Photo Travel Log 2012: Arzak

Editor's Note - This is our best attempt at helping Saints fans cope with an 0-2 start to the season. Instead of dwelling on our receivers' dropped balls and the defense's ineptitude, let's sit down for lunch at one of the most renowned restaurants in the world.

After three nights in Madrid, we picked up a rental car from the Atocha train station and headed north to San Sebastian. The drive through northern Spain was a mix of industrial centers, farmland, and snow-capped mountains. We made two stops along the way for wine tasting purposes, and I will write more about those at a later date.

If you ever watched more than an hour of the Travel Channel or the Food Network, then you know that San Sebastian is considered one of the best eating cities in the world, with more Michelin stars per square mile than anywhere else. There are three three-star Michelin restaurants in the area: Akelare, Arzak, and Mugaritz. Deciding which one to visit involved many hours of research (the fun kind). We were honestly leaning toward Akelare before we realized that they are closed for the entire month of February. Then we considered not even going to a three star because there were so many tapas bars to visit in only 2 days. In the end, my ego would not be denied.

Lunch at Arzak was like no other meal that I had ever experienced. Juan Mari Arzak and his daughter Elena  are serving food which transcends any concept that you have of eating. Each dish has been so meticulously crafted not only for precise texture and flavor, but also in terms of visual effect. The result is a multi-sensory experience which forces a diner to reconcile what your tongue tastes, what your eyes see, and what your brain knows (or thinks it knows). The kitchen is as innovative as the NFL replacement referees are incompetent.

I wish that I could recall more details from our meal, but the menu descriptions were minimal, and I had decided that this once in a lifetime experience warranted a hiatus from note taking. Thankfully, a picture is worth a thousand words.

Oysters with citrus.

"Cromlech" with onion, coffee, and tea.

These prehistoric standing stones were balloons of egg anchored with seared foie gras and dusted with onion, coffee, and tea. We were instructed to invert the balloons with our hands and then eat it "like an ice cream cone."

"Fufu" balls and fish of the day.

Hemp's mustard and lobster. Best savory dish of the meal.

Slow poached "dusted" egg with mussel.

TFS was not a fan of this dish at all, and it just so happened that right when our plates were being cleared, Juan Mari Arzak came over and noticed that her plate was basically untouched. He asked our serving captain to serve as translator to inquire why she did not like the dish. TFS apologetically stated that it was simply asked a texture thing. Both Juan Marie and the captain asked if she wanted them to serve something instead - foie gras, vegetables, anything. She said, "No, it's fine. Please tell him it's not a you thing; it's a me thing."

"Most embarrassing moment of my life," she whispered to me after they left the table. I remember thinking that our wedding caterer better watch out. If she can tell Juan Mari Arzak that she don't like his food, then she will have no problem telling anyone else.

Sole curd with wine bread.

Beef with vegetable screens.

Soup and chocolate "between vineyards."

Basil sorbet in strawberry sauce with  warm chocolate spheres whose thin skin exploded in luscious liquid cocoa. Best dessert dish of the meal (and there were five of them).

Mignardises.

No, the white powdery substance on the mirrored serving stray was not Colombia's finest. But I am sure that if TFS had asked Juan Marie Arzak to swap a few lines of llello for that mussel and egg dish, he probably would have.

Perhaps the most cherished memory from our meal at Arzak is one that we brought home with us. Near the end of the meal and long after we had ordered a bottle of 1998 Imperial Rioja Gran Reserva to drink with our lunch, we noticed that a handful of other tables were all drinking the same bottle of wine with an Arzak label. I asked our serving captain what was the back story on the wine, and he explained that a while back the restaurant commissioned La Rioja Alta to produce a special crianza under the Arzak label.

"Well, I wish we would have known that sooner," we both said. Since we were already in the midst of enjoying our digestifs and were completely satiated from the 10 course meal, we decided against ordering a bottle of the house (literally) wine. Instead, we decided to bring one bottle home with us, and that lone bottle of 2004 Arzak Crianza sits in our wine chiller as a memento of an incredible meal.

Photo Travel Log 2012: Fútbol at Bernabeu

Angel di Maria finds the back of the net.

Yesterday was a huge day for U.S. soccer. For the first time ever, the U.S. Men's National Team won a match on Mexican soil, in Azteca Stadium no less. Tim Howard's remarkable play in the final 10 minutes of play was truly astounding. And while the roar of victory was barely audible above the pre-season football chatter, this milestone will hopefully be the impetus for a new wave of U.S. soccer fever that has not been seen since the red, white, and blue hosted the World Cup in 1994.

