I get asked a lot. Why Barcelona? How did the señor and I happen? And the truth is that so much has passed that I’m either trying to catch up with myself or sitting quietly, whiplashed, too scared to blink for fear of it all evaporating. Let’s rewind a year.

My slice of paradise for one year. Little did I know that my pastoral idyll would make way for bustling Barcelona.

Me, forty years old, on sabbatical from my life as a magazine journalist and professional mourner. My thirties was one long funeral procession where I stared at the evil eye that seemed to be fixed on my life through the bottom of a tequila bottle. I wanted so badly to breathe again and step out from the shadows. So I moved to the countryside and rewarded myself with a trip to Europe. To visit my sisters. And then, seeing as though I was already in the old world, I’d visit my friends who live in a castle. Followed by the pièce de resistance in my goody bag to myself, ten days in  Barcelona. Why Barcelona? Because many years ago my friend Anna visited and said ‘B, I thought of you all the time. This is your city. If the men weren’t so damn gorgeous I would have become a lesbian.’ Pretty people, good times. I’m coming!

Princess for a week with Simon, Mark and their three chickens at magnificent Chateau d'Eoux outside Toulouse

So, Barcelona was to be the plaster on my sad sore. If you’re female and you’ve experienced turning forty as a singleton, you’ll know there’s a certain frisson that sets in just after your 38th birthday. Yes dear, you are standing on the docks and that big thing steaming South is the boat you’ve missed. From here onwards there will be only dinghies and leaky canoes. This story is going to nail a good couple of clichés, the first being ‘It will happen when you least expect it’. Of course I wanted to meet someone to love but I knew that just because I wanted it so badly, I wouldn’t. So I cancelled the want. Or just suspended it. I’m a crap tourist and except for two email addresses of friends of friends, I really didn’t have a clue why I was coming here.

Thanks to this blog and my gig as a restaurant reviewer on the Expresso Show (South Africa’s vibiest breakfast television) a friend of an old schoolfriend of Albert Adria managed to pull strings that I could eat at Tickets, the post-elBulli offering of the Adria brothers, a riot of colour and wit and showstopper tapas presented in over the top fairground fashion. Cue plinky-plonky circus music because this is where the magic happened.

Mr Tickets, Albert Adria, demystifying la vida tapas

I was a sticky ball of nervous anticipation when I walked through the door. Albert Adria was so welcoming and so attentive, I felt like yelling that I was just a little old blogger from a country far far away that uses too much sugar in its savoury dishes and this was not going to fill six pages in Vanity Fair. But then a very charming man came over to introduce himself. The head chef. He was witty and sweet like only broken English can be. As he turned away to talk to Albert, I thought ‘That’s what I need. A good man. A man who knows how to love.’ This type of wisdom, dear reader, does not come naturally to me. It was like the glittering diamond expressed from the muck of twenty years of gonzo dating. My second thought was, ‘Pah, he’s obviously married, or taken. The good ones always are’…

But fortunately, as with my initial appraisal of Madonna back in 1984 (‘We won’t be seeing much more of this tart’), I was wrong. We bumped into each other later that night and he invited me to the best paella in town on his day off. How magic is that? At least it would have been, if I hadn’t fucked it up. I was too scared. I didn’t go. I KNOW! You don’t get to being forty and single by being smart, do you? I didn’t think he really liked me and I didn’t want to be a nuisance. Not on his day off. I was so scared he would back out, that I did. Even writing this, one year down the line and pregnant with our son, I get downright anxious just thinking about that stupid me. But, for once, the plan was greater than my considerable capacity for sabotage.

It had been agreed that I would dine at Tickets not once but thrice during my stay. First, to try the savoury tapas. A second time to work my way through the dessert menu. And on my third visit I would go to 41 Degrees, the Adria’s sultry cocktail bar adjacent to Tickets. Imagine, I’d stood up the head chef and now I had to go back for multiple dessert courses presented by him. Because the señor is all about the sugar. He is a dessert master.  An alchemist of egg and air. I felt about the size of a cake candle when I walked through the door.

I instantly realised how foolish I had been. He looked… so hurt. It dawned on me that I had been doing the rejecting. I stammered through explanations and excuses more complicated than the wondrous creations he placed before me. And then he asked me to join him for coffee on his early morning shopping run at Barcelona’s wonderful Boqueria market the next day. Don’t worry, dear reader, I certainly did not slip up again. We walked and talked through aisles laden with produce from all over. I snapped away, ostensibly for my blog, but in reality I was taking photos just for me. Like a teenybopper at a Bieber concert. I had no intention of sharing the señor. It was far too precious and too precarious. We lived worlds apart. I was sure nothing would come of it but at least I had lots of photos…

Sneaking pics of the señor chatting to fish sellers at Boqueria

I’m not a blow by blow narrator so this won’t be going the Fifty Shades route. Suffice to say this market stroll was the highlight of our week. After that we chatted briefly when I was at 41 Degrees, exchanged numbers and the next I heard was a text message when I landed in Istanbul, en route to Cape Town. In real terms nothing much had happened. Except in my head. Then the odd email, followed by text messages that soon  converted to Whats App, which escalated into a rabid stream of communication delivered in English, Spanish and Afrikaans, courtesy of Google Translate. Both realized this was something special when on a Saturday, minutes before service started, he burnt his bread because he just couldn’t stop thinking about me. This man. Does not. Burn. Stuff. Roaming the folds of Simonsberg mountain like a lovestruck goatherd, this was music to my ears. The fact that he created a dessert in my honour… Well, what would you do? I simply had to have some Apricot du Plessis.

Oh my heart... a cheesecake globe, glazed in apricot and amaretto, served with lemon grass ice cream

So two months later I visited Barcelona again. Just for five days. To see if this was virtual infatuation or the real deal. And because the señor was heading to South Africa for his Christmas break and wanted to know if he should spend his time with me or with his buddy in Natal? He never saw Natal. From the farm in Helshoogte we drove East for some family time in Cape St Francis, which included a two day trip to Addo so the senor could see wild animals. And impress me with his rendition of a hyena’s mating call. Which worked – he lured not only a hyena but also a fox and a rhino to the watering hole. I was smitten. Time was not to be wasted. A month later I put my earthly goods in storage, left my precious hound *Milly with a friend on an equally beautiful farm outside Paarl, and headed for Barcelona.

Precious Milly. It has been hard on her. On me too. Soon we will be reunited. Hablas español Milly?

Huge strides. Heady stuff. We wanted it to be. We wanted it all, together. With me being on the other side of forty, we appointed nature as our family planner. The thinking was that it would take at least a year… enough time to sort out paperwork, learn the language, start working, get to know each other. Hahaa! Our unborn son was conceived in the very first month, which, dear reader, at my age is pretty much a hole in one. Talk about lift-off.

It hasn’t necessarily been easy. You swallow a lot of water in the deep end. I was basically a kitchen widow (all that glorious food the señor serves is the result of meticulous, labour-intensive graft), pregnant and very alone in a strange land, with all attempts at learning the language thwarted by pregnancy-brain (my verdict) and at a time when procuring permits and visas for foreigners was becoming downright nerve-wracking. I’m not a big city girl and after the luxurious Cape winelands, old Barcelona didn’t seem all that bright. Morning sickness, or in my case afternoon and evening sickness, didn’t help. But we’ve come through it all. Lord knows, the señor is a good man.

