Eating well in Barcelona, and a bowlful of American summer.

So I left you hanging there for a bit. For me, multi-tasking usually results in a lot of stuff being done...poorly. Accordingly, during the holiday influx(es) of friends and/or family, blogging takes a backseat. This is neither a reflection upon you nor the subject at hand: good food. Which I can't wait to tell you about.

Sometimes food just tastes better because someone you love (or hell, someone other than you) is making it. This is not the case at Cinc Sentits. I'd decided to go for broke and check out their haute Catalan cuisine for myself, as they are considered one of the better tables in Barcelona, which is saying something. The chef is young Jordi Artal. The setting is formal and spare, nearly monastic (except for maybe the one splash of pink). The slightly severe tone of the room is lightened by the fact that Mr. Artal's sweet mother and his sister are busy attending to your every potential need.

I'd come in speaking Spanish, and was taken aback when Mr. Artal's sister, who'd evidently overheard us chatting amongst ourselves, suddenly spoke to us in perfect "North American" English; as it turns out, the family has spent time in Toronto. This might explain the origin of the little amuse: a shooter of maple syrup, a touch of cream, and sabayon of cava (Catalan sparkling white wine), with a sprinkle of coarse salt at the bottom. An eyebrow-raiser by description alone, but wow. 'Goooal!' for the salty and sweet side. This was followed by the tried and true Catalan tapas, pa amb tomaquet, normally a thin baguette, logically called a flauta, toasted and rubbed with fresh tomato and garlic. Here, adroitly turned on its head.

Thus, a fresh tomato sorbet, topped with a vivid garlic 'air'--i.e. the foam bit--and toasted croutons, judiciously dosed with gorgeous olive oil. This was followed by a classic, chilled Andalusian ajoblanco (garlic and ground almond soup) reworked, with fresh cherries, cherry pit granita and Spanish Marcona almonds. Forgive me for the lack of a photo, we were too busy talking about the maple syrup starter. And then enjoying the startling soup.

All talk ceased abruptly, however, when we were presented with the foie gras coca. A coca is a sort of thin pastry. Between the precise layers of crisp crust, glazed leeks and chive garnish--and the caramelized foie gras itself, well, now I have to tell folks the best foie gras I have ever tasted was outside of France. Nothing short of sublime.

Apparently still under the enchantment of the foie gras, I clapped my hands like a five year old when I saw that the next course featured my favorite Mediterranean fish, red mullet (or rouget). This was accompanied by a basil risotto and an apricot sauce. Again, eye-rollingly good.

I'd already bitten into the first melty forkful of cochinillo (Iberian suckling pig) when I remembered my camera, and you. The apple accompaniments were somewhat forgettable, but the meat. Lord. Sous-vide (slow-cooked at an exceedingly low temperature) with a crackling crust. And to think I was once a vegetarian. For years. (Problems with anemia, etc. and so on.)

The cheese, a Blau de l'Avi Ton, was gorgeously presented with orange marmalade glaze and a delicate, perfect spice bread. Too intense for the likes of me.
My overwhelmed mouth got a welcome reprieve with the 'citrus snow', an ephemeral, playful combination of lemon ice cream, powdered white chocolate and lime 'pop-rocks' (effervescent, the carbon dixide is released in your mouth and fizzes and sizzles like Carnaval in Rio)--and oh yes--yuzu foam. This was followed by the (ahem) actual dessert.
The chocolate you see is an intense 67%, with a dollop of olive oil ice cream, shattered bread, and underneath some extraordinary, deeply fragrant macadamias. Whew. Again, he revisits, recalibrates, redefines a Catalan standard. I O.D.'ed on chocolate.

Or so I thought.
Because these little sweet nothings were what accompanied coffee. That's not a raw egg you see, it's a gelee of pomegranate...And yes, I still managed the tiny, perfect chocolate truffle after downing the glass of blanc-manger perfumed with...lilac.

Do I even need to mention he has a Michelin star?

On the way back home, once off the highway, we passed farm stand after farm stand, flush with fruit, vegetables and hand-painted signs. At this time of year, they are hard to resist. So why bother trying? After all, those fuzzy peaches, tree-ripened and juicy as all get out, they need to be eaten. Half were gone before the crate I walked off with actually made it to my kitchen table. The rest went into the obvious: the quintessentially [colonial] American farmhouse dessert: peach cobbler. The only thing that comes close to a cobbler in France is the Limousin flaugnarde, but that involves eggs, which make it closer to a flan or a clafoutis. I've gussied up the cobbler a bit, using as a base the online recipe by a certain Ms. aeposey. Ginger and even paprika pair beautifully with intensely flavored fruit (just ask those who had my ginger blackberry crumble last night.) This takes mere minutes to pull together. You'll spend more time hearing out the compliments. Honest John. But no beauty awards; this is to be filed in the ugly but good category.

