Posts from the ‘What to Eat’ Category

Sep 1

Kiosko Universal

As I feared, much lauded Bar Pinotxo was a no go at the Boqueria. Not because it’s slim on seating and I fear crowds and tall backless stools, but because it was shuttered for the August “vacation.” Luckily, there are a handful of tapas bars scattered throughout the market and nearby Kiosko Universal was bustling and open for business. As we walked past the counter, two seats magically opened up and I grabbed them.

Then we had the task of trying to decipher the tiny type Spanish menu scrawled on the blackboard over the stoves. I couldn’t make out a lot of the words, but something with garbanzos and spinach jumped out. I love the chickpea and blood sausage recipe from New Tapas: Culinary Travels With Spain’s Top Chefs that was adapted from Bar Pinotxo, so I figured Kiosko might do good things with nubby legumes too. Laced with chunks of pork, the rich, oily vegetable duo made a hearty first course. I then noticed that practically everyone around us had the same dish. It was popular with good reason.

Next, we went the “what do you recommend route” which I never do in NYC because here I know what I want. It was decided that we’d try a mixed seafood plate because that seemed to be their thing and I like surprises. There weren’t any bad surprises in Barcelona (at least not food-wise. Being cut off from the internet for a week because our hotel was in no hurry to fix it was unexpected. I did begin to see the beauty of the Blackberry, though I’m still not ready to give in to a cell phone or PDA of my own).

A few minute later we were presented with what might be the world’s tiniest clams, shrimp, squid, a white fish (I’m not knowledgeable enough to figure out fish types by look and taste) and what I’ve since discovered were razor clams. I had no idea they were skinny and wormy like that but was glad to have been introduced to a new shellfish in its most basic form.

I’ll admit to not being much of a “let the food speak for itself” ingredient purist. I like spices and sauces (though I draw the line at Red Lobster cheese on everything madness). Here, I finally got the appeal of simple grilled seafood enhanced by salt, olive oil and parsley. Nothing good can come of creamy honey BBQ sauce on your fish.

Kiosko Universal * Rambla 91, Barcelona, Spain

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Sep 1

Cinc Sentits

1/2 I share a cubicle wall with an executive assistant who's been having all sorts of trauma in the past few days trying to organize an off site something or another (I totally don't understand these overblown cushy corporate events masquerading as business) in New Orleans. The trauma stems over a choice of restaurant. The powers that be keep leaning towards contemporary New York style venues, which haven't been very accommodating while the assistant thinks that it would be more fitting to patronize a classic, old school, white tablecloth Creole restaurant since those don't exist here. She asked my opinion and in this situation, I was like go with the classics (really, I would recommend not limiting choices to the French Quarter, but that's another matter).

Cinc Sentits might prompt a similar dilemma. Compared to many of the inventive, playful restaurants in northern Spain, Barcelona's Cinc Sentits is colder and more minimalist. The clean lines and neutrals punctuated with splashes of crimson feels, well, more New York. The family who runs the restaurant are fluent English speakers and smoking isn't allowed. I like Spanish and cigarettes, but this didn't lessen the European dining experience. The ingredients and wines were resolutely Spanish–you wouldn't find these combinations in Manhattan.

I’m going to try and keep this from getting too wordy. I went to town blabbing about Can Roca only because I have trouble being succinct. This time I’ll just jump into the photos immediately and talk later. And no, my memory isn’t that good. I only recall every detail and wine pairing because I had them email me a PDF menu (after all those glasses of wine, it slipped my mind to ask at the end of the meal). I do like how this practice seems to be de rigueur in higher end Spanish restaurants (we received a pretty print out from Can Roca, as well). It would never occur to me to ask for document of what I ate in NYC.

We did the Gran Àpat (chef’s tasting menu) with wine pairings because I don’t trust my own judgment when it comes to the vino.

shot of warm maple syrup, cream, cava sabayon and rock salt
They made a point of saying it was Canadian maple syrup, which James thought was funny for some reason, like that's a mark of quality worth emphasizing. If I'm correct, the chef, Jordi Artal, was raised in Canada so I didn't think it was that weird. It would've been stranger if they'd said Spanish maple syrup.

foie gras with violet marmalade
A different tapa was described in the menu I received so I don't know the finer details. I do have an aversion to eating flower petals, but I can deal with essences like rose, lavender and violet.

peach gazpacho, extra virgin arbequina olive oil, Forum vinegar glaze
I'm still not sure what Forum vinegar is, but it appears to be a Spanish wine vinegar. I was relieved we didn’t receive a melon soup that I’d read about, which I actually would’ve tried because I hate closed minded diners even more than I hate melon.

foie gras "coca"
forum vinegar-glazed leeks, crisp sugar shell, chives
wine: schmitges riesling spätlese (v.q.a. mosel, germany)

So, I never got the red pepper coca I tried for twice at La Vinya del Senyor. This was as close as I’d get, which I’m guessing isn’t that close at all considering the use of quotes.

