Eating Barcelona: Beef Tongue and Burgers and Blue Cheese Gin

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As a departure from the thematic resonance seen in Parts 1 & 2 of my Barcelona round-up – an account of Tapas so thorough that it needed to be split into two like a work of Young Adult Literature – Part 3 serves to tie up all of the loose ends; the street food and fast food and the bars with nothing else in common other than the fact they’re not Tapas.

La Sagrada Familia is surrounded by exactly the sort of restaurant you’d expect at a major tourist attraction.  As soon as you emerge from the Metro you’re met with 2 of the Big 3 fast food chains.   Cross the road on any of the Cathedral’s four sides to get a better view of it, and you’ll be faced with restaurants plastered in photographs of pale hotdogs and limp bravas, looped infinitely like a cartoon backdrop.

Remarkably, La Taqueria – a tiny, busy, authentic Mexican street food cantina – sits just two minutes walk away from all of that, down a quiet leafy side-street (Passatge de Font) at the back of the Sagrada Familia that you wouldn’t think to wander down without a good reason – memories of eating there last year was enough reason for me.

Walking past it – even stopping to peer through the window into the dimly-lit dining room – it all looks fairly unassuming.  Open the door though, and you’re met by a combination of sounds and smells as incongruous to its surroundings as a prohibition speakeasy – it feels like you’ve just opened a pipe of crisps in a Pringles advert.  It’s an exciting feeling – but one you should try and savour, it soon begins to wane.

Anticipating how busy it was likely to be, and the fact it’s such a small restaurant (I counted 32 covers squeezed into the 20 x 12ft operable floor space) we booked our table for six in advance – no problems there.  When we arrived our table for 6 was actually a table for 4, with an extra two stools pulled up so that two people could sit on the end of the table, right in the centre aisle of the dining room.  Our order for Margaritas was taken pretty quickly, but it took 20 minutes for them to arrive, and another 10 for the Michelada I ordered at the same time.

Credit where it’s due, the Margaritas were huge and faultless, and the Michelada – with an umami grunt coming from the clam juice – erased all others (admittedly, only one or two) from my memory, but there’s not a drink in the world that I’d happily wait half an hour for.

Shortly after this, our waiter sauntered to the table and took our orders – six people, each ordering various starters, mains and sides, and he didn’t even write anything down on a notepad.  “How impressive!” we thought; “What a professional!  Let’s applaud his aptitude and admire his nonchalance”.

When the food started to arrive we continued to be impressed; the first mouthful of refried beans was a lot to take in – pinto beans slow-cooked to a paste with bacon fat and heaped with powdered pork scratchings; the world’s most deliciously irresponsible corner yoghurt.  More pork fat came in the form of Chicharrón – a bowl of gelatinous rinds from a pigs cooked with onions and cactus, which despite my best efforts, I couldn’t fully get on board with.

The Queso Fundidos was very disappointing.  I expected something billed as “Melted cheese with Longaniza” to be a kind of sausage fondue, rather than a pork pie with the pastry replaced by cheese.  Eating it was like chewing an old sponge used to dab pools of excess oil from cheese on toast, and once the flavour had gone, all that remained was an elastic mass of cheese-texture in the mouth; an exam desk’s-worth of old, tasteless chewing gum.

The Nachos were nachos – the thing about them that most caught my attention was that they were topped with the finest diced, sweet onion I’ve ever encountered.  If you’re not as enamoured by dicing-aptitude as I am though, there’s little that would stick in your memory.

The Beef Tongue Taco, was the small, soft kind that lay open on your plate, showing off just how much is inside them.  The tongue was surprisingly tender, with a little give in it, but not enough so that it gets dragged out of the taco and leaves filling all over your lap.  The Arrachera Special reminded me of a Mexican take on the Thai dish Khao Kluk Kapi, or the British delicacy Dairlylea Lunchable; your plate contains a little bit of several things to combine at your leisure.  In this case our plates had flank steak, rice, guacamole, frijole charros – “Cowbow beans” with a rich, smokey taste of bacon – a cheese-stuffed jalapeno and grilled cactus.  As the doting Father of several cacti and other succulents, I felt more guilt about eating one of them than I did about eating the piece of cow; and right there and then, a simple Mexican Dairlyea Lunchable transformed into a catalyst for analysing the inconsistencies in my moral compass.  Time for the bill.

