[Pink Pig Time Machine by Wilfrid: June 20, 2009]
My 1999 holiday in Spain continued with a couple of side-trips. First, a day-trip to Montserrat, the basilica set high in the mountains a short train ride from Barcelona.
I'd visited before. Half the fun is the ascent by cable car from the train station to the small town which is essentially built on the legend of one of the Virgin's special appearances. The other half is continuing up, past the basilica, on an easily found path which leads higher into the mountains and gives extraordinary views down the valley. The air, even on a hot day, is crisp, the silence amazing.
Back downtown that evening, I chose Set Portes for dinner. Partly, I admit, for nostalgic reasons. I had fallen in love with this nineteenth century Catalan classic many years earlier, when I had less experience of eating out and less money and thought it the acme of sophistication. To this day, I am sure, it does a good impersonation of a restaurant from the belle epoque. Inevitably, it has increasingly catered for tourists, and it's necessary to go late if you want to dine amongst locals and regulars.
Ordering carefully can still elicit a good, if conservative meal. Ten years ago, langoustines served cold in a fresh tomato sauce were followed by - I can hardly believe my diary - the baby goat chops with fried potatoes and the restaurant's famous, dark-hued paella. A 1996 Ribera del Duero, about which my notes say nothing more, and mel i mato (honey and fresh cheese) for dessert.
The next trip took me further afield, to the old Roman town of Tarragona, about a sixty mile train ride down the coast. I had booked the Hotel Imperial Tarraco, a modern hotel overlooking the beach. The afternoon was spent strolling around the extensive Roman ruins. Dinner was in a simple restaurant on the sea-front, La Rambla. Serrano ham, a steak al Porto, crema Catalana. It was like stepping into the nineteen fifties, and rather charming.
Next day, the extensive museums attached to the Cathedral, and around the old town again, then out to the food market. I spotted a market restaurant for dinner, Pa amb Tomaquet, which came up with some solid Catalonian specialties. Esqueixada is a cold salad of salt cod, mixed with peppers, olives and tomatoes: not to be confused with escalavida, a sort of ratatouille of grilled eggplants and tomatoes, which was served here with conejo alli oli - rabbit with a sauce which looks like mayonnaise, but is actually made with garlic rather than egg yolks. Flan, again, for pudding, and a bottle of local Raimat cabernet sauvignon. How it held up to the alli oli, I can hardly imagine.
Tarragona does have a modern-ish shopping district, and it got thoroughly explored the next (slightly rainy) day. The third dining choice boasted the distinctly non-Catalonian name, Le Merlot. It was a restaurant of pretention, set in a stunningly beautiful mansion in the old town. My diary describes the food as "preposterous," I'm afraid:
Terrine of pig's feet and asparagus with tapenade
Caramelised quail breasts (breasts, note) in a pig face stew
Semihelado de nata (a sort of frozen cream)
Ah, the virtues of simplicity. The wine was a 1994 Hacienda Monasterio Reserva, a bargain in times when the Ribera del Duero was little known outside Spain. You can pay $100 a bottle retail for it today. And after dinner, the delight of finding the sardana, that solemn Catalonian folk dance, being essayed by people of all ages in a little town square.
We'll get another report out of Barcelona, next week.