It’s just one little year since we first met. We’ve bridged continents, a deep language divide, culture clashes and personal whims. We are so terribly excited to meet our son. And we are dreaming a future together. Change is in the air. Nothing is certain. I for one am all too aware that things can go very wrong. Death and disease have darkened my door. It very nearly darkened my soul. Yesterday I logged on to Facebook to see RIP followed by a friend’s name. Llewelyn Roderick. A beautiful mensch, father of two small children, husband, brother, son to amazing people. I am again reminded. How everything can turn. To hurt love’s equal measure. Am I up for it?

Andrés and I. November 2011. We'd only just begun...

It is tempting to hide from the big decisions in life. That no bad may come your way. But no good will find you either. A year ago I threw the dice. I threw them hard.

I’m not saying I’ve hit the jackpot. But I am back in the game.

Did I hear ‘double or nothing’?

*After almost 9 months apart, Milly joined us in Barcelona yesterday and it’s like a big chunk of happy has hit our home. A chunk of happy that sheds piles of long white hair, but anyhow. I was absolutely amazed by how well she had endured the 36 hour flight, the charm with which she has taken to the streets and the traffic, and above all, that she didn’t suffer a second’s hesitation when she saw me. As if we’d spent only a day apart…

Hi Frank

My blog is about food writing from a very personal perspective. I wouldn’t know what to say about the online bingo industry, except maybe to take the piss. The few readers that I have (I’m pregnant and more interested in grazing indiscriminately than blogging) also won’t buy a thinly veiled attempt at punting online bingo. I may lose the shred of credibility and 3.7 readers I have left. Unless I actually try it, love it, and ideally could win some money. Then we’re in business! Other than that my blog may not be the ideal advertising platform for you. But please do send me a link to give the bingo thing a bash. Who knows. I convert easily. Especially when there’s yelling involved!

Thank you kindly for your interest.
Bianca

On Wed, 29 Aug 2012 16:53:52 +0100, frank@xxxx.com> wrote:

Hi Bianca,
Thank you for getting back to me.

After reviewing your website, we think that a new blog post would be the
best and least intrusive option for you. You are free to come up with the
content of the article or blog post, but we do ask that it is in some way
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roughly 300 words.

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Frank

Hey Frank, will this do? It’s 390 words and technically 169 of them are yours but it’s related to bingo. Do we have a deal?

Frank?

From absolutely bloody brilliant to better than average

Tickets Bar: Ferran and Albert Adria’s brilliant take on tapas. I’ve tried other gastro tapas bars and nothing comes close to this. The Adria’s might be slumming it compared to the gravitas of elBulli but Tickets, for all it’s playfulness, serves little morsels of genius. The best tapas in the world. Reservations via their website only and they’re booked out three months in advance. Read my review of Tickets and 41 Degrees here. If you are intrigued by elBulli, do go to the elBulli exhibition at Palau Robert on paseo de Gracia.

41 Degrees: The disco sister of Tickets, also owned by the Adria brothers. Recently blinged-out with an installation of 20 000 crystals that manipulate light and sound,  41 Degrees is hailed as the ‘baby elBulli’. It’s a 16 seater that serves a mind-fluffing 41-course menu. The same tricky online reservation system applies. I’m going end of July and can’t wait to experience the sparkly new 41 Degrees. Watch this space.

Dos Pallilos: A sensual synergy of food savvy. Exquisite Japanese food served tapas-style. After 11 years as elBulli’s headchef Albert Raurich – inspired by his Japanese wife – opened this übercool eatery next to the trendy Camper Hotel in the Ramblas. Good luck getting a table at short notice. Read my review here.

Gresca: Creative, contemporary fine dining in an informal, chic space.One of the really good restaurants where you might get a table at short notice. Details here.

Alkimia: Modernist gastronomy with strong Catalan roots. Set menus offer a well curated overview of the best this area has to offer. Reserve online.

Dos Cielos: Comes highly recommended. The website gives a clear idea of what to expect and how to get a reservation for this sensory joy ride, engineered by handsome twin brothers Sergio and Javier Torres. I might have to go soon.

Rias de Galicia: For the best seafood in town. Enough said.

Of course, the most sought-after table to be had in all of Spain would be Celler de Can Roca. Rated second  in the world after Rene Redzepi’s Noma and just an hour’s drive from Barcelona in Girona, this would be well worth the effort if you’re serious about sampling the best.

La Boqueria: Barcelona and probably the world’s best fresh produce market. On las Ramblas, the city’s main tourist drag, the market offers freshly pressed juices popping with colour and flavour. Choose from guava and coconut, kiwi and pineapple – the list is near endless. I start every market visit with a different flavour. Buy fresh produce or wait your turn for a seat at one of the popular tapas bars in the market. Or just eat with your eyes. It’s a visual orgasm.

Las Ramblas has tourist trap written all over it but you have to see it. Eating there is perhaps not such a great idea. Except for Bar Lobo. As you wander down Las Ramblas, turn right on Pintor Fortuny and first left onto a charming  square. Surprisingly authentic and accessible considering the location. A clever menu that offers tapas but also heartier meals, catering to a global palate whilst retaining some Spanish flavour. Good value for money and no reservation required. With a bit of luck and patience, I’ve always managed an outdoor table after a few minutes’ wait.

El Born is a great barrio to stroll through. Ancient, bohemian, bustling. Get lost in the narrow lanes but keep an eye open for Cal Pep on Placa de les Olles. Tiny tapas bar, always jam-packed with desperadoes queuing at the door.

Everyone will confirm that Spain’s North is the holy food grail. Specifically San Sebastian. Famous for having more Michelin stars per square kilometer than anywhere else in the world, and for pintxos.  Basically tapas of the North. Generally served on a slice of baguette, impaled with a toothpick. If you’re not going North and want to experience pintxos, el Born is also home to Sagardi Euskal Taberna at Carrer de l’Argenteria, 62. Grab a plate, pile it high and hang on to those toothpicks. That’s how they keep track of how much you’ve eaten…

Sick of tapas and fancy a hamburger the size of a toddler’s head, made American style – because burgers here are often served without a roll, lettuce and tomato – with everything? Pim Pam burger on carrer del Sabaret is considered the best in town. Sadly I can’t say the same for their hot dogs.

If you think the Spanish like chili, think again. They managed to colonize most of South and central America for centuries without succumbing to the charms of this hot little fruit. In search of a fix, I suffered some bad Mexican until I found Tlaxcal, also in el Born at 27 Calle Comerc. Classic Mexican, cleanly presented. Best nachos ever and do try the taco soup.

Barcelona has a lot of beach and many beach bars. The best paella is to be had at El Xiringuito de Escriba, by the famous Escriba family. The paella from the sea and the mountain (rabbit and seafood) is the best. Check out the fabulous Escriba website for info on Xiringuito as well as their two pastry shops. A must if you love confectionery. Candy rings, fantastical chocolate sculptures and some of the best pastry Spain has to offer. There’s a small Escriba pastry shop a few meters down from la Boqueria. Enjoy…

Barceloneta is riddled with groovy beach bars. If the food isn’t that great at most of them, the cocktails, views and people-watching will more than make up for it. Lying on the beach, you can’t miss Hotel Bella to your right, which looks like it’s about to strut into the sea. Also home to Michelin-star chef Carles Abellan’s Bravo 24 terrace restaurant. Much of what we ate here arrived with smoky grill flavours. I absolutely loved the lettuce, drizzled with chicken stock and cooked on the grill. A suave elevated seaside option with spectacular Mediterranean views. Abellan also owns Tapas 24 in the city center, close to paseo de Gracia. The poor man’s Tickets and a great place to get to grips with tapas without burning up your pocket.