Although I played soccer in my youth and have remained a fan of the game long thereafter, my experience with the professional game had always been limited to the English Premier League wrap up shows played on ESPN at 5:30am on Saturday mornings. Or at least that was the case until our recent Mardi Gras vacation when luck would have it that Real Madrid hosted Racing Santander during our stay in the Spanish capitol. Almost immediately after we booked our flights last summer, I checked the Real Madrid schedule and penciled it in on our itinerary. But a combination of procrastination and website confusion prevented us from securing tickets until our arrival in Spain, when we soon found out that two side-by-side tickets were impossible to be bought via the web. And instead of taking a chance on scalping tickets shortly before kickoff, after lunch we hopped the metro heading north to Estadio Santiago Bernabéu, where we were able to secure two side-by-side mid-level tickets behind one of the goals for face value.

With approximately 4 hours till kickoff and no desire to make the trek back into the city, we decided to kill time around the stadium. After a search for a recommended restaurant lead us to a shuttered store front, we made a quick pass through the logo shop for a team scarf and a onesie for the nephew (unfortunately there was no onesie available in my size). The next 3 hours were spent at a tavern just across the street from the stadium where we consumed an unhealthy number of bottles of Estrella and rubbed elbows with locals drinking rum and coke and gin and tonic from tall slender plastic glasses filled with exactly 3 ice cubes, no more and no less. Imagine Allegro's before a Saints game, except with far less hair gel, no Ying Yang twins blasting from the speakers, and no pre-formed frozen burgers on the grill.

Instead, there is jamón. The omnipresent cured leg of pig hangs in almost every bar and restaurant in Spain. I had witnessed first hand the undying devotion to jamón on previous visits, and the fanatical devotion to fútbol is evident to anyone who saw video footage of the nationwide celebrations which took place after Spain won the World Cup in 2010. I could never say which laid claim to the title of Spain's true love, until that game at  Bernabéu when I discovered that the only thing that the Spanish love more than fútbol or jamón is eating jamón while at a fútbol game.

We should have gotten the hint from hundreds (literally) of cellophane wrapped bocadillos which were stacked behind the counter of that no name bar across the street from Bernabéu. An hour before game time, the jamón bocadillos were all sold out, even though no one in the bar seemed to be eating. The tardy purchasers to either tortilla or queso bocadillos. Luckily for us, The Folks Singer snagged one of the last jamón bocadillos before the sell out and stuffed it inside her purse.

Once we finally made it inside the stadium, we were faced with two serious disappointments. First, the only beer available was Mahou Sin, as in "sin alcohol" or "no alcohol." That was a shocker. Next, the concession stands were all sold out of jamón. The ref had not blown the first whistle more than 10 minutes earlier, and they were already out of jamón. How could this be?

Fast forward to halftime. The Whites have a comfortable 2-0 lead and seem to be toying with the overmatched Racing Santander squad, when suddenly the world's largest outdoor picnic party breaks out. You see, Real Madrid fans focus squarely on the game between the first and final whistles, but when halftime rolls around it's all about the jamón. Everywhere we turned, someone was tearing open foil or plastic wrap and munching down on a ham sandwich. It was like one giant jamórgasm. Now we knew where all those bocadillos disappeared to earlier.

When the halftime whistle blew at Azteca Stadium last night, I smiled to myself in memory of that night at Bernabéu, wondering if the Mexican fans were all chowing down on tacos al pastor or tortas filled with barbacoa. Perhaps one day, fans in New Orleans will hold the world's largest muffuletta halftime picnic. I hope that I am there to join in, and I really hope that they are serving something other than non-alcoholic beer.

Photo Travel Log 2012: Madrid

Foreword

Summer time in New Orleans is tough. Temperatures in the upper 90s. Humidity. Heat index in the 100s. Afternoon showers which evolve into afternoon flooding. Keeping track of the daily hurricane advisory reports. Pre-season football. Pimm's Cups. Sno-balls. Well, maybe it's not all doom and gloom.

But when August rolls around most of us are near the tipping point and could use a few days of escape. Many head to the beaches of the Gulf Coast, while some opt for cooler temperatures up north (my preference). Unfortunately, your faithful bloggers can't afford to foot the bill for you to spend a long weekend at Grayton Beach or a week in the Blue Ridge Mountains. But we can take you on a virtual vacation to a cooler time and place.

During the week of Mardi Gras, The Folk Singer and I hopped a plane to Spain and spent a week eating, drinking, and sight seeing our way through Madrid and San Sebastian (with a few more stops along the way). This was an officially sanctioned Blackened Out research and development excursion, but it's taken this long for me jog my memory from my notes to be able to author a worthwhile blog entry. Luckily, TFS took plenty of pictures.

Over the next couple of weeks, we will take you on a pictorial journey through northern Spain in February. Imagine yourself wrapped up in your warmest winter clothes, overdosing on jamon and tempranillo, and trying to use your 6th grade Spanish to navigate signs on the Spanish interstate system because you forgot to request a GPS unit from the rental car company. It was glorious.

The view from the veranda of our apartment, which was a stone's throw away from Plaza Mayor and directly across the street from a Museo de Jamon. What else could one want?