galician diver scallop
sweet onion escalivada, sunchoke puré, iberian ham chip
wine: pazo piñeiro albariño (d.o. rías baixas, spain)

Traditionally, escalivada is Catalan grilled vegetable combo. I only learned that this very second.

wild mediterannean sea bass
false shellfish risotto, parsley oil
wine: can feixes chardonnay (d.o. penedès, spain)

I think they mean that the risotto isn't a true risotto. The shellfish aren't false, they're langoustines (I asked). I'm not crazy about parsley (or dill, but that's beside the point) but I love anything so vividly green.

iberian suckling pig
priorat and honey glaze, apples deglazed with ratafía
wine: closa batllet (d.o.q. priorat, spain)

This is one of those sous vide masterpieces. They specifically mentioned that it was cooked at 70 degrees, and I wasn’t sure if they were just telling that to Americans because we have issues with bacteria and this slow boil-in-a-bag cooking method. Inspectors were confiscating sous vide equipment here not too long ago. And people question why there’s so little avant garde cooking in NYC.

This was probably my favorite dish, but I love anything that includes crispy pork skin and is both sweet and savory. Ratafia is a liqueur that is either made with bitter almonds or peach pits, I’m not sure which.

artisanal spanish cheeses
forcam : picota cherry and lemon-thyme salad, cascarral : soft almond cube, valdeón : red wine-poached pear
wine: bàrbara forés dolç (d.o. terra alta, spain)

We were instructed to eat the cheeses and accompaniments left to right, mild to strong. I’m kind of a sucker for rules, so I did just that. The middle one might’ve been my top choice. I do love blue cheese, but it can be mouth-zinging even with a sweet pear slice and glass of caramelly wine to balance the flavors.

textures of lemon
ice cream, cake, curd, and espuma with vodka granizado
wine: chivite vendimia tardía moscatel (d.o. navarra, spain)

I noticed that another couple at the restaurant (as well as people who've blogged their meal) had this dessert paired with Grey Goose vodka. I'm not sure why we got the moscatel and if that's a better or worse choice. I also noticed that a guy at a different neighboring table had eaten all the goo and left the cake behind. What kind of freak doesn't like cake?

valrhona chocolate "crocant"
home-made nocilla praliné, roasted hazelnut ice cream
wine: noe pedro ximenez (d.o. xérès-sherry-jerez, spain)

I could’ve sworn there was banana in this dessert, though there’s no evidence of that from the description. And all I have is the description to rely on since I ate the whole damn thing before realizing that I’d never taken a photo. I always wonder if others finish every dish when they do tasting menus or if we’re just gluttons. The portions weren't enormous here so I didn't feel bad. (At Blue Hill at Stone Barns, though, we almost died from the massive food intake and probably should've left more bites behind.) I’d been so good about capturing every course up until the very end, too. I blame the wine.

I'm scared that I'm becoming jaded (like last night I had some supermarket prosciutto because I was dying for cured ham and it just tasted salty and dull like those thin Land O' Frost lunchmeats I loved as a kid). When I came back from vacation my supervisor (whose personality is like 85% of the reason why I had to get out of there) who's all trendy restaurant obsessed, asked, "Oh, did they serve things in shot glasses?" "I love it when they use spoons like that. I want to do that at a dinner party" Ugh.

I would declare shot glasses and spoons as totally over (because, you know, I'm very influential in these matters) but I don't honestly think they're ubiquitous country-wide. Oh shit, I just remembered that they were totally mentioned in yesterday's NY Times article, "Tiny Come-Ons, Plain and Fancy " (barf) . It's not until you see a trend adapted at Cheesecake Factory that you know it's five years past its prime. Now the contrarian in me never wants to eat an amuse-bouche presented in either of those forms ever again.

Cinc Sentits * 58 Carrer Aribau, Barcelona, Spain

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Aug 31

La Bodegueta

Yes, I love chains in the U.S. (and Canada—go Tim Hortons) but I wasn’t sure if that was the best behavior to indulge in while in Barcelona. And they have enticing chains too. I was fascinated by all the bocadillo shops like Sandwich and Friends (what’s better than friends and sandwiches?), Pans & Company and Bocatta (which we did try on a whim one late night).

After gawking at all the moderniste architecture in the Eixample we wanted a low key lunch, but that strip of the ramblas is like tourist trap central. I scoured one of our guidebooks desperate for a regular, non-fancy, non-fast food option. Mildly hidden on a downstairs corner, La Bodegueta was totally it. (Here’s a photo, not taken by me or anyone I know. I never remember to take shots of interiors or exteriors—I get all caught up in the food.)

I wouldn’t call it a dive, like I think some have described it. It’s sort of no frills and rickety, maybe more the Spanish equivalent of a faded American diner with a touch of cafe. They did have a three-course menu del dia like I think all restaurants in Spain are mandated to offer during lunch, but we just wanted glorified snacks so we ordered manchego and chorizo bocadillos, halves to be swapped so we’d get a little of each, and patatas bravas to share. Oh, and a bottle of Voll Damm. I noticed a lot of people ordering what I think are called claras. Akin to an English shandy, the drink consists of beer mixed with lemonade. I’m very when-in-Rome, but I wasn’t quite convinced of that beverage.