‘What do Spanish people REALLY eat, besides bread and tapas, what is real Catalan food?’ That was the question after my first few months here. Fancy restaurants are great but with all that reinvention you need a set of tweezers to separate the traditional from the showstopper. I’d say the jury is still out on that one. But I do like Casa Paloma for several reasons. The interior is an unfussy blend of old world and contemporary sophistication. Much like the menu. Good Catalan food for discerning locals. Their daily specials offer comfort classics. And brace yourself, the steaks can be overwhelming in size.

Fancy a Catalan barbeque? Head for the hills and get your hands dirty at Casa Juaco, a truly rustic Catalan grill restaurant. One of my very best food experiences here. You’re given large plastic gloves (thin versions of the type normally used for cow insemination…) and a bib because it gets messy. Old terracotta roof tiles are plonked down, piled high with leeks charred over an open grill. It’s dirty work releasing the sweet center but very rewarding. This was my favourite part of the meal. Tiles of charred seasonal veg with aioli and romesco dipping sauces. Jugs of sangria and beer served in spouted glass vessels encourage communal drinking. Followed by a main of grilled meat (sausage and chops) and traditional creme Catalan for dessert. Go for the view, the vibe and the charred vegetables. Totally off the beaten track, it doesn’t get more traditional than this.

Rambla de la Catalunya is a great street to stroll down. Parallel to paseo de Gracia (Barcelona’s highest of high streets) but with less traffic and more trees, ambient cafes and interesting little shops.  Close to the corner of Rambla de la Catalunya and Majorca you’ll find Cerveceria, an above average tapas bar. Also home to the best hot dogs I’ve had here, albeit in tapas form so you have to order about 8 portions to get your footlong in… whatever it takes, right?

Hotel Ohla offers a 1 star Michelin restaurant, gastro tapas bar, chic cocktail bar and roof terrace. Impressive tapas of the not-so-pedestrian kind on the edge of the Old City.

All Italian food is comfort food to me. And sometimes when you travel you just want a big bowl of pasta or a pizza that doesn’t talk back when you chew on it. Considering our proximity to Italy, this city is not inundated with great Italian fare. The only one that’s given me joy is La Bella Napoli. Try the pasta in a parmesan basket.

Spain doesn’t have much of a breakfast culture. Generally a baguette with cheese or ham and a coffee will do. It took five months to find eggs Benedict in this town but I did. At a charming French bistro Cafe Emma at 142 Paul Claris in the city center. Good value for money lunch and dinner set menus make it a popular choice, which is why the service is somewhat disappointing. Open all day, every day.

I’m in my fifth month in Barcelona and there is still so much to discover. Areas like el Born and Gracia are riddled with little neighbourhood bars and restaurants and my advice would be, if the locals are having a good time, give it a bash. Vegetarians tend to have a hard time here in the heart of ham country but this link might provide some relief. For the rest, bear these pointers in mind when choosing an eatery.

1. Don’t eat anywhere with picture boards. Especially if the photos are sun-faded to a generic pulp. Because the food very well may be too.

2. Eat at tapas bars owned by Spanish folk. By the same token, Chinese restaurants should be owned by Chinese. You follow.

3. This one is global. The Michelin Guide said it best on Twitter “Why is it that the dining rooms with the best views serve food that rarely matches the optics? Location, location, frustration.” Couldn’t agree more. Am actually starting to think tourism is detrimental to food quality. So if your feet can carry you further, don’t eat right next to that atmospheric Gothic cathedral.

4. Aaah… la vida tapas! The world has truly gone tapas berserk. Like repeating your own name fast, I hardly know what it means anymore. Here, portions can be ample so eating tapas on your own doesn’t really work. You’ll end up eating a hell of a lot of one thing. A few roasted padron peppers are nice but you don’t want three fists full. Most dishes are either deep-fried or perched in a puddle of oil. Order in waves to avoid bombing yourself with too much of the same thing. When tapas is good, it’s wonderful. Back in the seventies in the Eastern Cape, my mom used to call it pick-n-mix. The best way to eat.

5. Plato del dia or meal of the day, available from most restaurants at lunchtime. Generally a 3-course meal with a drink or coffee included for around 12 Euros. Great value but don’t expect to be blown away. It’s simply a feeding so you can carry on with the business of having a good time.

6. “Hablas Ingles?” Shocker. In a city riddled with tourists, you’re lucky to encounter a poco English from the hosts. Without Google translate I might have starved in my first months or suffered death-by-tortilla (though, when in doubt a slab of potato omelet is a good filler). The bitch about Barcelona is it has two languages. Spanish (Castillano) and Catalan. Restaurants in touristy areas usually have an English menu but not always. Ask for carta Ingles. I’ve had to rely on my cellphone a lot and it helps if you know whether you’re dealing with Spanish or Catalan. Look for the word ‘with’. Can’t write a menu without it. In Spanish it’s ‘con’ and in Catalan ‘amb’… so, now you know what language you’re dealing with, order forth! And let me know if you find the good stuff.

This post may be subjected to updates and revisions. Follow me @kitchenvixenSA on Twitter for bite-by-bite updates.

And on a non-food note, don’t forget to always look up at all the gorgeous buildings. There’s much more to Barcelona than Gaudi… although he is the most crazy beautiful of the lot.

God is in the detail

I snapped this photo in the service area and my expectations were instantly a-tingle. The glove did it for me. Nerua’s philosophy can be summed up as clean, delicate, light, balanced and fresh. Both in decor and food. The delicate simplicity of the dishes belie an intense and rigorous design process, with a dedicated space where five chefs focus solely on innovating and perfecting. Appetizers were served at a counter with a view of the kitchen. And the best beer I’ve ever tasted.

Crisped cod skin with pimenton dust

I love craft beer and Il Baladin Wayan from Piozzo in the heart of Piemonte’s wine country was a taste revelation. Creator Teo Musso, son of an Italian wine-making family, decided to go with the grain and focus his blending skills on beer. An apprenticeship with Belgian brew masters followed. Wayan is a multigrain organically brewed beer with the flavour complexity, balance and vital freshness of an award-winning wine. We loved it so much that we chose to enjoy our first few courses – normally paired with white wines – with this brew.

Mecca for craft pilgrims

We moved to the dining room which is completely unadorned so as not to detract from the main act: the food.

The stage is set. Not decorated

Most importantly, the chairs are perfectly comfortable. So many establishments get this wrong. And as far as I’m concerned it’s a near inexcusable misappropriation of priorities. But before I morph into Miss Rottenmeier, let’s move on to the good stuff….

The team under the direction of head chef Josean Alija served an 11 course product-driven tasting menu. First up, 30 month-matured Parmesan curd with truffle tears, mini bread sticks and shiso.