That's why you only get an extreme close-up...

Do I even need to mention I don't have a Michelin star?

Cobbler aux pêches épicées (Spiced Peach Cobbler)
Serves six.

6 or 7 fresh peaches, peeled and coarsely chopped in largish chunks
1/4 cup brown sugar
1/4 cup finely minced candied ginger (optional but delicious)
1/2 teaspoon ground ginger (or ground galagal)
1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/8 teaspoon paprika
a scant sprinkling of freshly grated nutmeg
1 teaspoon lemon juice
1 tablespoon cornstarch
1/2 cup all-purpose flour
1/2 cup ground almonds
1/4 cup finely chopped almonds (also optional but delicious)
1/4 cup white sugar
1/4 cup brown sugar
1 teaspoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon salt
6 tablespoons unsalted butter, chilled and finely cubed
1/4 cup boiling water

Preheat oven 220C. In a large bowl, combine chopped peaches, sugars, both kinds of ginger, cinnamon, nutmeg, lemon juice, and cornstarch well. Place the mixture into (medium-sized) baking dish and bake for 10 minutes. While this bakes, combine the flour, ground and chopped almonds, sugar, baking powder, and salt. Blend in butter using your hands (yes!) rubbing the cubes of butter into the flour mixture until it resembles coarse meal, or bread crumbs. Stir in very hot water until just combined. Remove the now hot peaches from the oven and slop/drop the dough by casual spoonfuls over the fruit. Return to the oven, and bake until deeply golden, 25-35 minutes. Can be served hot, warm or the next day at lunch, for a more rich, cakey taste.

Back to Barcelona.

Who turns down a chance to go to Barcelona? Not I. So I found myself back on the E15, zipping southward past the stately, snow-capped Pyrénées mountains. In less time than you might expect, I found myself in the vibrant city center.

I love to people-watch. I also love food. The best of all possible situations are when both are combined.

The dynamic energy of the city is due at least in part to the independent-minded Catalans who call it home. This little girl was fascinated with the flower petals and other wedding detritus outside the cathedral.

In place of a wedding, ongoing renovation at the National Cathedral.

After all the wandering, fried boquerones (fresh anchovies) at a nearby cerveseria were a welcome sight. That and the globe-shaped copa of beer.I stumbled across the serene barri goti (Gothic quarter) square where the Sant Felip Neri cathedral sits. The damage on its facade is said to be due to machine-gun fire from executions carried out by pro-Franco troops in 1939.

It's hot in Barcelona in July and August, which is why so many locals head elsewhere in that period. For those remaining, keeping comfortable is key, and even dogs get their turn at the local water fountain. This wasn't the first time for this trio: they clearly anticipated the routine.

This man looked like he's been world-weary since medieval times.

Originally from Valencia, orxata (or horchata in Spanish) is very refreshing way to stay cool. It's made of the juice of tiger nuts (known as chufa) sugar and water. It is served ice-cold, and tastes a bit like lightly sweetened soy milk. The window-watching can go on for some time.

These candies are made by hand in every possible flavor and color permutation. These were, of course, lime and pink grapefruit flavored.

Another pit stop for xurros (piped, fried doughnuts). It is all this specialist makes, other than the hot chocolate to go with it. There are an awful lot of 'x's in Catalan. Luckily, I could use my basic Spanish most everywhere. Thank goodness Barcelonins are patient and friendly!

But where do they go for ingredients to make their delicious finger foods?

In addition to the conventional supermarkets (where you can safely stow your basket on wheels--and apparently your dog--for a coin, as seen below), there are the covered markets, of course.Beyond the famous Mercat de la Boqueria, said to be Barcelona's oldest and largest covered food market, there are dozens and dozens of others, some more modest in scale but heavily frequented by the locals. Some of Spain's world famous ham.

Cooling off the Iberic way. Cashews, some of which have been toasted, dipped in honey and rolled in white sesame seeds. Hungry yet?

More candy than you can shake a toothbrush at.

I was thrilled with the profound sweetness and juiciness of my piece of pineapple, which hydrated sufficiently for me to make one of the more important travel decisions: where to eat.

(To be continued.)

Mediteranean jewel: Barcelona.