I’ve noticed that patatas bravas are always kind of different in NYC. I don’t know if there’s a standard in Spain either. My favorites I have had here were from Tia Pol. These came with separate dollops of aioli and tomato puree. The bocadillos were as spartan as can be. The bread is coated with squeezed tomato juice and drizzled olive oil pa amb tomaquet style and then filled with one ingredient. Meat, cheese, whatever, but that’s all, no extras. It’s the anti-NYC deli sandwich in girth, though not completely unrelated in simplicity. Bread, meat mustard is pretty bare bones when you think about it.

La Bodegueta * Rambla Catalunya, 100, Barcelona, Spain

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Aug 30

George’s Bistro

1/2 I must mention George’s Bistro, if only to give one semi-review of a Welsh restaurant. I also ate a beef and onion pie from a chip shop that’s supposed to be quite remarkable (I can’t stomach battered, fried fish, despite loving other fried foods like French fries) and had toffee ice cream in a cone. Oh, and I had an order of chips at a pub. But none of those were actual sit down meals.

I had horrible stomach cramps and heartburn my entire weekend in Wales (and it began before the wedding/12-hour drinking binge so alcohol and assorted substances weren’t the culprit) and I don’t want to attribute it to the food. Maybe I just don’t travel well.

My mom became irrationally fixated on trying the “carvery” at George’s on Sunday. The few restaurants in town all seemed to have sandwich boards out front advertising this concept, which I imagined entailed cuts of meat. Because I only see my mom every couple years and I’m a wonderful daughter, I went along with her carvery idea. I will admit to liking roast meats and boiled vegetables, though it’s not the kind of thing I ever eat in NYC. I don’t think it’s even the kind of fare I grew up on. Good food memories and childhood aren’t synonymous for me. Neither my sister nor I were crazy about anything my mom came up with (which was why it was funny that our two cousins at the wedding whom we rarely see remarked that they remembered my mom making good spaghetti and garlic bread like 25+ years ago when they visited us).

George’s is in the George Hotel, and it’s sort of a stodgy, musty affair. But fine enough for a buffet. And I don’t think that buffet means all-you-can-eat, but simply that you can serve yourself from a spread of food. I say this because my grandma had like three desserts and then the stepdude had seconds too, and they were all gung ho to serve themselves from the dessert cart even though there’s a girl who’d supposed to do that for you. I don’t think the staff cared much (well, maybe they did—when I finally got around to dessert and politely asked for one slice of cake I was given a shitty, tiny piece with its frosting all falling off when everyone else earlier got huge, tidy slabs) but it didn’t go unnoticed by me because I’m a freak about rule following.

First course was shrimp cocktail slathered with what I’m guessing was marie rose sauce or lentil soup. I tried the shrimp despite fearing mayonnaise. The carvery part comes in when you choose amongst roast beef (with horseradish), pork (with applesauce) or lamb (with mint sauce) and it’s nicely cut for you and put on your plate. I didn’t have the beef because I didn’t want to be gluttonous, but everyone else got all three. The pork was the best because you get cracklings with it, and well, I just love pork. Vegetables included carrots, corn, cabbage and roast potatoes. Yorkshire pudding and gravy was also a must.

The aforementioned dessert cart contained bread pudding (which no one wanted), a fluffy chocolate layer cake, éclairs and something else that I can’t recall. It seemed like the sort of food that should be eaten on a wet, gray Sunday.

George’s Bistro * 23-25 High St., Criccieth, Wales

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Aug 29

Senyor Parellada

1/2 It would’ve been hard to ignore Senyor Parellada since it’s situated in the ground floor of the Banys Oriental where we stayed. After 9:30 pm there’s a perpetual line to get in (even around midnight when they close) and an unmistakable olive oil and garlic aroma wafts through the lobby, hovering near the elevators where a door opens directly into the dining room. That’s the Spain smell. Hong Kong was punctuated by whiffs of five spice and Malaysia would hit you with wafting shrimp paste. I’m not sure what scent sums up America. Don't tell me hot dogs.

We discovered that there’s something a little cruel about Senyor. The menu you’re initially handed (as well as the one in the window) is entirely in Catalan. It’s possible to get the gist of some dishes if you know any Spanish or French, but much of it is impenetrable. I started feeling nervous and squirmy (which wasn't helped by both Italian couples–young and dull on my right and middle aged and frumpy on my left—continuously giving us looks throughout the meal. There's nothing ruder than staring at people when they're eating and I've noticed this behavior before from Europeans in NYC. I don’t know where this stems from, but it’s incredibly off putting. Even if someone’s a midget, missing limbs, or sideshow obese you don’t stare at them, duh) until I realized everyone else in the room had a yellow laminated menu not the colorful paper fold out version. It turned out they have a multilingual menu in French, German, Italian and English (I guess if you’re a strict Spanish speaker you’re shit out of luck).