Understated elegance

After six weeks in Spain my Spanish is…. pequeño, almost nada, so I didn’t quite understand that it was a curd until I tried it. In spite of the Parmesan being mature, the flavours were subtle and beautifully balanced.

Cry me a truffle river

Next up was leeks on egg rice with a sheaf of dried Iberian pork juice. A very clean dish with low intensity flavours but not as profoundly so as its parmesan predecessor. To create a symphony, not every note should ring out. And this dish was more of a pause than an accent. If I hadn’t know the sheaf was dried pork juice I would have guessed it was a lick of Bovril. Meaty and salty.

A clean green interlude

The borage with grass broth, clams and coastal garlic had more personality. I love clear soups and this one tasted of crisp new growth tempered with a bit of marine minerality. But the dish really worked its magic when each spoonful was accompanied by a shred of  borage. The immense thought and restraint present in each composition dawned on me

Borage, clear grass broth and clams

Nerua’s cuisine is ‘rooted in Basque culture but open to the world’ and as demonstrated by the following, also capable of tongue in cheek trickery. Bilbao is famous for its salted cod or bacalao, prepared al pil pil. A classic consisting of four ingredients: cod, olive oil, garlic and green peppers and the ‘pil pil’ refers to the twisting motion of the pan to emulsify the oil and cod proteins.

You've been punked!

A humble white onion with a cod skin coat and a puddle of green pepper sauce passes itself off as that classic of Basque cooking… bacalao al pil pil. Very clever indeed. Onion layers masquerading as flaky cod. The señor was extremely impressed with this dish. And he has serious culinary chops so I acquiesce to his superior knowledge… but, dear friends, an onion is an onion and soft fish skin does not rank high on the list of things I love to eat. So once the novelty of the concept wore off, I let most of the onion pass me by. I include a photo (poached from the net) of the real deal.

The real bacalao al pil pil

According to Google Translate our next dish consisted of ‘grilled hedgehog-bottom algae’. I’m ever so glad Google is wrong. We had sea urchins. In a theatrical dish.

Where did you say you studied drama again?

The variety of seafood in Spain, compared to what I’m used to in South Africa, is quite staggering. I hope they leave some in the oceans for the 50′s. Like the 2050′s. Sea urchins have a slightly funky aftertaste that does not appeal to me but more than that, I struggle with the texture. Soft. Slimy when it’s raw and spongy when it’s cooked. It looks like a little tongue, complete with mini buds.

Sea urchin in algae broth

The dish was perfectly executed but I am incapable of ‘letting go’ and enjoying urchin. We’d finally progressed from the delicious Wayan beer to a vino tinto and with a two-sips-to-one-urchin ratio I made it through most of the dish.

A pleasing wine

The little crab balls with slivers of sweet potato, white bean broth and sea lettuce was a favourite at the table. The natural sweetness of the crab was complemented by the sweet potato and the subtle earthy broth. Most delicious.

Medley of delicate natural sweetness

With the mackerel, grilled onions and green olives, I suffered a bout of appetite failure. This invariably happens after three appetizers and 6 courses. For the life of me I can’t remember if it was slightly smoked, or pickled. I think the latter. But I do remember that the flavours were surprisingly subtle and more enjoyable than expected. Funny how appetite failure and information overload tend to hang out together…

Submissive mackerel

Finally it was Iberian pork time! With the tiniest of carrots and an artichoke emulsion. Cooked to perfection. They managed to crisp up the sides whilst leaving the meat juicy. Great taste, although the dish was served a tad cold.

HRH prince Cerdo, ruler of Spanish cuisine

The first dessert course consisted of avocado, coconut ice cream and grapefruit tears. Very interesting flavours and textures. Creamy, almost not sweet avocado mousse with coconut ice cream and crunchy tart and salty grapefruit ‘tears’ that popped and vaporised on the tongue. Definitely one of those dishes where your eyes widen as you try to discern flavour components, but not uncomfortably so.

Avocado, coconut ice cream and grapefruit tears

I’m not a huge fan of dessert but the next dish was my favourite of the entire menu. I like pumpkin and I love bergamot and beer so this combo absolutely rocked.

I could have licked my plate

Subtly rich and earthy pumpkin mousse with hints of bergamot, a chewy biscuit by chef Enkir and beer ice cream. Such clean and gratifying flavours, delicate and robust, so damn delicious I dreaded seeing the bottom of the plate. We had one more course to go but to me, this was the highlight and full stop of my meal. My attention wandered to the monstrous 30ft high, 33ft wide bronze spider on the other side of the window. Created by French artist Louise Bourgeois as a tribute to her mother, Maman is a wicked piece of sculpture to dine with. It was a misty day but the Guggenheim adds further drama to Maman’s display by releasing clouds of fog from a nearby bridge that envelope the spider at times. You don’t need to be haute on Italian craft beer to fall for her creepy charms…

Mommy dearest

Before you think Louise had serious issues, here’s why she immortalised her mother-love in such a way: “The Spider is an ode to my mother. She was my best friend. Like a spider, my mother was a weaver. My family was in the business of tapestry restoration, and my mother was in charge of the workshop. Like spiders, my mother was very clever. Spiders are friendly presences that eat mosquitoes. We know that mosquitoes spread diseases and are therefore unwanted. So, spiders are helpful and protective, just like my mother.”

Why do I digress? Because the point is, Nerua is part of the Guggenheim museum. And what a special place that is. Surrounded by some of the best art ever, the Nerua team goes all out to create a multi-dimensional sensory memory. It’s not just the food.  There’s the individually wrapped toothbrushes in the bathroom (I was too shy to take my camera to the loo) the service team’s gorgeous three-piece suits in thick weave, the gloves, the heated cutlery and napkins… the attention to detail that makes that little star twinkle so brightly. And that’s why Nerua in all probability won’t remain a lone star establishment for long.

But not to be rude… the last course:

Thousand leaves of potato, apple and lime

Potato, apple and lime piped and layered with wafers. Interesting as you can clearly taste the potato, tempered with apple and with lime to add zing. The quirky end to an 11-course journey into the essence of ingredients. I’ve used the word ‘delicate’ too many times already and I can’t quite bring myself to construct a sentence with ‘sensitive exploration’ but, I think you get the picture?

A layered experience

When we finished the museum had closed. Pity, but I wouldn’t change anything about our day in Bilbao. And as far as I’m concerned, food of this caliber is art. Gracias señor for my first taste of the North. I hope it’s not my last. I do need to actually go inside the museum… I leave you with another piece of exterior art. Puppy, the 12.4 meter topiary dog by Jeff Koons. Do you see him there? At the end of the road, guarding the Guggenheim with the green hills of Bilbao in the background?

Hasta la vista Puppy

For more info on Nerua or the Guggenheim click on the names to visit their respective websites.

As always, click on images to enlarge.

BUT… then I had pan con tomate - bread with tomato – a Catalan classic that is greater than the sum of its parts. Plus it’s hands-on messy. Serve this at the beginning of a meal or with cold beers while the sausage sizzles on the grid. You’ll need good bread, toasted, a ripe squishy tomato, whole unpeeled garlic cloves, good olive oil and salt.

Humble stuff

Slice the garlic in half and scratch the bread with it. Do the same with the tomato. Really wreck it. Then drizzle with as much olive oil as the bread will hold and sprinkle with salt. Be liberal.