The first order of business on Day 1 was a walk to the Mercado de San Miguel for breakfast. There is nothing like oysters on the half shell and a glass of cava to start your trip.

Most of our eating in Madrid took place in La Latina, a neighborhood loaded with tapas bars, especially on the main thoroughfare of Cava Baja. Just one street over on Calle Almendro is the aptly named Taberna Almendro. From my research on the interweb, this looked like a worthy spot to check out. Taberna Almendro only serves clear beverages - beer, white wine, sherries, and the house specialty, barbadillo, a dry, slightly effervescent white wine which I fell in love with. With only a Spanish menu (always a good sign), I placed my order at the kitchen window not knowing exactly what I was getting myself into. Suddenly there appeared in the window a ginormous oversized bagel and a massive plate of freshly fried potato chips topped with chunks of crispy ham and two fried eggs. Upon witnessing this spectacle, TFS wondered aloud (knowing good and well the answer already), "I wonder if that's our order?"

Huevos rotos con jamon (above) is Taberna Almendro's answer to F&M's cheese fries. Rosca is the retort to lox and bagels, only this version is super-sized and filled with the world's best ham before baking in the oven.

At one point we met up with a friend of a friend of TFS who has been living in Madrid for the past year and teaching English in public schools through a program sponsored by the Spanish Ministry of Education. (NOTE - We met quite a few young Americans who were participating in this program, known as the Cultural Ambassadors: North American Language and Culture Assistants in Spain. It is a highly recommended alternative to law school.) Our friend of a friend was gracious enough to serve as our tour guide one afternoon, and one of our stops was the Parque de Retiro, where TFS was introduced to her new favorite Spanish beverage, tinto verano (translation "red wine of summer"), made of equal parts red wine and sparkling lemonade or sprite. I stuck with Estrella Damm.

Dinner at Taberna Matritum. We went for the patatas a las cinco quesos gratinadas (potato gratinee with five cheeses), but we stayed for the pasta artesana spaetzle con ragut de rabo de toro (spaetzle with oxtail ragu - pictured above).

The long walk up Pasadizo de San Ginés to Chocolateria San Ginés, the Cafe du Monde of Madrid. Much like beignets and cafe au lait, many Madrileños begin their morning or end their night with freshly fried churros dipped in bowls of melting bittersweet chocolate.

As luck would have it, we were in Madrid on Sunday February 20th, the same day that the entire country seemingly went on protest against recently passed labor reforms. The sight of hundreds of policemen in full riot gear gave us some pause for concern, and the hundreds of thousands of protestors flooding the streets made for an interesting walk to the Prado. As always, ACN's Will McAvoy was reporting on the protests and offering thoughtful, educated, and unbiased commentary while remaining firmly in support of the Democrats under the guise of being a registered Republican.

Back to La Latina and Cava Baja for dinner. We stopped at La Chata, which has a very inviting bar scene where each drink is served with a complimentary tapa.  The longer that we stayed in Spain, the more we grew accustom to this convivial style of dining. Little did we know that the bars of San Sebastian take tapas to a whole new level. More on that in the weeks to come.

Dueling Bloggers: How Much Is it Worth It To You? (Part II)

You are a very effective counselor, counselor. Your arguments are persuasive and succinct, your logic airtight. The problem is your argument fails to pass the common sense approach favored by the esteemed jurists of this internet site. If you had one night in San Sebastian, your argument would be good enough for summary judgment. (Sorry folks, trying to justify going to law school.)

But you do not have just one night. Assuming you will catch a morning train to San Sebastian and spend two nights there, that gives you conservatively eight separate feedings (figuring lunch, tapas, late night dinner, breakfast, lunch, tapas, dinner, breakfast next morning). Ok, take breakfast out of the equation, that is a sucker's meal. So six meals in one of the world's greatest food cities, and you are going to spend all of them eating sardines on toast?

I'll counter your argument with a rhetorical question. If someone came to New Orleans for six meals would you tell them to eat only po boys? A two day gumbo only odyssey? Two days of just Mandina's,  Liuzzas's and Frankie and Johnny's?

Look, I know it seems that while Lindsay and I were in Spain we Michelined our way around Catalonia barely stopping for anything not served on bone china. In fact, there were numerous meals in small tapas spots that we enjoyed thoroughly. One of our favorite spots, Mosquito (above), which we went to two or three times, was a beer bar the size of your office with an extensive menu of Chinese snack food. Plump dumplings, tender noodles, and spicy shredded beef anchored a menu built for drinking beer. There was nothing fancy about it. Just honest cooking and community, two hallmarks of any great meal. Plus there were peeps wearing skinny jeans - you and The Pope would have fit right in. We loved the flavors and vibe at Origens and the energy of the meals in the snack bars of the Boqueria. There is so much good food out there at every price point.