I couldn't help but notice that one group walked out shortly after being seated, though who knows if language confusion was the reason (this also happened with an American couple who walked in off the street at Cinc Sentits, which to me isn’t the kind of restaurant you casually decide to dine at).

To be honest, I don’t know all the classics of Catalan cuisine so I wasn’t sure what to order. Some of the food seemed to have French leanings, some struck me as very traditional. We split an order of toasted bread with pate, jamon and cheese. James tried bacalao with white beans and I had a duck leg with figs. Dessert had to be crema Catalana, a free form crème brulee that the gentleman next to us scarffed down in seconds (I encountered the same gusto lavished on a serving of paella by an Italian the following afternoon).

From reading a few pre-vacation blurbs, I had expected the brasserie style restaurant to be smaller, dimmer and dowdier. It’s actually comfortably frenetic, crisp, bright (though obviously not bright enough to take decent photos without a flash–candle light isn't conducive to capturing food digitally) and much more reasonably priced than the atmosphere might suggest. I wish that I could try it again now that I know the routine. Week long vacations just aren’t long enough for seconds.

Senyor Parellada * Carrer Argenteria 37, Barcelona, Spain

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Aug 26

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El Celler de Can Roca

I don’t think I’ve ever eaten at a Michelin-starred restaurant, let alone a two-star (three stars is the upper limit in Michelin’s realm, quite unlike New York’s new five-star scale and Time Out NY’s slightly newer six-star insanity) so I was revved up by the prospect. There are three three-stars also close to Barcelona, but El Bulli was out of the question since I’m no reservations guru, and I’d heard that Can Fabes and Sant Pau weren’t remarkably better than Can Roca, yet pricier.

New York, which was just granted a Michelin Guide this year, has only four two-star restaurants (Bouley, Daniel, Danube and Masa, if you’re curious). It’s funny because I live in a town where high end dining abounds yet I rarely indulge in any of it. I’ve only eaten at three of the one-stars (Annisa, WD-50 and Peter Luger) and haven’t set foot in the higher ranking establishments. I’m thinking maybe the new ballyhooed Eleven Madison Park incarnation for my seventh dating anniversary next month.

We took the hour and a half train ride to Girona. There was a little time to kill before our 3 pm lunch reservation, so we wandered around the station, smoked cigarettes, had coffee. There were taxis lined up outside so we figured we’d be safe. But of course, being me, this would not be the case. We had no idea how far away the restaurant was, but allowed ourselves half an hour for the taxi trip. So when 2:30 rolled around there wasn’t a single cab to be found. We waited, and waited and started getting scared (we had the worst time ever on our last vacation trying to catch a cab to a restaurant in Macau. We couldn’t hail one despite an hour of trying and when we finally flagged one down, they wouldn’t take us to Fernando’s. I was so exasperated with Macau that we just ferried it back to Hong Kong, never tasting the fabled suckling pig we’d come for). Then a freak thunderstorm broke out. Jesus Christ.

I spied a cab on the other side of the station so we ran and grabbed it, but after the driver heard where we wanted to go he was all, “tan lejos” so far. We tried both taxi numbers in our guide book and one no one answered, the other was dead. In a panic, we went to the information desk and asked the nice girl how to call a taxi and she gave us the same number we already had. Desperate, we had her point on a map where the restaurant was from the train station and she was also heading into “tan lejos” territory but I think she meant to walk, not drive because that’s what we were contemplating. It didn’t look far to me at all, but then I’ve discovered that New Yorkers have very different ideas about what’s walkable.

Just then, I noticed a new cab had pulled up outside so I ran and accosted the guy, practically begging him to drive us to Can Roca since we only a had a few minutes before our scheduled meal (I was shaking in my boots because I’m a punctuality nut, but then I reminded myself that late or not this was Spain where time has less meaning—why else would Dali make those clocks melt?). He didn’t have a problem with it. The drive was only like five minutes, if that. Insane. Tan lejos, my ass. If I wasn’t wearing heels, we seriously could’ve hoofed it if need be (though all the roundabouts and lack of right-angled street corners might’ve thrown us off).

So we made it on time and all was right with the world again. The first thing we both noticed was the décor. Totally Ureña. Ok, I’m making my own inside jokes now. When it opened earlier this year, Ureña got so much shit over its bland hotel lobby style that the food almost became secondary. Despite the Dominican chef going trendy Nuevo Spanish with his cuisine, I don’t think his eponymous restaurant is calculatedly trying to approximate a weirdo high end dining room in Spain. He probably didn’t have a big budget and fancy investors, cut the guy some slack.

The tasting menu seven courses for €75 (I don’t have that anywhere in writing, but it’s the number that sticks in my mind) seemed like the best route. A la carte would leave us wanting more and the chef’s menu might be over the top for the middle of the afternoon. We would’ve done dinner over lunch but the last train back to Barcelona is around 10 pm, far too early for a meal that would surely go hours and not even begin until after 9 pm.