My new best friend

It’s the taste bud equivalent of a great family reunion and I urge you to try it. My buds have been battling the last few weeks. There are many many restaurants in Barcelona and most of them should be avoided. Food can be very oily and if you love fresh zingy flavours, winter food in this town will break you. Barcelona has incredible culinary aces up her sleeve but the likes of Tickets and Dos Palillos are a far cry from what the average Jose eats. I had this gem at a lovely tapas restaurant, Casa de tapas de Cañota, owned by the Iglesias brothers who also co-own Tickets with the famous Adrias. Casa de tapas serves traditional tapas, made well. At affordable prices. Patrons are invited to rate individual dishes and the results are displayed.

Tapas hit parade

Tapas isn’t really an option if you’re eating solo. The idea is to have one or two bites off each plate and not a whole plate of say, croquetas. But the tacos de cochinillo caught my eye and I mistakenly assumed ‘tacos’ meant, well, tacos. They way Mexican restaurants in South Africa do them. But in Spanish it also refers to little blocks of meat. Although the pork didn’t look the way I expected, it was delicious. Rich, succulent and crispy on top.

You say taco I say... block

Most of my food woes this time around are simply due to not knowing. Almost no Spanish and even less Catalan. When I visited Barcelona the first time as a tourist I took taxis and ate at some of the best restaurants. Now I live like a local, taking the metro and hunting for cheaper but good ways to feed myself. Everything’s different, of course. I have yet to see a loaf of rye bread. And Spanish supermarkets are a far cry from the Americanesque food cathedrals we have at home. There’s a lot less packaging in the veg section and meat is not as fussily clipped and stripped of all indication that it once was animal. It’s all pretty darn real. Sections of my local market are downright scary. And when I hit the fish aisle I’m ever so grateful I can block my nose from the inside.

I’ve also realised that my perception of Spanish food was just plain wrong. I’m holding back on any sweeping statements until I’ve eaten the North but at this point, suffice to say that not only is their food not spicy, they actually dislike it. Which is why I’m really excited about a little restaurant we’re going to on Friday. Mexican street food by real Mexicans. Come to think of it, it’ll be the first time I ever eat Mexican prepared by Mexicans.

Living and learning.

If anyone’s still reading, please hold thumbs that we find a really nice apartment soon – with an oven – because I’m craving bobotie! Although I suspect the señor won’t like it…

Mom's much handled recipe tome

I was convinced me and my grandma’s recipe could do better. And that I would find it in my mom’s big black book. Quelle horreur when a definitive family recipe was nowhere to be found! I found a milk tart crust on page 4 and further on my old neighbour tannie Evelene’s coconut milk tart, followed by aunty Elsabe’s regular milk tart towards the end of the book. All I know is I like my tart with a Tennis biscuit crust. And enough cinnamon on top. So I took Evelene’s crust and Elsabe’s filling and baked a tart that eclipsed any of my sepia-toned, butter and eggy custard memories. I will give you the recipe. If you don’t have a memorable milk tart recipe in your family, please adopt this one. Pretend. Copy and paste it any which way you like. Don’t bother with credits because this really is nobody’s ouma’s milk tart.

She's plain but all heart

Universal ouma’s milk tart recipe:

CRUST 1 packet Tennis biscuits, reduced to fine crumbs; half a cup of sugar; half a cup of flour; 125g soft butter

Cream butter and sugar together, add dry ingredients, mix well. Line a standard pie dish (pictured above), including the sides and press down gently to create an even crust.

FILLING 1 litre full cream milk; 125g butter; 1 cup sugar; 4 very heaped tablespoons flour; pinch salt; 4 eggs separated, whites beaten to soft peaks; vanilla (I used two vanilla pods but would guess a quarter teaspoon of vanilla essence should do it); cinnamon

Heat oven to 220 degrees Celsius. Pour most of the milk into a pot, leave a cup aside to add to dry ingredients. Add butter to milk and bring to the boil. Remove vanilla seeds from pods, add seeds and pods to milk. Let milk boil for a minute or three to absorb the vanilla flavour, stir to keep from burning. In a bowl, make a dough with the flour, sugar, salt, egg yolks and remaining milk. Once milk has boiled, strain through a sieve, pour over dough. Mix well and pour back into pot. Medium heat and whisk like hell otherwise you’ll have lumpy custard in no time. Allow to thicken, then add whipped egg whites.  Pour into pie dish, sprinkle with cinnamon and bake for about 20 minutes until set and crust edge is golden.

I strongly recommend you have a slice while it’s still warm. Delicious. My neighbour Simon described it as ‘quite possibly the best milk tart ever’ and Lord knows Simon’s a tough dessert diva to please.

How pretentious. Go overseas, eat at a couple of great restaurants and now nothing here is good enough? Not quite. It’s just that when I started this blog, restaurant reviews weren’t really going to feature. Due to my involvement with the Expresso Show on SABC3 that changed. The blog became restaurant review-driven. But successive mediocre over-priced meals started chipping away at my initial resolve to not bitch about other people’s efforts.

Now I feel like a cheap vacuum cleaner stuck in a corner. The following must be said.

I am totally gatvol of pseudo fine dining. It’s like a hologram of the real thing. Except for the prices. They are very real. An assemblage of decor, verbose menus, flavourless and overly engineered plated ‘elements’ that add jazz-hands visual appeal with no integrity. I feel so cheated when I eat this crap. It’s the food equivalent of Hong Kong Vuitton. And I don’t even like Vuitton. I know the South African public is gullible and tourists go far far away soon after they’ve been ripped off…

But enough of that. Unlike the predictable big five list of usual suspects that feature on too many mains menus. Hmm…. let me guess: duck, pork belly, springbok, linefish and steak. What do they do with the rest of that pig because everyone is so stuck on pork belly these days. With star anise and five spice? Now where have I seen that before….  EVERYWHERE!

Why is this getting to me now? Am I eating out too much? Probably. Which accounts for most of the bitterbek food critics out there. They’re just not hungry enough. For the record, I’m very happy with simple food, done well. The key is honesty. Walk your talk. Which brings me to my next point. Talk. I know food is bigger than sex these days and chefs are the new rock stars but try and be more like a drummer than a lead guitarist, okay. Just a thought. You never know when humble pie is served again.

Am I done am I done? No. Dammit. It’s almost too easy to take potshots at waiters in this country but this deserves a mention. I recently ordered shrimp cakes with an avocado salad as a main. Cakes. That’s plural, right? Shrimp. Undefined multitude, maybe? I received one large family-sized viskoek. Shrimp are small, I know. And they come frozen and devoid of mega flavour. But they’re cheap so given the price of the koek (R95) I expected it to be packed tighter than a bulimic’s tuck box.

The koek consisted of kingklip and mashed potato with max 5 fingernail-sized shrimp. I was disappointed. When I inquired as to the whereabouts of the shrimp in my shrimp cake, I was told by a slow and overly-familiar waitress that I should be grateful for the abundance of fresh kingklip in my cake. This pearl of eschewed logic was delivered as she spun her weighty self around on challenged ankles. To illustrate how silly I am? THIS IS NOT A GAME OF WHOTHEFUCKAREYOU LADY I felt like shouting at her. Bring the shrimp.