Predictably, the bill contained many mistakes.  Being charged for unwanted guacamole, missing Poblano peppers, more drinks that never got round to arriving at the table – and then being accused of lying about it obviously isn’t enough to ruin a holiday, but it’s an inconvenience that could have been avoided if our eaiter had just written down our order, instead of acting like Matthew McConaughey in an apron.  Ignore the shitty service though and La Taqueria is a great place to eat, and not bad value at about €30 per head, including booze and a well-earned 0% service charge.

As a bonus across the street is an amazing little bodega owned by the same people as the cantina, where you can try & buy hot sauce, imported tequilas, soft drinks, graphic-novellas featuring thick-thighed, gun-toting cholitas and all sorts.  If like me, you’re the kind of person who goes to New York and spends longer in the supermarket condiment aisle than looking at the Empire State Building, you’ll really dig this place.

The burger I ate at Kiosko last year immediately stood out for being like no burger I’d ever eaten before – a medium-rare patty, thoughtful toppings, and served in something called a brioche; it was madness.  So good that I ate another one straight away, and then returned the next day for another.  I’d heard about these trendy burgers – tales from London had made their way north, but how was I to know if they were true or fable?

Shortly afterwards, burger joints started popping up in Leeds – just one or two at first, then a new one each month, then several every month, soon they were setting up shop in every publicly accessible nook and cranny.  The rise in the presence of burgers over the past 12 months has been enormous (as illustrated by the highly scientific graph below); In terms of ubiquity the only thing that came close to a parallel is Pharrell Williams.  I know, I should have said “Pharrellel“.

So how would Kiosko fare this time round?  I’m a hardened, jaded burger veteran now, it takes a lot to impress me – I eat burgers in brioche for breakfast (literally, in a few cases).
The Cayena was only ok (the fact as I write this, only two weeks after eating it, I had to check the menu on the website to remind myself of what I ate isn’t a great omen); the goats cheese was excellent by burger standards but underrepresented, and the tomato and chilli chutney wasn’t different enough from the homemade Picante Ketchup to make an impression.
La Bacoa – with Bacon, cheddar, manchego and spicy mustard – suffered the same problem, but for the opposite reason; everything was too present, and it was impossible to pick out any of the individual elements.  Also it was absolutely huge, there was no way to eat this with your hands – even with the provided innovative burger holders (which I definitely didn’t mistake for a hat and briefly put on top of my head).
Luckily, we also ordered the more modest Japonesa, which was their standard burger, cooked in a Teriyaki sauce.  Not as good as Patty & Bun’s Mr Miyagi, but easily my favourite of the day.  They brag about selling the biggest burgers in Barcelona, and I can believe it, so a less-is-more philosophy when it comes to picking toppings definitely pays off.
Three burgers, two fries and two beers came in at €24, bargain.

La Taguara is an Areperia was recommended by the guys from Good Gobble Blog – considering they peddle street food under the alias Arepa!Arepa!Arepa! (previously reviewed here), I trusted they knew what they were talking about.
There’s a satisfying crispy skin on the outside of the arepas where the maize dough has been in contact with the surface of the hot griddle, and the inside is light and fluffy for the first one or two bites – When you get past that point, the juices from the fillings – along with the unnecessary slick of butter – absorb into the dough, and give it the consistency of clay.  One would have been enough, but due to indecisiveness (read: greed) I opted for two; finishing one, and just picking the chicken, beans and plantain out of the other one.
La Taguara is a bit of a paradox: It has tall tables and bars without chairs indicating that they’re looking for a quick turnaround of customers, but the service is dithersome and the food – which necessitated a trip to the bathroom afterwards for face and beard-adjustment – isn’t conducive to mobility.
At €24 for 4 Arepas and two fresh juices though, you can’t complain too much.  Arepa!Arepa!Arepa! does it better though – Perhaps it was a tactical recommendation to make themselves look better in comparison…
After a few beers in the charming Cat Bar – 10 rotating Craft-Draughts (Craughts) and a fridge full of unknown pleasures you can peruse at your own leisure – we took the advice of a British regular who looked like he knew his stuff, and found Lime Bar.
The sign above the door says Lime Bar, but when we tried to find it again a few days later there was no sign of it on road or on Google – like a cursed antiques shop from The Twilight Zone.  It’s only when we got home that we found out it just goes by the name Rubi Bar online.