All that said, the two meals we remember the most were lunch at Sant Pau and dinner at Commerc 24. There was just something equal parts excitement, execution, and pampering about both. Now, people will say, "You are just paying for the art on the walls, the expensive china, the 20,000 bottle wine list." Yes, that is true. My counter to that is at more casual spots, you are not paying for highly tuned service, impeccably sourced ingredients, or a 1 : 1 staff to guest ratio. It is a trade off on both accounts.

Plus, there is an even better reason to set aside one meal and do it big. You are a busy man, the Folk Singer is probably busier. You aren't getting any younger or less busy, unless you win the Powerball. It will do your body good to set aside two to three hours and be pampered at the table. Consider it a couple's massage without the tantric spa music and a stranger's hands all over you. Traveling is all about experiencing different and new things to learn what you like sort of like college. How will you know if you prefer traditional tapas to upscale modernist cuisine if you don't try both?

I recommend you go to Arzak or wherever you choose for lunch. Most Big Boys in the dining world are open for lunch and dinner in order to make their numbers work. Lunch is usually less expensive, but no less good, and you get the benefit of being blissful in the afternoon. Take a long, luxurious lunch at one of the world's best restaurants. Drink plenty of wine. Be spoiled by a staff whose only concern is your happiness. Go home and nap. When you wake up, the tapas spots will be waiting for you.

Homage to Catalonia

After hustling from Camp Nou, grabbing a quick shower, and walking the seven blocks from the apartment to Comerc 24, we were to put it mildly, parched and hungry. Out quickly came a selection of breads, olive oils, and sparkling water. We took in those few minutes of gathering sustenance quietly, glancing around the room or at the menu. Next, a tray of gins and a bottle of Fever Tree tonic, it may have been the greatest G&T of my life.

Carles Abellan, chef/owner of Comerc 24 and other restaurants, spent years in Ferran Adria's brigade before opening his own spot in Barcelona's Born neighborhood. His cooking applies the techniques learned and discovered at el Bulli to traditional Catalan cuisine and Asian cuisines. The room is modern with an open kitchen which moves with seemingly effortless energy. Each cook working in harmony with his surroundings and other cooks. It makes for must see reality.

First came some snacks, all based on the color white. A cold cauliflower soup with smoked tea and nori that was fragrant exploration of an often pungent vegetable. Then pieces of popcorn cauliflower with ginger and rice vinegar which arrived stacked on a rock as if they were tufts of snow on a mountain top. Then cold slabs of monkfish, the white flesh standing out starkly against the black sesame and black garlic swiped on the plate.

My favorite savory bite came next. Filo rolled cigars filled with parmesan cream, lemon and basil. Just an exciting blend of crunchy, tart, sweet, creamy, and herbal.

Also served with the parma cigars was a pizza topped with figs, arugula, mozzarella, and sardines. This was a mess of flavors which did not quite gel together for me. But it was very fun to snack on.

The next dish was the only bummer of the night, a cold oyster topped with a beet foam. The disparate elements of the briny oysters and earthy foam lacked a unifying flavor. Instead of coming together in a marriage of mar y montana, the two ingredients awkwardly tried to get along. Things started going rapidly up from there. First, a beach shrimp ceviche with wine and peach that was a study in textures and acidity. Then a dish of cockles, floating in a dashi broth and spiked with thin slices of jalapenos.

Then came marinated sardines spiked with orange and wasabi. Surrounding the plate were these little puffs of crispy sweetened grains. We called them Grape-Nuts. A splendid dish, as the sardines were firm and well-dressed with acidity and spice.

Now, this was cool. Carbonara is the height of pasta in my opinion. The blend of pork, egg, cheese, and pepper can showcase the skill of a cook and the brilliance of simplicity. This dish channeled those flavors, but in lieu of spaghetti, the flavors were bound up in spheres. And they subbed black truffle for pepper, which is ok in my book. So, you have egg yolk, parmesan, and black truffle swimming in a porky consomme.

Out came razor clams, cut into thin strips and served as noodles in a yakisoba dish which is a neat parlor trick to use for your next parlor party. Then tuna tartar which I can take or leave, followed by thin slices of sashimi. Next came a dish straight out of the Catalan rule book: codfish with romesco sauce and ground almonds.

Next came field rabbit served with crispy rice which was just a wonderfully hearty and elegant dish. Cultures which value rice may be the most advanced civilizations. Certainly Spain knows the value of rice. Then a plate of whiting topped with a vinaigrette loaded with herbs and lemon juice. Our final savory course united all of Abellan's passions: Catalonia, Asia, and cooking. A square brick of suckling pig done in the style of Hanoi was delicious, pungent, and best of all a study in the glories of the pig.

Cheese was a jar of mel i mato - honey and creamy cheese. Then, what became our favorite dessert, which we encountered time and time again, bread, olive oil, chocolate and coarse salt. Just look at that beautiful orb of dense, dark chocolate. Gander at those chunks of salt, their salinity amplifying the sweetness of the chocolate and vis versa. Gaze at that pool of peppery olive oil and the crisp of bread. This is the best dessert in the world.

