It's always hard work going on holiday with Gorbals, especially from an eating point of view. His idea of a holiday comprises two things,
sleeping and drinking, both of which he could do in Brussels. But once
dragged from his pit, he can be enticed on long walks by a
Hansel-and-Gretl trail of bar-hopping. His first project, once Abroad,
is to learn what the local beer is, how it is drunk and how to go about
ordering a large one. He has a good ear for languages, and even managed
this in Poland.
In Barcelona the local brew is Estrella and the
servings are "jarra" (normal size) or "grande" (pint) (accompanied by
helpful mime action). There is also a "cana" which is about a
mouthful, which he didn't bother learning. Due diligence done, he was
ready for Barcelona. But was Barcelona ready for Gorbals?
I
don't mind a cold jarra at the end of a long hot day, or even at
lunchtime, but I was in search of a fruit-based drink for the evening.
In Barcelona, the drink de rigueur is vermut. Or vermouth if you
will. Nothing so manufactured as Martini Rosso, here every bar makes
it to their own recipe. I asked a waiter como se bebe el vermut, he told me con hielo.
On the rocks. My first taste was very pleasant. It became my
Barcelona drink. Red, mostly, or they also have a white version. Or
sometimes I had a sangria for a change, to fulfil my five a day. They
certainly know how to do a fruit-based drink for the ladies.
We
both speak enough Español de Vacaciones to get by, Catalan is another
story. But luckily everyone in Barcelona speaks Spanish. And English.
And in the area we were staying, near the Arc de Triomf, Chinese. Our
local downstairs bar turned out to be Chinese, but the morning coffee
was as good as anywhere. A Spanish breakfast is one of the great
breakfasts of the world in my humble opinion. Spanish caffe con leche is up there with Portuguese meija leite, and accompanied by a freshly squeezed Valencia orange juice and a light flaky pastry, is the perfect start to the day.
I
had not ventured as far as the beach on my previous day trip with
Harold, and Barcelona is very much a beach town. The beach is walking
distance from the city centre, if you're not too knackered, otherwise
public transport will take you there. This is where the Barcelonés come
to play. And eat. Around the Platja San Carles are a number of vermuterias and tapas restaurants. Of course the one we really wanted to eat in was closed. We spent a happy hour or two in Bar Fermin, a Belgian beer bar, before heading for Taverna Iberia
in the old quarter a few streets back from the beach. Restaurants in
Barcelona appear to be mostly run and staffed by subcontinentals of
some description (Indian, Pakistani or Bangladeshi) but the food is
typically Catalan. I had garlic prawns, which were so good I ordered a
second dish. Gorbals had a tortilla. Now, in my judgment the
tortillas in Barcelona were not as good as the ones in the Basque
Country. They were individual size and clearly cooked earlier and kept
warm, meaning they lacked the oozy gooiness of Basque tortillas de
patatas which are much bigger and slightly undercooked to start with,
left on the counter under a cover and served in slices. There is even a man in San Sebastian who makes one dish a day - a huge tortilla, serving
about 12 - and people queue up hours ahead to eat it.
Barceloneta old town is very much the place to eat, especially seafood. Another evening we ate at Can Ramonet
opposite the market. Anywhere in the vicinity of a market is a good
bet. Here, the fresh fish was on display at the entrance. I ordered
monkfish, and Gorbals had a fish & rice soup which came in a tureen
(two full helpings, which he duly demolished).
Spanish
markets are a feast for all the senses. We went to the Mercat de la Boqueria
on the Monday before heading to the airport and ate lunch in one of the
market restaurants under the colonnades, Pez Gordo
(The Fat
Fish), where we found ourselves squeezed between a friendly Japanese man
and his grown up daughter, who ordered a huge plate of seafood "con
todo", and a pair of middle aged ladies from Tasmania who overhead us
discussing the film "Scent of a Woman" (the accordionist had just
played Por Una Cabeza) and jumped in. We ended up spending the whole
meal talking to them and learned their whole life story. They had made a
last minute decision to fly to Barcelona to surprise the daughter of
one of them, who was celebrating her 21st birthday with a round-Europe
tour and had invited lots of friends to join her on the big day in
nearby Badalona. I do hope it went well. Things like that can
backfire.
Paul the goal-predicting octopus came to an ignominious end after predicting a 5-0 win by France over Argentina in the final.
I
bought vac-packed serrano ham and olives to take home. Basic serrano is fairly cheap, about 5 euros for 100g, but it gets more expensive as you rise in quality. Pata Negra, made from acorn fed pigs, is the next one up, and the pick of the pork at about 20 euros for 100g is Bellota, made from pigs who are hand fed acorns with a silver spoon while reclining in a bubble bath to a soundtrack of Mozart. The Spanish look after their pigs better than their children.