I hate that I’m a wine retard almost as much as I hate being Spanish illiterate. I’m working on rectifying both of those situations, but these things take time. We took the coward’s way out and asked for wine pairings. If I’m correct, this was a reasonable €25 or so a person (especially when you read the things other people order. Do you think there was an upsurge in envy and feelings of inadequacy with the advent of the internet?). I’d heard about the three volume wine list that gets wheeled around on its own podium. That’s almost more simultaneously funny and frightening than snakes on a plane (sorry, I had to toss in planes and snakes in there somewhere). I’m not qualified to speak about the wines we were given and honestly can’t remember many of them (except for the gratis [I think] Bollinger served with the amuses) especially since they were described to us in Spanish. There was a port and a sherry in there, it never occurs to me to order sweet wines (which James took to calling "Disarannos," possibly to annoy me like when he intentionally mispronounces “The Devil Wears Pradas,” making fun of the lowbrow tendency towards adding unnecessary S’s to proper nouns. [I've humiliatingly said, and recently heard my mom say Fred Meyers for this popular NW store, simply called Fred Meyer, so no one's immune.] “Oh, another glass of Disaranno.” We’ve never had the amaretto, but it must’ve made an impression from the old Queer Eye days when they seemed to be their only advertiser and got mentioned on every episode) though they make sense with crazy combinations like foie gras and chocolate.

Only one of our servers spoke spotty English so a lot of details were lost on me when they presented each new dish. The additional trickiness is that the cuisine doesn’t always lend itself to simple translations. The dishes are fanciful, there are visual puns, quotes employed in menu descriptions, it’s not always easy to get if you’re not a native Spanish speaker. Like is the coco helado rallado con sorbete de yema de huevo mimicking an egg yolk, the orange orb on white edible grated coconut canvas or is the ice cream actually flavored with egg yolk? I try not to over analyze the food and simply concentrate on flavors. Even that can be difficult with so much going on. I was rattled with the newness of Spain, the fanfare of an acclaimed restaurant, concentrating on foreign words, the giddiness of the alcohol creeping up on me—sometimes it’s hard to stay focused. Thank goodness for the novel concept of presenting customers with a print out of what they’ve eaten (if you ask—I wouldn’t have known to do this if I hadn’t read about it on the web). I’ve never seen this done in NYC. I’ll simply show photos and offer mangled translations and vague descriptions. Delving into the minutiae of taste isn’t for me.

crujiente de tripa de bacallao/salt cod rinds
These were like pork cracklings but with bacalao skin. Fun to snack on while drinking champagne.

caramelo de sesame and crujiente de parmesano con aceite de trufa/sesame seed brittle and parmesan strips with truffle oil
More pre-meal snacks. Sweet and savory.

sardinas con helado de anchoas, moras y Olivares, veloute de hierbas anisadas con hinojo y agua de mar, higos con foie gras y Pedro Ximenez/sardines with anchovy ice cream, mulberries and Olivares, veloute of anise with fennel and sea water, figs with foie gras and Pedro Ximenez sherry

Ok, I'll admit that this tapas trio is baffling me. They weren't explained clearly to us and the Spanish descriptions aren't helping much because I'm not sure what some of the ingredients are. The spoon in the foreground definitely contained berries and fish, but I have no idea what Olivares is, which translates literally olive grove. Perhaps a brand name of olive oil? The shot glass contained a licorice-y concoction with a smidgen of sea creature that I'm thinking must be the agua de mar. It clearly wasn't a blob of sea water. The dish held a thick pudding, which must've been composed of figs and foie gras. I thought that it was topped with caviar, but there's no mention of that in the name.

sopa de cerezas con gambas y helado de jengibre/cherry soup with shrimp and ginger ice cream

The amazing nearly hot pink hue was much more vivid than pictured (I don't use a flash in restaurants). This was very bright and refreshing.

bonbon de foie gras con oporto Taylor's/foie gras bonbon with Taylor's port

A play on candy, these bonbons were foie gras encircling a chocolate center, topped with truffles. Olive oil and salt dotted the edges of the plate. The was insanely rich and I'm afraid it gave me a stomach ache later.

berenjena con anchoas/eggplant with anchovies

A smoked eggplant mousse with an aspic layer, anchovy and a little leaf, possibly basil. Our server was trying to search for the right word when describing this and after a few seconds declared, "aubergine." I should've been all, "speak American, dammit." I'm honestly not sure that the typical American (whatever that means) knows what aubergines are. Courgettes either, for that matter. I'll never understand why the British use all those Frenchified words.

lenguado con "bullavesa" /sole bouillabaisse

This was a sprightly dish, not dark and ominous like the photo intimates. I couldn't really discern what the different green, white, yellow and red circles were, though I'm sure thought was put into them.

ventresca de cabrito con parmentier de leche de cabra y menta/baby goat confit with goat's milk and mint foam

I had no idea this was goat until I looked up cabrito. For some reason I thought it was suckling pig. I think this is a play on suckling pig in its mother's milk (or some such dish). That's kind of gruesome if you think about it, but not as creepy as eating flowers (see below).