 There were other desserts. One channeled Arnold Palmer with its combination of ice tea and lemon. Another layered apple and saffron, while a third stacked creamy, sweetened cheese and strawberries. Then came a moon rock crowned with futuristic mini spaceships. We were instructed to eat those last. Biting into them set off a rush as the dusted chocolate orbs were ice cold while the bottom layer was crunchy. The taste was not dissimilar to what would happen if Butterfinger and Heath Bar had a love child.

All of this was accompanied by a light bodied 2006 Roda I Rioja and excellent service. We sat at the table for hours but it all seemed to pass in a matter of moments. As we were leaving, I noticed the receipt read only 00:30 a.m. How could that be I wondered. I'd find out the next day as we learned that in the middle of our meal, Spain ended daylight savings time.

Homage to Catalonia

Saturday morning at around 10 am we began the trek towards Camp Nou, the home of FC Barcelona. The greatest club soccer team of all time had a nighttime game against a team from Mallorca and our goal was tickets. Camp Nou is on the outer fringe of Barcelona's city center a thirty minute metro ride. Camp Nou towers over the surrounding apartment buildings and office complexes. The stoic, grey building is ringed with flags and fences appearing more as a fortress than a stadium.

Lines stretch out from two of the windows and through the snaking lines slither ticket scalpers. They peer through the smoke of their cigarettes using it as a magnifying glasses to size you up before making their pitch. "American? 2 tickets, no? Together? See? Nice seats. Best available. For you, cuarenta y cinca."

This haggling and investigation continues until you step up to the ticket window. Seats are available in the upper decks, standing room only the ticket agent says. Then after a pause of an eternity, "There are also seats throughout the stadium," he finishes. You are here once. Unlike an NFL or NBA game, at a soccer match, the action is only on the field. There are very few video screens. No cheerleaders shooting free pizza coupons out of air cannons. No point in playing this one safe. You are pot committed at this point so you take two seats in the lower second level along the sideline. For 90 Euro a piece, less than probably half the cost of a like seat in the Superdome, this is the view you get. 

Barca, as the fans shout throughout the game, is the best team mainly because they have the best player, Lionel Messi. Trying to explain how good of a player Messi is to Lindsay was proving difficult. "How can anyone be that good at soccer? No one ever scores. Is this going to be boring?" Lindsay said.

Messi's play explains his greatness more than words could ever hope. Within thirty minutes of kickoff, Messi had scored three goals and almost two more. Before halftime, he would assist on fourth. The second half saw him continue to command the attention of the 90,000 or so fans in the stadium. Watching Messi play soccer is the same as listening to Ella Fitzgerald sing. There is no effort in either of their talents. No reaching, no hustle, no need to practice long hours, and nothing attempted - only things done. 

Watching Messi on television does not explain how good he is. It fails to capture his aloofness off the ball. He stands or roams wherever he wants. He looks around like a child on the playground may follow a butterfly. He seems far away from the action, almost disengaged. He is short, squat, and boyish; out of place on a field surrounded by nimble men.

But suddenly the ball is on his foot and in an instant things are happening. Where a moment before a defender or two blanketed him with coverage, he has left them behind. He glides through defenses as if they were French soldiers. Messi rifles a shot on frame before the crowd has a chance to start their "Messsssssssiiii....Messssssssssssiiii" chant. When a ball slips past the keeper, the crown erupts in a startled howl. They turn to each other, palms upturned, as if to say, "What else do you expect from Messi?" It was simply the greatest display of athleticism I have ever witnessed. 

In New Orleans Drew Brees is a great football player. Brees is also great person, by all accounts. This city has adopted him as one of our own. But in Barcelona, it goes much further than that. Barca's fans collectively gave birth to Messi. They claim him as their flesh, their blood, their savior. Messi is the great deliverer, their warrior to combat the evil lords of Real Madrid. Messi came to Barcelona by divine intervention. How else does it happen? This boy they plucked from Argentina attracted to FC Barcelona by the promise of treatment for a growth deficiency. That boy develops into the greatest football player of all time. A miracle, no doubt. Of this they are all certain. And he is theirs. All theirs. And like any parent, whatever this child does fills their hearts with immense pride. 

The game would end in a four nil win for Barca. The crowd, intoxicated by the drug that is Messi, cheering throughout and engaged always. Their eyes never leave the field. There are no bathroom breaks, no commercials for car parts or grocery stores, and no video speedboat races. Just football and Messi. The two separated because the latter plays a game much different from the former. They spill out of the stadium hugging, laughing, and recounting the game. They are heading home, to a girlfriend's house, or to a bar. It is 10:30 at night, we are going to dinner. 