Exhibit A: half a cake splayed open to reveal its shrimp content

Another attempt at shaming her into admitting that the dish was a farce resulted in an explanation that the shrimp was chopped finely to ‘spread the flavour’. Micro-science is alive and well in Seapoint. No, I don’t want a complimentary dessert. Bring me a drink.

I first coined the term food fraud in Stellenbosch in the mid-nineties when I ordered a toasted baguette with mozzarella, sun-dried tomato and basil and got a floppy supermarket hot dog roll with cheddar cheese and tomato, microwaved to a radio-active pulp and then artfully wrapped in tin foil to resemble a giant metal sweetie.

I hate it when pretty words pimp nasty food.

Like a dessert I had at an otherwise nice establishment in Constantia recently. Don’t you think ‘Thyme brioche with lemon cream, blood orange jelly and meringue’ sounds nice? I did. An interesting departure from the usual dessert line-up which always includes some death-by-chocolate tart or fondant, pannacotta and/or crème brûlée and a berry mess.

Exhibit B: Trifle with borderline personality disorder

In the words of the late great Amy Winehouse, what kind of fuckery is this? Scatterlings of dry left-over breakfast brioche with not a hint of thyme, instant pudding-like custard with a limey twang, rock hard segments of blood orange jelly and the inexplicable addition of micro greens as garnish. Bwegh. As mentioned, this is an otherwise nice establishment so one can only hope this colourfast flavour-conundrum soon finds its way to the recipes-never-to-be-repeated file.

Does it feel good to get my bitch on? Not really. I’d rather have good food. I stopped blogging at about the same time Another Damned Food Blog appeared. It’s hilarious. An anonymous author rips into everything that’s fake, faddy and fraudulent in the food industry. No, it’s not me. I’ve been asked a few times and though flattered (bitch can write) I would never use the word fuck so much. Because I know like…you know, lots of words, like, adjectives and shit.

O where was I where was I… am I done? NO!!! How could I forget?! Cookbooks. Dear Lord! Please save us from the tsunami of mediocre google-cut-and-paste easy-as-microwave-pie bullshit books hitting the shelves roundabout now to fill the Christmas stockings of unsuspecting folk that really don’t need another potato bake recipe. I love Deon Meyer’s crime novels but why… WHY a cookbook by Deon Meyer? I recently looked at a food author’s work and got the sneaky feeling a brief sleuth session on google would deliver most of her recipes, with minor adjustments. I didn’t bother. I did however bother to make a dish from a recently launched cookbook by one of our very own celebrity chefs. Much like Anthony Bourdain’s most recent literary offering Medium Rare, I got the feeling this chef was prompted by his handlers to produce a cookbook because it would be the money-savvy thing to do, rather than the expression of a soul brimming with culinary inspiration. I made a lamb knuckle dish that asks for 100g sugar to 600g of knuckle. What the… protein rich malva pudding? All I’m saying is people are gonna wise up. So surf this wave of indiscriminate consumption but just keep an eye on the rapidly approaching shoreline.

Funny how the guys at the top – apart from being really good because they are simply propelled to care more, try harder – usually don’t indulge add-on fuckery. Thanks David Higgs for creating a truly delicious and well-priced menu at your new joint in Joburg, thanks Bertus Basson for keeping it rock and roll real, thanks George Jardine for your individualistic flavour profile, thanks Richard Carstens for being the bravest food dreamer, thanks Luke Dale Roberts for spinning the funk into fine dining (your gourmand menu remains top of my bucket list), thanks Kobus van der Merwe for your articulate take on our orphaned food history, thanks to the Italian family who own Asta la Pasta because I eat there more than anywhere else, thanks Toerie from Umami for the best lunches in town, thanks Baker family from Wild Peacock for being real time food heroes, thanks Margot Janse for being the only woman to have truly given the boys a run for their money. There are many more… especially cooks rather than chefs, that feed us nicely.

Cheers to you

Your ever-lovin Kitchen Vixen

Precision poetry in motion

I was damn near hypnotized by the measured, calm fluidity with which the chefs worked. If I ever had to fall prey to insomnia, I’d watch footage of Takeshi Somekawa (pictured above) working because it can only be described as kitchen Tai Chi. Yet the dishes appear at a rapid rate. The chefs at Dos Palillos are also known for their interesting hairstyles.

Impeccably coiffed and taking the heat

I love Asian food. The punchy sweet, salty, sour flavour combinations developed over centuries to stimulate appetite and guarantee satisfaction. Bear in mind that at this point, I’d dined at Ferran and Albert Adria’s new Tickets restaurant twice (once for savoury tapas and once to have six dessert courses) in the previous few days, so my taste buds had delusions of grandeur and were blown out on the best modernist tapas the world has to offer. In spite of this, I loved the Dos Palillos experience.

Homemade vegetable tsukemono

Shrooms and mild green peppers marinated in sugar and soya. My tastebuds started perking up.

Sardine tempura

I’ve grown to dislike tempura because often there’s just too much greasy batter and not enough of the main ingredient. And there’s nothing worse than tempura that gets soggy from sauce contact. The tempura here was so light you could hardly see it. I munched my way through this hot, crisp offering with absolute gusto. A sprinkling of green shiso added just the right top note. Shiso is related to basil and mint, although my first taste impression was of mint geranium. Very fragrant.

Sea life sunomono

The pic probably doesn’t do this little beauty justice. An artwork comprising shellfish and seaweed lightly pickled in rice vinegar. I’d seen navajas (razor clams) and percebes (goose barnacles) at Barcelona’s amazing Boqueria produce market and was happy to encounter percebes in this dish. It’s the marbled pointy claw sticking out, top right. The salad was a chewy medley of fresh marine flavours.

Goose barnacles (left) and razor clams with a serious case of the droop

I visited Boqueria market with Andres Condé, head chef of Tickets, for his daily shopping run. The razor clams pictured above look grim but establishments like Tickets and Dos Palillos get theirs fresh. Still alive. We walked to the other side of the market where Andres purchased razor clams that popped out of their shells when the fishmonger tapped them. Having seen both fresh and dead McDroopy clams, when next in Spain I’ll take care where I order these…

Razor clams with attitude

Delicious razor clams with ginger and red onion

A favourite of the evening – razor clams in a light ginger dressing that complemented the sweet freshness of the clams.

Chow-one-mushy

The chawanmushi did not work for me. If I remember correctly the waiter described it as flan with tuna water and pieces of crab. Or langoustine. I didn’t like it for the same reason I won’t like an omelette poached in the brine drained from a tin of tuna. It wasn’t offensive. I just don’t like fish-flavoured loose egg.

Tempura cherry tomatoes

Two little tempura tomatoes rebooted my palate. They very kindly allowed me to swap a few dishes from my menu with the mega-taster menu. And this was one of them: dumplings. And the best I’ve ever tasted.

Basket case

Made right, I love dumplings. They’re little pockets of homey goodness. These were incredible. Two with langoustine and pork belly and the other with spinach and shiitake, served with their own sauce. I do declare the langoustine and pork belly dumplings are just about topping my Best Thing I’ve Ever Had In My Mouth list.