Basic bitches on Yelp and Tripadvisor can’t seem to get over the fact that Lime Bar sells a big Mojito for less than €5 – but I was far more interested in the 50-odd flavoured gins that they brew in house.  All of the flavours are the mind-grapes of the owner, who stands behind the bar imparting impeccable knowledge – like the owner of a cursed antiques shop from The Twilight Zone.  
Rather than straying into Corky’s Flavoured Shots territory, all of the flavours are well-considered combinations that work with the botanicals of their base-gin – simple “Why hasn’t anybody thought of that before” infusions like celery (served with soda and crushed walnut), Darjeeling and Honeydew melon; more adventurous but still plausible Szechaun pepper, Beetroot and Gherkin; right through to “Seriously, you’re gonna drink that?” – Sundried Tomato & Basil and Roquefort.
Incredibly all of the ones I tried (all of the ones above) worked, and worked well.  Choose your flavour, trust the staff to choose what mixer and garnishes to accompany it with, and you’re gonna have a good time.  I spoke to the owner for a good amount of time while I was ticking off flavours, and he revealed plans to add Roast Garlic, Roast Potato and Lamb gins to his collection – that alone is enough to make me book a flight back.
Bouzu had a stall at the festival, so I tried some Gyoza and Takoyaki (Octopus Dumplings) on the first night before resorting to €4 foot-longs for sustenance, and it was obviously the classiest food I’ve ever tried at a festival.
Unfortunately I didn’t get a chance to try Cal Pep, so that’s a top priority for next time, along with La Paradeta, Canete, and another, extended visit to Bier Cab – a different craft ale bar with 20 rotating Craughts all at €5 a pint.  Even with all of these good intentions though, I suspect I’ll do what I did for the majority of this trip and eat crisps for most meals.  Oh you should see the crisps; Ketchup and Mayonaise flavour, Olive Oil, Rosemary, Jamon, Cheeseburger!  
Check back in a few days for the Fourth and final instalment of this feature, when I’ll be counting down the twenty best crisp flavours in Barcelona!
(Not really.   Maybe)

Catch up on Part 1 here and Part 2 here

Eating Barcelona: Tapas part dos

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The morning after attempting to taste as many of Lime Bar’s 50 flavoured gins as possible (more on that later) we needed a decent breakfast, and decided to hit up El Quim de la Boqueria on the trusty advice of Ben from Dough Boys, who had told me they’d served him one of the best breakfasts he’d ever eaten.

El Quim De La Boqueria



El Quim lies throbbing at the heart of La Ramblas’ Boqueria; after making our way through the meat curtains (Butchers tend to hang entire legs of Iberico ham from their ceilings) and being careful to avoid picking up crabs (from the many fresh seafood traders) I arrived, ready to blow my load (of Euros).

Shame on anybody who suspected I might force in immature sexual innuendo or double-entendre just because the restaurant’s name is slang for a fanny in English, get your mind out of the gutter.
Anyway after penetrating the crowd we noticed that eating out was customary, as opposed to delving inside El Quim; customers sat at a bar around the circumference of the plot, while the entire square-footage is used as an open kitchen.  Seating is at a premium due to how popular the place is, so expect to wait about 10 to 15 minutes for people to vacate their stools (that’s not more innuendo by the way, gross).  For us it took about half an hour to finally get four seats together – I ended up placing my order and actually starting my meal while stood up.
El Quim Blood Sausage

When you do get seated and place your order though, cervix service is fast and dishes get handed to you as and when they’re ready, first the bravas – sauteed rather than deep fried, and completely absent of mayo, they earned the title of best bravas of the holiday – followed by a Blood Sausage which put any black pudding I’ve tasted before to shame; Warmly spiced and almost sweet, the meat had a crumbly quality while remaining moist, and there was no detectable fat or gristle throughout.
El Quim Asparagus

The asparagus was well presented and seemed good value for money, but the huge stalks were only half-edible; the fibrous strands inside collapsed under the teeth and made a bit of a mess everywhere.  Artichoke chips were much better, with each leaf peeled from the bulb and deep-fried, making those root vegetable Kettle chips seem positively austere by comparison.
El Quim Artichoke Chips

The Iberico platter wasn’t quite as unforgettable as the menu boasted – I can’t instantly recall the nuances of its flavour – but it was rich, lean, deeply salty and probably as good as ham gets.  Too often when picking up Mussels we found empty shells, but the tomato and cava broth they were served in – with a touch of smokey chorizo body – was great for soaking up with bread and topping with a slice of the gossamer ham.