Barcelona, perched on the sparkling Mediterranean, is an effervescent sprawl of a city--and the sixth most visited in all of Europe. Small wonder, given its nine World Heritage Sites (as designated and protected by UNESCO), 45+ museums (among which the Picasso Museum), the Port Vell (refurbished for the 1992 Olympics), 4 1/2 kilometers of beaches, and a Gothic Quarter in which you can get wonderfully lost--in turn losing all the other visitors, who numbered 6 1/2 million in 2009 alone...Plus Barcelona averages 330 sunny days per year, according to the Chamber of Commerce. How's that for a bit of vitamin D? (The sun-infused drink above is a sangria made with cava, the Catalan version of Champagne.)

The city is exuberant and bright as its weather, irreverently mixing the very old (Roman, medieval, and so on), the very new, and everything in between. It is the only place I know of where you can see a cathedral under construction.Gaudí's esthetically and technically astonishing Sagrada Familia is expected to be completed in 2030 and really is worth the wait in line (detail of exterior above and part of interior below). There is much more to Barcelona's architecture than Gaudí's fluid, complex structures and modernisme (Catalan Art Nouveau), but you cannot fully grasp the city without experiencing those two essential elements. From the Gràcia district, where I was staying in airy rented apartment, I was within easy reach of some his more famous works, such as the Casa Milà, shown just above. But I was also even closer to the Mercat de l'Abaceria Central...one of the neighborhood food halls. The prospect of still undiscovered delicacies (emu eggs, cod in all its elegant permutations, fish smaller than my pinkie) got me out of bed--at a most bright and early hour--to join diminutive Catalan grandmothers pulling plaid carts on wheels in their common search for the culinary great and good. Having no wheeled cart of my own, I had a hard time balancing my steadily increasing load of purchases and my camera...While the deservedly famous Boqueria market is indeed a high-toned feast for the senses, its location on the Rambla means it is thick with camera-toting onlookers; you can find quality, variety, and actual room to move in the other food halls scattered across Barcelona. The city has posted a handy list and map online of all Barcelona's municipal markets/food halls. Also in my neighborhood was Sureny, a fuss-free but good tapas restaurant (on Plaça de la Revolució 17). Their unhibited, fusiony combinations are sometimes a bit odd, but when they work, it's better than fine. Veal sirloin tataki, tandoori and tosu-zu sauce was an eye-opener (I'll spare you the shamefully underexposed image--the wine was rather nice too!)

The night I ate at Sureny also happened to be the night Barcelona beat Madrid two-nil, on Madrid's home field. This resulted in a night--and morning--full of randomly set fireworks and booming crackers, rousing song, honking cars and wanton flag-waving. Sleep, what's that? El clàssic (the century-old, fullbore Barça-Madrid football rivalry) at its best--by Barcelona standards anyway. Seems Barcelona's star is on the rise...

The mash note, delayed by volcano.

Say you have a houseful of friends visiting just as you return from Barcelona. Say a volcano explodes some 2700 kilometers away, and brings about the "most severe disruption to airtraffic in peacetime" (NYT).

Say your friends are stranded, the house is ever so full of life. Do you write, or do you enjoy the extra time you have together? As you may have noticed, what I didn't do was write. But Barcelona has a way of lingering in the mind. To put my biases on the table: I really like Madrid, but I love Barcelona. Impossible to remain indifferent to this port city, crammed as it is with things to see, taste and hear. Barcelona (population 1.6 million) sits at a beautiful midpoint between the grandeur of Paris and the vitality of New York, all the while remaining accessible and (most often) sun-drenched. You can spend a week here and merely skim the surface--it's that big and engaging a city.
Barcelona is the capital of the province of Catalunya, which is very much part of Spain and very much its own province, with language, culture and foods quite distinct from Madrid and the rest of Spain. In this way, Barcelona brings to mind the French dichotomy between the independent-minded port city of Marseille and Paris. Imagine wide, endlessly long avenues just meant for ambling and little neighborhoods with crooked alleyways designed to confuse. This is Barcelona. Beaches, sailboats, boys and surfboards in April. This is also Barcelona. I'd write more, but it's happy hour here in France, there are still some slices of chorizo and lomo de jabugo left, and my friends are waiting on the sun-drenched terrace...

Giving it up.

My daughter recently announced over lunch that she would no longer eat any fish. She explained to our raised eyebrows that if people keep up the rate at which they consume the world's fish, the oceans would more or less empty within the coming fifty years. Say the researchers are off and double the time; we'd still be losing this:

Which is why my eight year old stopped eating fish.

(Thank you to Jon Rawlinson, who filmed this in one go in Japan, and advises that you give it some time to load before playing to ensure smooth playback. That is, click on play, then click it again so it pauses, and just give the film several minutes to finish loading. My advice is watch it in HD, large screen, to really see these creatures that are grace incarnate. Song: "Please Don't Go" by Barcelona).