Homage to Catalonia

 A typical building in the Eixample, which is Catalan for "Acid Based Architecture"

The meal at Cinc Sentits was not one I was particularly excited about. Don't get me wrong days before, even weeks before the meal, after reading Doc Sconz's review of Chef Jordi Atral 's exciting new spot in the Eixample, I couldn't wait to eat there. But when the day arrived, Lindsay and I were sort of beat. Most of this was due to two dinners the night before. One at the "you are here because everyone comes here" Cal Pep; the second at Origens which was an excellent suggestion from Ian McNulty. After the second meal (and one or two more glasses of wine than was necessary), we wandered lost in the rain for an hour trying to find the apartment. Needless to say, the next morning came way too early.

First a quick walk through the Eixample, filled with its grotesque, whimsical buildings and shops that Lindsay says you can't find anywhere else. Funny these shops we seem to find wherever we go. Men, be warned there is a Zara (not the grocery store) and an H&M in nearly every European city. Don't buy the line, "But you can't find these stores just anywhere." Two o clock rolled around and going to lunch felt almost like a burden, rather than a treat.

But then we walked into the dark, cocoon that is the dining room of Cinc Sentits. We were seated and a special house cava poured while we waited for the first round of courses. First up was a selection of "Tapas"- a bowl of marcona almonds with pimenton salt, a honey and sobrassada baton, and house marinated olives. A nice beginning, for sure.

The next tapas was the most perfect bite of food imaginable. A shot glass was set in front of us and we were instructed to drink the contents in one shot, as if there was any other way to take Shotzzz. The first sensation to hit your lips was a room temperature cava sabayon, then chilled thick, luscious cream, then a layer of warmed maple syrup, and finally a few chunks of sea salt. It was simply a perfect marriage of temperatures, textures, and flavors.

Throughout Catalonia, we encountered pa amb tomaquet - a Catalan specialty of tomato and garlic rubbed toast. We found most of them to be soggy. The sort of dish you had to grow up experiencing as an afternoon snack to really appreciate. But this version, threw that recipe out with the bathwater.  Out came toasted peasant bread topped with a shockingly cold, sweet, and tart dollop of tomato sorbet. Laced on top was a garlic air. A bite sent a rush to your brain first with the garlic air and then the ice cold of the sorbet.

Next came foie gras served with pastry crust, a layer of cocoa powder, chives and glazed leeks, which highlighted the sweet aspects of duck liver. There was a small tin filled with a smoked sardine with romesco sauce, roasted eggplant and onion and another sorbet- this time a fiery red pepper. The smoked sardine had a surprisingly lightness about it, which pushed the other flavors to the forefront.

"Peix Bullit" is a traditional dish similar to a paella with a touch of bouillabaise thrown in for good measure. Here it was served in two courses: first the fish sauced with saffron aioli and then the dry rice which stuck and crisped in the bottom of the pan. If there is anything better than crisped rice, just undercooked from being burned and infused with fish stock, I haven't found it. But I will keep looking. Next up, Pyrenees beef filet with truffled potato gratin and a truffled glaze, finished with grilled onion. The truffle flavor as you can imagine stuck to the pores of the food and gave everything an earthy, seductive flavor. Now, Iberian suckling pig cooked for twelve hours sous vide with blood sausage under the skin, and pearls of apple glazed with hazelnut liquor. Besides the shot at the beginning of the meal, this was my favorite. Tender meat, rich blood sausage and then a shingle of shatteringly crisp skin. The hazelnut apples brought a sweetness which was most welcome.

A selection of cheeses followed served with an almond cube, honey jelly, and bitter orange marmalade. Raspberry sorbet with pistachio cake and vanilla bean ice cream was a delicious prelude to the finale. If we lacked the cultural touchstone to appreciate the tomato bread, we understood the brilliance that is chocolate, bread, sea salt, and olive oil immediately. Here, the olive oil had been turned into ice cream, the chocolate a warm, firm pudding, the bread shattered and crisped, and salty macadamia nuts at the bottom.

There were wines with each course. The wine service got a little too bogged down in the specifics for me. For example, the wines served with the pig and beef course were poured at the beginning of the meal. We were severely warned not to drink them until the course for them arrived, but to "sniff, swirl, and imagine the flavors which are coming." Or the two wines poured with the rock fish course, where we had to eat the fish first followed by the aioli, and the first wine. Then we could try the rice with the second wine. Only then were we free to drink and taste as we pleased. A little much, but they are going for more Michelin stars and such is the game they have to play. The wines however were very good especially a 2008 Teixar, D.O. Montsant (with the pig) and a Grantxa Masia Pairal Can Carreras, D.O. Emporda which was stunning with the chocolate course (pictured below).

Aside from the slight seriousness, the meal at Cinc Senits proceeded flawlessly from a service and food standpoint. A meal that we found very hard to categorize, but immensely pleasureable. But now it was time for a nap.