El Quim Razor Clam
Looking at the Razor Clams I started to wonder how hard it could be to have a successful restaurant in the middle of a market in coastal Spain – sure they were delicious, but that’s just how they’ve evolved.  Darwin put all the graft in, all the chef had to do was grill them with a bit of salted butter to bring out the sweetness of the flesh and make sure they’re not overcooked (which they weren’t, they were perfect).  As if he was reading my dismissive, arrogant mind the chef put down a dish in front of us containing the best dish of the holiday.  Each fork of Bulls Tail Risotto consisted of pearls of claggy rice held together seemingly by nothing but cream and rich manchego cheese, with strips of pulled oxtail dotted throughout to give frequent hits of intensified flavour – like walking barefoot on Lego bricks and stepping on an occasion plug.

El Quim Bulls Tail Risotto

When we asked for the bill we were amazed that it only came to €21 including cava – at such good value for money you can’t argue that El Quim deserves a big, bulbous tip.

Cerveceria Catalana

Cervecería Catalana (Carrer de Mallorca 236, L’Eixample) is one of the places I visited last year – suggested and arranged by a friend who lives in the city, we turned up, sat down and I had one of my favourite, most memorable meals I’ve ever eaten.  It was a no-brainer for the last big meal of the holiday, so I called them.

“Hi, could I book a table for s-“
“No no no no, no booking.  Come and wait”
“Are you busy tonight? How long is the wait likely to be?”
“Are you coming?”
“Well I don’t know, we don’t want to make the journey if we’re not guaran-“
“Ok bye”

If Front of House can get away with being that rude on the phone, the food must be really good.  Turning up shortly after the phone call we were told it would be an hour and a half wait; we reserved a table as a back-up plan, but intended going to Betlem again to see if we could eat any sooner.  On the way out we caught a glimpse of the food being eaten – plates of huge sardines, king prawns, octopus tentacles, razor clams – and decided that maybe an hour and a half wasn’t such a long time to wait.

Returning after a visit to Bier Cab – a craft ale bar which I’ll go into more detail about in a future post – we were seated almost immediately – it was a pretty awful table; tiny, equidistant between the entrance, kitchen and toilets to ensure that we were never more than 0.4 seconds away from somebody brushing past us, but we were happy to be sat down.  After being brought a jug of sangria a waitress came and took each order individually – remarkably interrupting the last person before he had a chance to order, saying he wasn’t allowed to order because the other five of us had ordered “too much”.  We pleaded his case and he ended up being granted to luxury of picking some food to eat in a restaurant he’d waited an hour and a half to sit in.

Cerveceria Catalana White Botifarra Flauta

First out of the kitchen was a White Botifarra Flauta – a sandwich resembling a torpedo, filled with white sausage.  I’d ordered the Black Botifarra after the success of El Quim’s Blood Sausage, but they were sold out.  The white was ok – a peppery flavour and perhaps a hint of fennel cutting through the delicate pork, stippled with soft fat – but it wasn’t anything I wouldn’t expect to get from the upmarket end of Morrison’s deli meat counter.  The speed the sandwich was brought out at suggests they’re made en masse. but the bread tasted like it had been snatched from the oven seconds before serving; cavernous bubbles of air in the chewy dough with a crisp, brittle crust.  If I had the capacity for a lot more bread I’d have eaten several other types of the Flauta on the menu; I was tempted to go for the Foie Gras and Roquefort, but was dissuaded by my conscience (read: girlfriend).

The Fried Small Fishes were presumably whitebait, but that they were sold out meant we didn’t get a chance to find out.  Also sold out were any of the anchovy dishes on the menu (Andaluz Style, Cantabric, Canapes or in Vinegar).  The Fried Cuttlefish sounded like the closest interesting alternative, which were coated and deep friend and very similar to calamari, but the texture had a much more pleasing tensile property.  The Crispy Camembert – cased in a coarse panko – did exactly what you want a melted camembert to do, which is coat the roof of your mouth and back of your throat in a temporary, fermented wax.  One niggle I had was that streak of raspberry coulis (if you didn’t read that in the style of Prince then you’re a stronger person than I am) didn’t cut through the cheese as intended, and felt cloying.