Roll-your-own tuna belly temaki

Mini Moo on a lovely little steamed roll

Stir fried vegetables in soy

I spotted large chunks of meat slow-roasting on a rack above the grill and although it wasn’t part of my menu, they swapped dishes so I could try it. Iberian pork jowl. Pork neck seems to be a popular cut in Spain. Here, chunks of neck are sealed in the bag with a basting sauce, sous vide for 12 hours (‘boiled’ in the bag at low temperature) and then placed on the rack to temper for a few more hours. Absolutely wicked, suffused with flavour and unapologetically moreish. But so rich, this little plate at the end of a tasting menu was as much as I could handle.

Iberian pork jowl

Smoky and sweet, this could have been my dessert. To finish, they served a version of kuzumochi. A gooey berry-flavoured ball with slivers of fresh fruit in a liquid centre, on a puddle of chocolate and with a bowl of shiso ice, done the nitro way. You’re supposed to bust the ball, mix in the ice and then scramble the whole lot with the chocolate sauce. It looked like a crash test in a jelly factory. After the incredibly delicate savoury and sweet sphericals that I enjoyed at Tickets, the glutinous texture of the berry blob seemed unsophisticated to my (erm… less than 24-hour old) awareness of spheres and things… plus it tasted starchy. But let’s not compare, this meal was masterful in so many ways. And I’m not the biggest dessert head. The chocolate ningyo yaki (cold choc centre in hot batter) that followed provided the sweet full stop to an incredible meal. I had the 55 Euro tasting menu but you could opt for the Jap-tap extravaganza, which weighs in at 70Euro for 18 courses.

Kuzumochi

Cold hot choc bomb

Once again, as with Tickets and 41, the service was fantastic – informed, friendly and fast. Owner Albert Raurich arrived halfway through my meal and stepped into the fast-flowing production process. Cool, calm and with an unassuming friendly twinkle in the eye. After 11 years at elBulli, Albert’s new culinary home bears testimony to the elBulli brilliance albeit in a different format.

Nice touch

Situated in the hip Camper Hotel building in Las Ramblas, it’s easy to miss the entrance. Book online. There’s a Dos Palillos in Berlin too, if that’s on your path.

Reviewed 41 and Dos Palilllos on SABC3 Expresso on 28 September. Click here to view.

Showtime menu and napkin holder

Located in the old theater district of Barcelona, Albert and his team went all out to create a vaudeville-style food fairground with witty detail and playful references to put you instantly at ease. So, there’s misconception number one cleared. You don’t have to get uptight about going to Tickets because they aren’t. After years of performing a tightrope act in the international culinary arena, Tickets is were the Adria brothers get to play.  With La Vida Tapas emblazoned on uniforms, they’re going back to their roots and honoring the gastronomical heritage of Spain. Tapas is a way of life, of caring, sharing and savouring each bite.

Albert Adria

There are several service stations, each decorated to a theme and responsible for  a different style of tapas. We sat in La Presumida that references the beach bars of Barcelonetta, the city’s beach front.

Chilled beach bar

I had a great view of the seafood station where Albert finished each dish before it went out.

Hands-on

I must admit I was a bit scared. What if I didn’t like it? I don’t trust foam and skid marks and blobs for the sake of blobs… I like real food. This was my first visit to Spain so I obviously missed the whole elBulli phenomena. A rudimentary google search will confirm their status as the prime exponents of molecular gastronomy, a phrase which has now fallen out of favour, and flavour, for that matter. The problem with being genius innovators is that you get copied. And although it is the greatest form of flattery, the ‘inspired by’ version seldom lives up to the real thing. Ferran and Albert are artists and artists tend to evolve. So, much like I don’t want to be reminded of that challenging hairstyle I sported 15 years ago, they’ve moved on and are comfortable describing their food as modernist. I only know that because a few days later, at their cocktail bar 41º,  a barman deftly submerged what looked like a smoking ball into a drink and I said: ‘Ooo, a molecular cocktail!’ What a blooper. Albert set me straight and the-M-word-that-will-not-be-mentioned is now forgotten.

So, what did I eat? It’s an elBulli classic so why not start with the olive sphericals. Fresh juice from the finest olives turned into delicate spheres. They look like wobbly olives and once in your mouth, the lightest pressure makes them pop to release delicious flavour. A wonderful appetizer.

The magic of...skill

Followed by sangria watermelon. Just watermelon, lightly infused with sangria.

Cubes of sangria watermelon

Service at both Tickets and 41º is excellent. A world-class combination of efficiency, knowledge, genuine hospitality, wit and kindness. Care is taken to explain each dish, irrespective of language-barriers. I sometimes feel that waiters in upmarket establishments in South Africa feign haughtiness to appear more accomplished…or to match their surroundings. Any which way, shake it. The Tickets crew made me feel so at home. After the olives and watermelon, and perhaps that little glass of Moët, I sat back with a huge grin on my face, ready for the main act. Or rather, for a succession of main acts, as is the tapas way.

Tuna belly rubbed with Iberian ham fat

Paper-thin slices of tuna belly rubbed with Iberian ham fat, served with a sprinkling of nuts and bread sticks. Read this again dear friends, slowly: tuna belly rubbed with luxuriously rich, smokey ham fat. The waiter explained the forest-meets-sea sensibility of the dish. ‘This is real food!’ I almost shouted at Victor, a new friend of mine and an old friend of Albert who knows the Tickets menu. ‘But of course,’ he said, ‘you can make all of this at home’, pointing at the now empty jar of olive sphericals. I know you can order spherification sets online – not that I’m buying – but even so, it’s the quality of produce that sets their food apart.

Airbags with Manchego cheese (front) and quail eggs in paprika bread dust

Airbags. Hollow, crispy pastry shells. Wonderful carriers for good stuff like Manchego, a flavourful local cheese, and cured ham.

The Hindenburg of airbags

Albert’s objective was to create a menu that would work for all ages. Kids are welcome at Tickets and there’s plenty for them to eat. Plus, you’re expected to play with your food. They even give you branded tweezers to help you along. Clearly, by now all fear of Frankenfood had made way for enjoyment. I love tomatoes and they served a wonderfully refreshing salad.

Tomatoes and tuna with red onion and basil seeds

Chunks of tomato in what seemed like a jellied tomato consommé with a few drops of basil oil. I might be getting it wrong here but it was super tasty. Perfect with the tuna.

Delicious ceviche of white anchovy with mint oil, chili, lime and coriander

Raw oyster with pearl

Using the spherification technique, a sea water pearl is created. A touch that turns an excellent oyster into a masterpiece.

Crab in avocado

For kids of all ages, blini with pork belly and mozzarella

At 16,50 euro the cep mushroom en papillote (in a bag) was my most expensive dish.

Ceps in a bag

Albert dressing Victor's ceps with a pine nut vinaigrette

I loved the uniforms, especially their bling footwear

We had 18 different tapas and the bill came to just under 150 Euro, drinks excluded. Tapas start from as little as 4,80 for the oyster with pearl. Expensive but not excessive, if you consider the quality and expertise involved. Spain has been hit hard by the economic meltdown. Everyone talks about it. Just before or after they warn you about the pickpockets. At some point they pause and say…. ‘you’ve heard about la crisis?’… with a note of dread as if the plague has struck. Seen in this fragile context, it absolutely rocks that Tickets and 41º are booked out three months in advance. They don’t accept bookings further in advance and reservations can only be made online.

