Hola Barcelona: Small bites, a big embrace, a little bear moo
We set out for Spain on a Monday and got there on a Tuesday; an overnight flight from Montreal will do that. It was early in the breakfast hour in Barcelona when we arrived, and with the time difference, it’s likely that people we knew back in St. John’s might still have been up.
Martha and I are staying in Barcelona for a few days with her cousin Hari. We’re on a vacation that we had planned for 2024 that we had no choice but to cancel when a series of family emergencies began to pile up.
Anyway. Here we are, with a Spain-only itinerary, and a different sort of agenda. I haven’t been back in eight years, and this time we’re improvising a little bit more, leaning into a couple of booked items and otherwise floating around this amazing city, and then a week in Madrid.
After a power nap (and still feeling some jet lag) we set out for a walk with Hari to a local park in Putxet, the neighbourhood where he lives. In the warm evening, we set out downtown for a stroll and for some things to eat and drink. Hari has been living in Barcelona now for some years, and we’ll always trust his advice.
On Tuesday night, he had us over a barrel, somewhat literally. There was enough room in this tiny place for three to congregate over a barrel, and we started ordering dishes.
Pintxos — small servings, often served with a tiny stick and on bread — are part of the small-plates wonders that are tapas. Martha will always seek out boquerones, these small fish, on every trip. Allegy-laden me avoids all of that, but I had plenty of choice, including an adorable black pudding. I wish I had taken a picture of it, but I inhaled it before the thought occurred to me.
The restaurant was in the Gothic Quarter, a very old and very touristy part of Barcelona. It’s fun to stroll around at dusk, though, and the place had legitimately good food. The staff would float around with hot dishes, while colder fare could be plucked from the glass serving counter. When the time comes to pay, all of the wooden sticks are counted and a total is punched in.
Then it was time to seek out some vermouth, or vermut as you’ll see it. Barcelona has a great tradition of knocking back some vermut — the sweet a.k.a. red type, not the dry clear vermouth that people barely put in their martinis — on ice with citrus. Hari guided us through the alleys for some minutes before we got to one of his favourites: a bar big enough to seat us and maybe a handful more.
While vermouth is spelled differently in Spain, it’s also pronounced differently, too. Saying “bear moo” will work just fine, I learned! (In Spanish, there’s not much difference in pronunciation between a V and a B.)
The drinks were … perfect. Even with the jet lag, they went down easily, and we found ourselves chatting as the dusk gave way to darkness.
We ambled back to the metro, scooted home to Hari’s apartment and fell fast asleep.
Many things — including many more small plates — await.
