurant, Les Cols (“the cabbages”), occupies a family masía (Catalan country house) in Olot that dates back to the 15th century, though she hasn’t shied away from a few modern improvements–like the dramatic glass wall separating one of the dining rooms from the chicken yard.

The design is radical, the chef says, “but the most radical thing I’m doing right now is this:  I’m not serving fish anymore, even though we can get fresh fish from the coast of our own province. It’s only an hour away, you know. But we’re gradually retiring it from the menu because it’s not part of our local cuisine, our landscape.” (more…)

Walking down Carrer Parlament in Barcelona’s Raval one day in June, I came across a place that brought back sweet memories of summers in that city. The neighborhood has become trendy, but Horchatería Sirvent is still there, righteously unhip. (more…)

The polyester patchwork jacket on their man at the front of the house says it all: “this place is so cool it hurts.” (more…)

As you drive into La Bisbal d’Empordà, your romantic image of what a historic pottery-making town ought to look like (quaint cottage workshops complete with artisans at the wheel) takes a withering blow. The place is dusty, for one thing — sitting on a great big expanse of clay since the dawn of time will do that do a town. But take it slow here and you will find enough artisanal pottery and good eats to make you forget the scruffiness and want to come back for more. (more…)

Barcelona chefs Jordi Butrón and Xano Saguer caused a commotion when they opened their restaurant, Espai Sucre back in 2000. This was before New York City’s Chickalicious and other experiments in dessert-only menus were on the scene. They came out swinging with philosophical fervor about pastry chefs being chefs, not just twinkie-headed extras. Desserts, they argued, needn’t always be sugary afterthoughts. And now, with a little forethought, visitors to Barcelona can get a taste of their techniques . (more…)