Waving in good fortune

I spotted row upon row of bright gold cats and asked Albert about them. ‘From China,’ he laughed, ‘to bring in the money.’ I think these cats are going to do just fine.

I left Tickets feeling incredibly fortunate myself. And I have my friend Guy Harcourt-Wood to thank, who spoke to his friend in Barcelona – Victor Garcia – who grew up in the same hood as Albert, worked at elBulli during student breaks and knows everyone in the Barca restaurant scene. Without their help…I don’t even want to think about it. Victor was a star and organised that I return a few night’s later to have dessert. The show was not over. I had another ticket to ride! But first, we went to Lolita’s for Gin Tonic. The post-dinner drink of choice in Barcelona. And drop the ‘and’. It’s just Gin Tonic.

The city that almost never sleeps

Tickets: Act Two. Keeping it sweet. I’m not a big dessert person but a few nights later I was back to try theirs. Ex-elBulli and now head chef of Tickets, Andrés Conde has a soft spot for desserts and recalls his kitchen debut – making instant pudding for his mom’s birthday at the age of 7.

Andrés Conde

I had six desserts. And they were superb. So delicate and airy you could almost inhale them.

Elderflower cloud with lemon cream and wild strawberries

Liquid raviolis of pineapple

White chocolate and black sesame lava rock

Coffee and cocoa meringue on chocolate ice cream

The meringue here was incredibly light but what really set this dessert apart was the spicy, crunchy streusel base. With hints of cinnamon and fruit, it tasted like Christmas.

Cold-hot chocolate fritters. Cold chocolate in hot batter

And then, in fairground fashion, the ice cream cart arrived.

It's a scoop

According to Albert they wanted to have fun with Tickets. A lot of thought went into absolutely everything to create a bespoke environment that is stimulating, super enjoyable and totally unstuffy. So when my scoop arrived in this organic-shaped holder I at first thought it was a nod to Gaudi’s fantastical architecture. But no. I think it looks more like a ginger root. Doesn’t it?

Mango sorbet

At this point in time I’d say Tickets is the main stage in the Adria Theatre. But keep an eye on the fringe act, 41º. Destined for a revamp at the end of October, 41º will change into a 60-seater restaurant with an amazing bar. And a menu with 41 dishes to choose from. It’s here where the spirit of elBulli will resurrect itself. They already have old classics on the menu, like the parmesan ice cream sandwich with marmelade but the recipe has been tweaked and updated. ‘It’s almost like a mini elBulli in the making,’ I said to Albert. ‘No! It’s Big Bulli,’ he replied. Big plans for a small space. According to the younger Adria, his ‘chip is always open’ for inspiration to strike. It can only get interesting.

Parmesan ice cream sandwich with marmelade. First created at elBulli in '96. Updated for 41º in 2011

Lady Vengeance (14 Euro)

One of the cool things about 41º is that their head chef is South African Rob Roy Cameron. Rob is from Durban and worked in kitchens around Europe until a chance meeting with Andrés Conde took him to elBulli. I’ve heard chefs here claim elBulli experience but according to the elBulli crowd, Rob is the only SA chef to have worked there. Case closed. And put away that gadget if you don’t have a license.

Rob Cameron

I saw these at a distance in Tickets and was very glad to try them at 41º.

Squid tentacles, right?

No. They’re crisps that look like tentacles. ‘It’s just rice paste,’ Rob shrugged. Rice cooked, pureed, piped, dotted with quinoa to create the little suckers, and cooked. They’re like super sophisticated seafood chipniks… seasoned to taste like grilled tentacles. All natural, all good, just bloody clever.

I also loved these. Fake pistachios are incredibly creamy little versions of the real nut. I raved. ‘It’s just pistachio and water,’ Rob said. And I could make them at home. Somehow I don’t think so. The yoghurt pistachios were equally delicious.

Pistachios in yoghurt and fake pistachios

How can you fault pork rinds in pastry with salsa and avo?

Their over-the-top, all-edible (except for the gooseberry leaves) dessert for two will retire from the repertoire when the menu changes in October. They only make five or six a night. I watched Rob painstakingly assemble this sugary wonderland and thought, honey, you’re fabulous but maybe too much work.

As with Tickets, bookings can be made online for an advance period of three months and 41º is as tough to get into. With the relaunch, perhaps even tougher. I leave you with a last touch of class from this incredibly talented team.

Long-life ice

Now, when I think of my experience at Tickets and 41º, I remember amazing flavours and slinky textures. Real food by some of the world’s greatest chefs, who also happen to be very kind people. Muchas gracias.

For menus, booking procedures and more visit www.ticketsbar.es and click on 41º for their site.

I’m not done with Barcelona. There’s more to come. Dinner at Dos Palillos, black rice, Lolita’s and shopping for Tickets at the amazing Boqueria fresh produce market. Follow me on Twitter @kitchenvixenSA for updates.

Click here for the live review of Tickets on SABC3 Expresso Show. We ran out of time but the good news is, I’ll be reviewing 41º and another great restaurant by an ex-elBulli chef, Dos Palillos, on Expresso, 28 September.

I was an exchange student in Germany after school so it’s almost like a second home to me. My German is a fast-flowing grammatical calamity but who gives a kartoffel about grammar? We had dinner at the Altstadt Wirtschaft which, as the name implies, is in the old part of town, situated in a thick-walled underground cellar. They serve classic German fare made from scratch with only the purest local ingredients. Their veal schnitzel is legendary and everyone at the table had it. Served with cucumber and potato salad, of course.

Local is lekker all over the world

The welcoming posse with a thirsty gentleman in the background.

Libby, Rosi, Rita & Birgit

Owned by two brothers, Peter and Florian Geissler, the Altstad Wirtschaft is German hospitality personified. My inquiries about Riesling lead to Florian giving me a fine example of the wine to enjoy at home. Good man. In fact, they were so hospitable we only left after two… many pear schnapps later. Go ousus!

Plans for Libby and I to dress up in Tracht the next day didn’t happen. For obvious reasons. But I did make it to the town festival with my bro-in-law Bernd and nephew Paul. My sis says that when she arrived in Kempten twenty odd years ago, the town festival was a sad show. Not well attended and lacking in traditional spirit. Today, everyone is once again wearing Tracht. In this tech-savvy age of global culture I think it’s super cool that tradition is enjoying a revival. Besides, how can you look at someone in Lederhosen and not smile. I went off on Tracht-spotting.

Tracht made trendy with tattoos

Vintage barbie Tracht

Metalhead Tracht

Sheena Queen of the Jungle Tracht

Blues Brother Tracht

Bodacious Tracht

Skank Tracht

Joe Cool Tracht

And what’s a German post without a bit of….

Punk Tracht

But my favourite Tracht pic is of Paul, my nephew, who despite the heat was a stickler for etiquette and insisted on wearing his proper, long-sleeved shirt.

Cartoonist extraordinaire, Herr Paul Mildner

My second and last day in Bavaria ended with Bernd cooking supper. Something he does really well. One day, when he is no longer an industrialist, he wants to own a restaurant. Just to ensure he works really hard in his old age! A delicious spicy goulash soup made with fresh local mushrooms, followed by tiny fish fillets and rosti and enjoyed with a good Riesling.

Dinner with the Mildners

Prost liebes Deutschland, biz zum nächsten Mal.

Next stop, bella Italia.