Homage to Catalonia

The Mercat de Sant Josep de la Boqueria is a lively assemblage of food and people. There are other markets scattered around the city, but the most famous is The Boqueria. It sits a half black off the world famous (read here: best to be avoided) La Rambla. The stalls in the Boqueria are piled high with any food product you could imagine. Over there is a stall specializing in jamon iberico and hanging from its rafters are joints of rosy pig leg crowned by a black foot. Look here at a large collection of wild mushrooms stacked a foot high. There around the corner is seemingly every creature from the sea displayed on rocks of ice. There are eggs, sheep intestines, fruits, dried beans, candy, nuts, sausages as thick as your forearm and ones skinnier than your finger. Food is the star and it is everywhere.

In the Boqueria, there are two main snack bars: El Quim de la Boqueria and Pinotxo. Our first stop was the latter. Maybe fifteen seats lne the bar which and are snatched up as soon as they become available. A few tables are outside of the bar, but just like Camellia Grill, you go to Pinotxo to watch the show. Behind the bar four waiters work, serving beer, pouring cava, and shouting orders to the three cooks. All of this is accomplished in a space the size of a walk-on closet. It is chaotic and delicious.

First up, a glass of cava made especially for Pinotxo. This echoed a refrain we heard the day before at Sant Pau and would hear many, many times over. Then came a plate of creamy garbanzo beans lightly sauteed in garlic and olive oil and sweetened by golden raisins. So simple and so perfect. With the cava and a few chunks of bread, it makes for a very nice light lunch.

Of course, light lunch is fine and well for ladies who just finished a round of aerobics, but that was not us. We moved on to a plate of croquetas. Lightly fried rolls of pork and potato or potato and cod or whatever anyone else could imagine. The potato croquetas were nap inducing and salty, a perfect foil for the cava. We paid the modest bill and pressed onward.

The next stop was at El Quim. Where as Pinotxo had been a rectangular bar, El Quim is a rocking square of food service. We waited around twenty minutes for a stool, all the while watching the diners gobble up slabs of foie gras, squid, and shrimp hot of the plancha. We settled in and ordered some San Miguel cervesas and looked over the extensive menu. While I would hesitate to call any of the food in Spain as light, the menu at El Quim was filled with the hearty, heavy fair that can sustain a laborer for a day's worth of wages. We passed over the braised oxtail and settled instead on a plate of tripe, fried eggs topped with chipirons-tiny squid and a red wine sauce, and a vegetable. Don't worry the asparagus were wrapped in pork. 

The eggs were perfect, their golden yolk mixing with the rich wine sauce and salty punch of the squid. The tripe was a bit heavy handed, as tripe tends to be. The sauce was a gelatinous rust colored liquid in which the tripe rested. At this point, we were quite ready for something green. Thank goodness we had ordered a plate of tender asparagus graced by a sherry vinegar vinaigrette. The bacon wrapping wasn't a bad idea either.  

Homage to Catalonia

The journey to the greatest place on earth is easier than you might imagine. You start your journey in Barcelona by finding the red bricked Arc de Triomph. As you walk up the Passeig de Lluis Companys which hugs the Arc, passing old men bickering, bitching, and cajoling one another over intense games of boules, look for the Metro station. Buy a round trip ticket for the Rodalies 1 train. It will take you out of the city on a north east ramble through beach towns shuttered for winter. Sit on the left hand (neutral ground side) for an ever changing slideshow of why the people who lived on the shores of the Mediterranean developed civilization.

You get off the train at the St. Pol de Mar stop. The town of St. Pol de Mar is built steeply into the surrounding hills. Take a walk around, snap a photo or two of the terraced gardens which have a commanding view of Homer's sea, and wander aimlessly. Build your appetite. You still have some eating to do before your journey is complete.

You will be able to pick out the building that houses Carme Ruscalleda's Restaurant Sant Pau from a safe distance. The exterior is bright yellow with royal blue trimming. Outside waiters in dark Nehru jackets and pressed pants survey the street. It is not out of boredom. Anyone walking down Calle Nou at 1:30 on a Wednesday afternoon in the fall, is here to dine at Sant Pau. Consider them advanced scouts.

You enter a modern atrium and as if on command a maitre d' will ask you to follow him. You do. And this is when you get the first glimmer of the prize at your journey's end- your Valhalla. A garden, a level below where you sit, looks out passed an iron gate and onto the wide stretches of the Mediterranean. But careful, the temptation is to look ahead. Avoid it and focus on your task ahead: lunch.

Settle in with a glass of cava. Of course, you could order a la carte, but I will let Lindsay explain it better, "We didn't travel all this way to eat one or two dishes. We are getting the tasting menu, right?"

Here comes a starter broth. It sounds incredibly simple when explained. Just peppers, onion, garlic, olive oil, and water, a traditional dish of Menorca. It is bright orange, the color of the setting sun. You take a sip. It is not so simple. Complex with flavors alternating between the slight sweet spiciness of the peppers to the grassy overtures of the olive oil. Water has never tasted so great.