Cerveceria Catalana Crispy Camembert

Also too sweet was the relish on the Cod Skewers – which selfishly muscled in on the start of the dish – but the Prawn Skewers more than made up for it; lightly seasoned to a slight char when cooked, they were plumper than a lumberjack’s thumb and (probably) even juicier.  One of our group hadn’t eaten prawns before, I warned him that any subsequent ones he eats will almost certainly be a letdown; I haven’t seen him since we got back from the holiday, I fear he may be on a doomed, Trainspotting-style pursuit to try and recreate that first prawn experience.  I’ll come back and edit this paragraph when I think of a suitable seafood/Trainspotting pun.

Cerveceria Catalana Cod Skewer

The biggest, and guiltiest pleasure of the entire meal was the Huevos Cabreados, which I understand means “Eggs; PISSED OFF”.  A big bowl of perfectly-cooked shoestring fries, topped with a mojo sauce and two fried eggs.  I was about to get a photo of the lovely presentation when the waiter whipped out a couple of forks and smashed the whole thing together into a gooey, spicy, crispy mush – like if you took a six year old to a carvery.  No picture then, and as delicious as it tasted, I’m struggling to come with a thousand words to articulate “really nice egg and chips”.

Cerveceria Catalana Beef Tenderloin Montadito

The Beef Tenderloin Montadito was essentially a generous sized meat-nugget, served as an open sandwich on a token bit of bread because it’s probably poor form to just advertise “Generous-sized meat nugget” on the menu in a nice place like this.  It was beautifully tender though, with juices running down my plate by the time it had made the short journey from kitchen to table.  The whole deep fried pepper was a welcome touch as well.  The Mini Hamburger was disappointing, the onion relish was so sweet that the whole thing may as well have been fondant, and the stout, spherical bun and glossy coating of pale yellow cheese made it resemble a particularly infected boil – If I’d taken a photo then I’d be tempted to see if I could get it published in a medical journal.

Cerveceria Catalana Escalivada with Goats Cheese

Up to this point the dishes had displayed as little diversity in colour as the cast of Girls (zing!) so the Escalivada with Goats Cheese was a welcome respite to the onslaught of beige.  The aubergine was a little watery as aubergine can tend to be, but the ripe flavour of the red peppers dispersed across the tongue immediately.  Presentation was good, with the vegetables layered and topped with a slice of goats cheese – which bubbled and charred under the grill while shielding the vegetables from the dry heat.

While researching Cervecería Catalana to find out its location after last year’s successful visit I repeatedly saw it tipped as the place to visit for Tapas; Google and Tripadvisor reviewers treat it with the same reverence that second year graphic design students do J Dilla, and yeah it’s not entirely undeserved, but I can’t help but feel like the hype is self-perpetuating.  For all its bells and whistles (the restaurant looks amazing; and like I mentioned before, the shitty service suggests that they’re doing you a favour by letting you eat there) it’s just a tapas restaurant – the food is mostly really good, but suffers from a lack of creativity.  It’s good value for money though, for 6 people eating all of the above plus extras, desserts, sangria and wine is came to around €30 per head.

If you missed Part 1 of Eating Barcelona, you can read it right here

Eating Barcelona: Tapas part uno

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There’s a long, well worn trope in television which sees part of the main cast of a show plucked from their usual surroundings and given a holiday; Think Jack and Vera Duckworth in Coronation Street: Viva Las Vegas, The Inbetweeners Movie, or that episode of When The Whistle Blows within that episode of Extras.

The reason for sending them away is usually contrived – the cover for an obvious effort to boost ratings or a lazy attempt to stretch material by rehashing old jokes with the novelty of characters wearing flip flops and being mildly racist to our continental friends.  Deservedly, they get mocked, derided, or at very best just forgotten.  With that in mind, join me as…

Last year in May I went to Primavera Sound festival with a few friends – seasoned Barcelona veterans who I was happy to let take the reins and guide the trip.  Returning this year with a different group of friends – Barcelona novices – it was up to me, the self-appointed king of insider Barcelona information, to research must-visit places for our trip.

Remembering I don’t know a single word of Spanish, I did as many as two Google searches for recommendations written in English before giving up a just asking Twitter.  Luckily that came through big time, and I ended up with a Google Map of the city littered with markers for bars and restaurants I had to hit up.

So abundant and diverse were the venues, that I’m going to break them down over several posts; there’s plenty of time to walk about bars and fast food; but first, the tapas.