coco helado rallado con sorbete de yema de huevo/coconut granita with egg yolk sorbet

Like I said earlier, I'm not clear if this sorbet was yolk flavored (clearly I have no palate) or mimicking a yolk in appearance. I liked that it was served in a coconut shell bowl.

adaptacion del perfume Carolina de Carolina Herrera/adaptation of Carolina Herrera's perfume Carolina: Despite the sheer novelty (I'm normally a sucker for novelty), this dish was the hardest for me to handle. I'm really fucking scared of eating flowers. I'll eat organ meats and baby animals, but flowers absolutely gross me out. (I found a flickr set from someone who ate at Can Roca the week after we did and they had a dish with squab and rose petals. It looks beautiful, but it might've freaked me out a bit.) I used to not even be able to eat lettuce or spinach if I could still make out ribs and stems but I've gotten a little better with that.

Youngest brother, Jordi Roca, is the mastermind behind all these inventive desserts. He is known for creating edibles to approximate the scent of perfumes like Miracle, Eternity and Tresor (I've also heard Polo, which I have horrible connotations with. I can't imagine eating Polo without gagging over bad teenage memories). You're brought strips spritzed with the perfume to smell and compare with the taste of the dessert. It's kind of uncanny.

End of dinner confections. I don't know the details. There was a white chocolate praline bark, fruity gel squares. White chocolate bonbons. The two in the right, front corner elude me.

We couldn’t figure out the youngish possibly-not-a-couple seated diagonally from us. The male was disheveled Euro-hip, the girl more mousey yet still artsy. They had a table already filled with wine glasses when we were seated and they were the only table remaining in our dining area when we headed out. There had to be at least 25 glasses in various states of fullness. I assumed they were doing a lengthy wine tasting, but then food would also come out so perhaps they’d opted for the chef’s choice route. They received a lot of attention from who I think was Josep Roca, sommelier/maitre d’. The girl had on a wedding ring, the guy did not. He seemed intoxicated, she didn’t. When she got up to use the restroom, she hugged him and he forcefully grabbed her ass. Their relationship was ambiguous. What were they doing here on a Tuesday afternoon? We were tourists, we had an excuse. I suppose they could’ve been, too. There’s no reason to think that all Spanish speakers are residents of the city I see them in.

Despite trying not be even an occasional smoker, I do love that smoking is permitted in the restaurant as is the case with Spain in general (though not at Cinc Sentits, where we dined a few nights later. I think there’s a direct correlation between the English fluency of the staff and smoking restrictions). At first James was like, “no we shouldn’t, it’s rude.” But the girl with the 20 wine glasses was puffing away the whole afternoon and I couldn’t let her have all the fun. During a marathon meal it’s luxurious to be leisurely about the whole thing. Stop to sip your wine, relax, converse, have a cigarette between courses. Worry about your health later.

I hate to say this (ok, I don’t because bathroom humor is the only thing that gets me by) but serious, er, digestive troubles slammed both of us later. James was having trauma at the hotel that evening and I refused to believe Can Roca was the stomach wrenching culprit. But me with the sluggish metabolism got my payback in the form of an unexpected accident the following afternoon at El Corte Ingles. ¿Donde esta el baño? (but I knew the word was baño in Spain so I wasn’t only fretting over finding a bathroom but not sounding like idiot while asking. It’s an L word and I’ve already forgotten it) got added to my tiny repertoire quite quickly.

I think the food was just really rich. My stomach isn’t accustomed to foie gras bon bons. James insists it was the anchovy eggplant custard that did him in. Nevertheless, we enjoyed the Can Roca experience. I apologize for the mildly gruesome postscript. I will say that just because you spent $300 on food is no guarantee that it will stay in your stomach for long. But aren’t the best experiences often ephemeral?

El Cellar de Can Roca * Carretera Taiala 40, Girona, Spain

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Aug 25

Nha Trang Palace

I’m on my Barcelona kick, but this pre-vacation meal has been sitting in the hopper and I can’t just toss it out for bigger and better things. I really like Vietnamese food, but for me it’s kind of a back burner cuisine. When I think Asian, Thai, Chinese or Malaysian pop into my head first. Vietnamese feels healthy to me and I’m not always in a healthy mood. And now that I think about it, I almost only ever eat the same three things: banh mi, cha gio or pho. I need some serious horizon expanding.

I had originally planned a birthday party for July 28, yet somehow decided to cancel it, had zero celebration whatsoever, ended up eating soup in Sunset Park and going to bed relatively early. And who says 34 isn’t fun? At least I got an ice cream cake.

I'm always amazed by the many permutations of pho available at most Vietnamese restaurants. I usually stick with the everything but the kitchen sink dac biet approach. The ingredients do differ. Here the $5.25they included verbatim: six difference brisket, navel, frank, omosa, tendon and eye of round. Ok, frank I think is flank. I'm a little scared of what navel and omosa are, though at least one must be a variation of tripe, as there were bumpy white sea creature looking strips in the bowl. I do like the meaty contrasts of crunchy, gelatinous and chewy, and how the paper thin rare round cooks in the broth.

