'Gastro freaks' eat their way across Spain
A detour in Barcelona
We arose that morning, feet hanging out of the car windows and feeling beat up. We hadn't a proper meal in more than 10 hours, a disturbing thought for this band of grizzled gourmands.
Finding decent grub wasn't guaranteed that evening in Barcelona. But I had a wild card in my pocket thanks to Chef Eric Ripert of Le Bernardin in New York City. Before I departed, he had clued me into Paco Meralgo.
"To me today, this is the best food in Barcelona," Ripert told me.
A favorite among Barcelona's moneyed-set, Paco Meralgo is astonishingly good. The food was simple but pure. Not elegant like Arzak or Mugaritz but possessing a purity and reverence for the earthy ingredients on the plate.
We attacked, plowing through at least 18 dishes: razor clams, sea snails, chunks of black pepper fillet, grilled cockles, broiled Padron peppers with sea salt and the best tomato bread I have ever tasted.
Paco Meralgo doesn't have a Michelin star but it's worth a detour.
A $1,500 lunch
Three nights in Barcelona left us exhausted but we had to rally. We had a reservation at Can Fabes, the first haute cuisine in Spain to garner three Michelin stars.
"Cuisine with a Catalan flavor in a contemporary setting," according to the restaurant.
Tucked away in the small town of Sant Celoni, north of Barcelona, chef Santi Santamaria awaited.
"Surprise us," we told the maitre d', choosing a tasting menu of Santi's choice. We were eager to discover what was behind the wizard's curtain.
Everything was plated on gorgeous china. The servers moved like ghosts and were in perfect sync. The cheese boat, carried by two people, was formidable.
The sommelier at Can Fabes designed a fantastic wine pairing — the best of the trip — that included a a rare Chivite 125 Anniversary Chardonnay 2004 and Vina El Pison 2001. The chardonnay blew us away.
Santi, sick with a cold, came to the table. We thanked him.
He was humble.
"His team is better than him today," the maitre d' explained as a rotund Santi nodded.
In the parking lot we held a staff meeting, discussing the damage. Whatever. We were off to Valencia.
No reservations
After a savage skirmish with about 30,000 drunken people at the tomato festival in Bunol, we found ourselves scrambling. We were without reservations and one of the restaurants we intended to try was closed.
What to do? We drank Campari and plotted our next move at the hotel's rooftop bar, taking a good two days to choose our next major dining destination.
Finally, we decided on La Sucursal, a one-star Michelin located in the Institut Valencia d'Art Modern that specializes in Mediterranean cuisine. This was the only time we stepped foot in a museum, and it was only to eat.
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These Brits had no idea how we rolled.
As soon as the cava was corked, I handed one of the Mugaritz's cards — the one that said we wanted to submit — to our server. She spotted the Mugaritz name, saying it out loud. She knew we were very serious.
Over the next four hours, the chef dished out 10 courses. Many of them sparkled with brilliant colors like the pumpkin with creamy foie gras, beans and corn.
"If I was a fairy, I would dance in it," Lucy said.
But it was too much for our guests. They were unprepared for this epic dinner. Judith gasped after the seventh course. "Is there more?" she asked.
"Oh yeah," Rob answered. "We've just finished the fish. We still have meats and desserts."
Judith and Lucy, who was slumping behind a forest of wine glasses, bravely pushed forward.
We were amused. We were pros.
We walked out of the minimalist La Sucursal about 2 a.m. We had learned plenty about the fabled Michelin standards. We had just completed a Michelin trifecta, gorging our way through the guide's tiered system.
The next day, we returned to Madrid, tired, ragged and very hungry. We couldn't think straight. We needed to come off the mountain.
Rob, steering us to a sprawling plaza dotted with tourist traps, chose our last meal in Spain. A half chicken, french fries and desperately needed salad.
We said little. What more was there to say?
We're gastro freaks.
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