Next up is a collection of four small appetizers. You learn that Ruscalleda will be in Harvard in November teaching classes on the Maillard reaction which takes place when sugars meet heat. Therefore, all of the treats follow the Maroon color theme of that scientific occurrence. There are crispy noodles with single sweet prawn, miga,s a traditional breakfast dish of fried bread crumbs, with grapes and raisins, spiced almond candies enveloped in a tissue paper wrapper, and this stunner, a golden orb of liquefied garlic sitting atop a puck of biscuity pastry spiked with pine nuts.

Every chef of any renown has a dish they are rightfully famous for, a dish people travel across the globe to eat. At Sant Pau that dish is the Gastronomic Mondrian, Ruscalleda's take on the confluence of the great rivers of art and food. The dish is presented to you like so.

A second or so later, another waiter will remove the box to reveal a dish which sounds basic enough - salt cod brandada with orange, green, and yellow peppers and black olives. Only the peppers and olives have been turned into thick coats of oil paint to contrast the white canvas of cod. The creamy cod is punctuated with hidden slivers almond which provide a textural contrast. This dish is simply outstanding and worth your journey alone, but press on.

There is a dish of squid inspired by the Ruscalleda's trips to Japan. In a bowl sits white as copy paper balls of ground squid surrounded by mushrooms, bamboo shoots, and nose tingling herbs. A dashi broth poured tableside will marry harmoniously the disparate elements. Next comes the vegetable portion of this odyssey. A ravioli filled with juiced carrot, daikon, eggplant, and zucchini (and probably a fair amount of butter or oil) is wrapped with delicate strips of the same, then topped with a crown of Joselito jamon. "Even the vegetables come with ham...I think I love Spain," Lindsay said.

There are wines with each of these courses, sublime whites (and one red) all from within sixty miles or so of the restaurant. They arrive with precision often thirty seconds or so before the back waiter brings forth your next course. Which your next course happens to be a langoustine and dewlap (the floppy part of a pig's neck), Jurvert sauce, and beetroot vinaigrette. Jurvert sauce is a sort of precursor to pesto or salsa verde. Basil, nut, and garlic sauces are hallmarks of many Med based cuisines, each cuisine claiming they invented it first. "We invented it first," adds the captain. A touch of caviar adds a sharp, salty punch.

Next up is a rectangle of seabass roasted in fig leaves and unfurled tableside before being sauced with chayote puree, figs, smoked salt, and poached mirliton. The fish is firm. Its interior just beginning to cook. Its flesh is fragrant and the chayote and figs add crisp sweetness.

You will have the option between two meat courses. We made it easy and got one of each. The pig trotter was a gelatinous and heavy handed terrine, perhaps better as a light lunch with a crisp salad than the eighth course in a marathon. Luckily Lindsay ordered that one. I got the duck from Challans, the peppery, rich beef wrapped around a fried squash blossom stuffed with cubes of apple. The maple syrup reduction will make this dish one of your most impressive accomplishments on this odyssey. It tastes of fall, holidays, crisp nights and is delicious.

There will be a cheese course with five offerings and five contrasting flavors to distract you from your goal. The most intriguing is a Bleu de Vercors-Sassenage paired with a coffee marzipan, the best a Bauma with pumpkin, lettuce, and mustard. The cheese course comes with a handy guide for your reference. 

After that, will come a palate cleansing sorbet of raspberry and rosewater. Keep pressing, you are almost there. Now your first dessert, a sweet sorbet of pineapple on top of a creamy tocinillo and surrounded by raspberry puree. The flowers are edible and will give you the strength to continue.

The world is a small place. How do I know this? Smart people say so; but also, because of this dish. On the coast of Catalunya comes a dessert inspired by the greatest liquor made in Kentucky and maybe the world. The dish is just called Bourbon. Each of the elements the thin cookie, the creamy ice cream, and the dense cake are based on the flavors of a good Bourbon. There is pepper, vanilla, chocolate and coffee. Into the trapdoor, the waiter pours a shot of Bourbon and elevates the dish to the magical. You will savor this dessert wishing each bite could be repeated over and over again.

At this point in your journey, the captain will ask you if you would like to have your final snacks outside in the garden, "Perhaps with a coffee, espresso, or a digestif?" You will of course say yes. If you are truly committed, go with the Fernet Branca. She will lead you through the dining room seemingly floating through time, space, and lunch out the door, down the stairs, and into the garden. There, under the canopy of three white maple trees, is a platter of treats from the confectionery (the mushroom and chocolate macarons a delight) awaits.

Grab a comfortable, cushioned seat, enjoy your drink, and watch the kitchen at work through the large plate glass windows. At your back is the sound of the Mediterranean colliding with the occasional whistle and rumble of a passing train. Congratulations, your journey is complete.