The accompaniment plate had basil, lemon wedges and bean sprouts. Sometimes you get jalepeno, but not here. Of course, no one’s stopping you from adding a little “rooster sauce.”

We also had cha gio because fried rolls are always irresistible, but they weren't remarkable here. The filling was very porky, maybe a bit too much so and the wrapper was bubbly from the oil, but lacked a crisp bite.

Nha Trang Palace is likeable, but no great shakes. If you’re ever in Sunset Park and want pho, it’s as good as any.

Nha Trang Palace * 5906 Eighth Ave., Brooklyn, NY

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Aug 25

Sagardi & Euskal Etxea

Barcelona isn't much of a tapas town. Basque pintxos are more the thing (though San Sebastian is where they really do pintxos up big—we didn’t encounter anything nearly as esoteric as the examples on Todopintxos). It's fairly easy to figure out if you're in for tapas or pintxos. One giveaway that you’re in for the latter is if the restaurant has a seemingly superfluous X in the name (funny, that I ended up in two regions—Wales and Catalan—rife with preserving ancient, hard to pronounce languages). Another tip off is a bar covered with plates of sliced french bread topped with toothpick-speared goodies.

If you’re unfamiliar with the routine (I’m obsessed with doing things the right way and not looking like a retard, which kind of makes me a retard), the procedure is asking for a plate, then helping yourself to whatever catches your fancy. It’s not a simple as it sounds, though, because these bars are often four people deep. You might get a glimpse or two of something enticing but maneuvering to reach and pick up said snack is an art form I didn’t have time to cultivate. If you’re nimble enough to grab a few pintxos and lucky to be standing in the right spot when something fresh and tasty is brought from the kitchen, you’ll be set. Just don’t toss out your toothpicks after eating since that’s how they tally up your bill. I can’t help but imagine that diners try to beat this honor system at least occasionally, or maybe that’s just the New Yorker in me scheming.

I had my trusty list of restaurants to try and weirdly enough, a good majority of them happened to be in the vicinity of our hotel. I'm not used to such convenience. On most of my few other travels, getting to all the places I wanted to eat took more effort (with the exception of the The Scarlet being practically next door to the Maxwell Food Centre) and usually involved subways not strolls.

The only stumbling block was the August closures (I'm still fascinated how entire European countries can take an entire month off at the same time and the world doesn't explode). Oh, and the overwhelming crowds filling eateries during peak hours. Agoraphobic tapas lovers like me must overcome their fears. I suppose a few glasses of sidra helps the nerves.

Sagardi wasn't on my list. I put a lot of faith in my list, which is essentially just cut and pasted blurbs from various websites and blogs, but it does the trick. Our strip, Carrer Argenteria, was tourist central, kind of more East Village in vibe with the dense foreigner concentration of Times Square, so I didn't suspect Sagardi to be much of a gem (though perennially packed Taller de Tapas, diagonally across the square was on my list, so maybe my tourist trap theory holds no water). Despite my love of chains, I wasn’t sure if my love extended to European ones.

No matter, we wanted a snack around 5 pm, well before proper Spanish dinner time and Sagardi had open outdoor tables, which are a premium on any night of the week. Of course, only tourists are eating tapas at this hour but I was a tourist so I didn’t care that I was being gauche. I needed a pintxos fix before my real 10 pm dinner.

I was only going to pick out four items, but really if you’re splitting each morsel in two that’s not tons of food. I didn’t know what I was grabbing, but they turned out to include a cod-potato stuffed pequillo pepper that was breaded and fried, mozzarella, tomato, anchovy and oregano, another with sardines, red pepper and frizzled leeks (I think) and a fourth that I can’t even figure out from looking at the photo, but looks like it contained grated cheese and a paste of some sort gluing it down with something vaguely chartreuse and mauvey—a pickled pepper and squid? That makes no sense. I guess it wasn’t very memorable. Maybe they all had anchovies…I’m confused. James ended up going back for a second round and found ones topped with tomato paste, parsley leaf and anchovy, a simple jamon, sweet cream cheese with blueberry sauce, shredded mint and what I swear was a carrot cookie and one using salmon, dill diced onion.

On our last evening I wanted a more authentic experience, so we tried to get to Euskal Etxea early, around 9 pm but the bar and smattering of seats were already taken and a strong crowd was taking hold. We still did OK, and I would’ve stayed longer and had a second drink if it hadn’t been so hot inside. I don’t fare well without air conditioning and this was one of the rare places I encountered during our brief Spain visit that was au natural. Is sweating while eating an authentic Basque experience? This bar is so hardcore that they don't even offer Spanish on their website, the two choices are Basque or Catalan. English? Don’t even ask.