On the first night we enthusiastically tried Cal Pep, without realising how naive we were to think we could just walk in and pay some money to eat food.  So we went to Bar Cañete, surely two restaurants in Spain couldn’t be full at 10:30pm?  WRONG, DUMMY!  Turns out that’s prime teatime in Catalonia.  After a third disappointment in finding out the El Quim de la Boqieria (more on that later) had been closed since 4pm, we gave in and headed down to the harbour district to pick a place at random that looked half-decent or at least didn’t have photos on the menu.  Nothing down by the harbour could be too bad right?  WRONG AGAIN JABRONI! YOUR COMMAND OF RHETORIC IS BOGUS!

Unknown Harbour Restaurant (Unknown street next to the harbour, just around the corned from the Lichtenstein statue)

I can’t remember the name of this place to warn you against it, but it totally sucked.  The nachos were cool ranch Doritos, the chicken wings tasted like they were deep fried in snakeskin and instant gravy, and the calamari would have done an outstanding job at keeping a fat roll of cash tightly bound, if I’d had enough cash left after the meal to facilitate popping bands; Not only was this the worst meal of the holiday, but the most expensive too.  The patatas bravas – which one of the two yardsticks for measuring the quality of a restaurant – were unsurprisingly the worst as well.  New holiday restaurant philosophy and bonus The Lost Boys quote: Stay off the boardwalk.

Betlem – Miscelánea Gastronómica (Carrer de Girona, 70, L’Eixample)

After the disappointment of the previous evening we decided not to eat anywhere unless it featured on the trusty list of recommendations, and after a painful walk to the top of the Gaudi park and back down again we found ourselves conveniently close to Betlem and its Gastronomic Miscellany – the sexiest two-word combo since Greggs invented the Festive Bake.

Taking a seat on the decidedly Parisienne terrace, on chair slightly too small for me; at a table entirely too small for my meal, we were shown the menu in English – perhaps like in the Inglorious Basterds bar scene my true nationality was given way by a subtle mispronunciation; a slight misuse of regional dialect.  Perhaps it was the fact I was bright pink, misty with sweat and wearing obnoxiously patterned swimming shorts on what locals would consider a mild day; We’ll never know.

The gastronomy on offer was definitely miscellaneous; I struggled to choose which part of the round-up to include Betlem in – the atmosphere and portion control was unmistakably Tapesque (Don’t bother checking if that’s a real word, just go with it), but plates were more adventurous than the standard bravas and croquettes.  That’s not to say they shied away from the classics – the bravas were served with a picante Mojo salsa and the croquettes were among the best – but their signature dishes are the main real reason for visiting.

The King Crab Ravioli wasn’t perfect – while the fresh homemade pasta tasted good, the fact it was overcooked meant the dish was lacking in texture – but the cilantro sauce gave a citrus, soapy contrast to the sweet, milky crab meat.  I usually avoid the type of smoked salmon that sits on supermarket shelves looking like a packet of laminated plasters, but the Salmon cured with Vodka has got me second-guessing the fish entirely.  Lean, thick cut and with just a little bite, it reminded me of velvet pork (surprisingly not the name of a band playing on the ATP stage during the festival); while I expected the vodka to overpower the fish with it’s grainy burn, it actually gave an added crispness to the dish.

Four Steak Tartare Toasts at two mouthfuls or slightly metallic raw steak and sweet shallots apiece was enough to beguile with the first bite, and satiate with the second.  A delicious couple of mouthfuls, but any more would be like watching a slinky on an escalator; pleasant but ultimately repetitive.

The Smoked Anchovies were more rewarding entirely, a robust concoction of smoked fish atop bittersweet layers of celery and artichoke puree – like a trifle for vikings.  The real favourite though, was the Veal Cheeks in Red Wine, hunks of the meat served in the Le Creuset pot that cooked them.  The wine reduced for long enough to not overpower the mild flavour of the meat, which was especially tender even for veal.

Despite cringing at the pretentious name, I went for the deconstructed peach cheesecake, which had a buttery, oaty crumb on the bottom, a peach compote on top, and a brilliantly absurd Cheese Ice Cream in between.  Being served at below-0 enhanced the smooth tannins in the cheese, which gave it a mild throatiness against the sweet peaches and rich biscuit brittle.  The Carrot Crumble was similarly deconstructed (bluergh) and a coconut foam which had me giving props to their creativity – but if you ever catch me daydreaming at my desk on a rainy afternoon, chances are I’ll be thinking about my fleeting holiday romance with that cheese ice cream.

Check out Part 2 of Eating Barcelona – where I review even more Tapas – right here