Here, it was tough to survey the food scene fully. I ended up picking a few random treats like one with a cheese (possibly manchego) wedge, walnuts and caramel (I don’t think it was honey, despite that seeming more plausible), one with little poached eggs, cheese and anchovies, and another with sardines and red peppers. I also got a mini croissant with smoked salmon a little later. James got a few non-bread pintxos (they’re not all bread based) like a gazpacho shot and little glass dish containing mushrooms and shrimp in a wine based sauce. We also sampled a fresh from the fryer, cheese croquette, or I guess croqueta. You have to get a jump on the hot stuff.

Sidra, hard cider, is a respectable drink with pintxos. Txakoli, a lightly fizzy, Basque white wine is also an option, but I never had a single glass in Barcelona. I did drink a lot of cava, but not with my pintxos. I had wanted to try El Xampanyet, (X pronounced CH so the word sounds vaguely like champagne when said aloud and makes sense since it’s a cava bar) right across the street from Euska Etxea (yes, it was on my list) but unfortunately, they were victims of the shuttered-up August syndrome.

I was surprised when our toothpicks were added up and we’d only spent €17 euros. I’m pretty sure we spent closer to €30 at Sagardi earlier in the week. I recall their pintxos being pricier, €1.92 each to be exact. Euskal Etxea’s were probably more in the €1.25-1.50 range, which seems more typical.

Pintxos, tapas, whatever you want to call them, make me happy. I used to have fantasies of eating hors d'oeuvres and appetizers for every meal. But it’s a lot of effort and you need a lot of ingredients. It’s not terribly feasible for one person. I guess that’s what the whole small plates hoo ha is about. I just can’t help but feel that that’s a thinly veiled move to get people to spend more and get less. I don’t go for it. Can’t a girl love tiny food and still be thrifty?

Sagardi * Carrer Argenteria 62, Barcelona, Spain
Euskal Etxea * Placeta Montcada 1-3, Barcelona, Spain

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Aug 21

La Vinya del Senyor

I'd read in The New Spanish Table and in a Food & Wine round-up (by the same author, so it was sort of like only one very enthusiastic recommendation) about a coca (Catalan pizza, as opposed to Italian pizza, which we ended up eating this same night) with candied red peppers and I loved the idea of it. I wouldn't have necessarily sought it out but the wine bar happened to be just down the street from our hotel.

Totally discombobulated, we stopped by on our first evening in Barcelona. I couldn't figure out the seating etiquette (I'm spastic about following the rules and doing things the right way to the point of annoyance). All of the prime tables out front were taken, as were the stools at the bar. No one was standing like in some tapas places so I couldn't decide how to position ourselves as to not be in the way, but still have a place to put food and drink if we ordered.

Eventually, I mellowed out and ordered two glasses of cava and the coca, which they were out of. Somehow I wasn't surprised, not to be a naysayer, but this typically happens when I have a strict idea in my head about what I want. Instead, we tried bacalao, which came cubed, splashed with olive oil and topped with crunchy sea salt and thin tomato shreds (this was the only actual tomato we ate in Spain. Barcelona is all about the pa amb tomaquet–I love Flickr pools obsessively devoted to single food items–tomato rubbed on bread. I couldn't figure out why the essence seemed more coveted than the flesh) and what I swear was called an anchovy empanada, but turned out to be breaded filets. (I just discovered this afternoon while looking at a Salvadoran menu from Queens that empanizado means breaded, so the words are related). I was just happy to be eating some fish and fresh vegetables after my brief meat and boiled carrots and cabbage stint in the U.K.

On our last night in Barcelona, a mere four days later, we thought we'd do a quick try for the coca again. It was that weird time of night where it's too early to eat dinner in Spain but well past lunch. A lot of restaurants hadn't opened yet, but La Vinya del Senyor seemed to be doing business so we popped in, got a couple cavas and asked for the coca…and were thwarted again. They don't start serving food until 8pm, only cured meats or a cheese plate were available. No wonder everyone had the cheese plate. We got it too. Cheese is great, but I started feeling like god didn't want me having that sugary red pepper coca.

La Vinya del Senyor * Plaça Santa Maria 5, Barcelona, Spain

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Aug 14

Cookshop

I knew this would happen. My birthday somehow seemed to get lost in the shuffle this year. This was my annual celebratory dinner from way back in July. Now I've already gone on vacation and it's practically the middle of August. Barcelona is fresh in my mind and Cookshop seems like old news despite being a very charming restaurant.

Every time I've started to describe Cookshop to someone it ended up sounding mundane. Nice or interesting don't really cut it. To say, "I had a salad with blue cheese and bacon" doesn't really cut it. But I did have a salad with blue cheese and bacon. Simply, the food tasted like food…but better, and that's kind of novel. Rather than elaborate, I'll show some semi-pretty pictures.

Nice to see that carbs are back. I could've sworn the dip had tarragon in it, but supposedly it was a creme fraiche and onion blend.

Chile dusted fried hominy is a total appetite killer. I could eat the whole plate myself, though it's probably best suited for sharing.

Here's that bacon and blue cheese salad. I was thinking that it was iceberg, but I think it was butter lettuce. It was one pile of rich, creamy goodness.