Madrid’s Manhattan-esque mirage vanished, as we bumped down Sevilla's cobblestoned sidewalks to our apartment. The manager, John-Pierre, was a calm, gentle soul, so I tried to subdue my Sam Kinison-like explosions as Bubba and I were given the studio with a private rooftop terrace – “Ohhh, Ohhhhhhh!!!”
Cooking the Books: Casa Paco reminded me of a favorite paperback. It was an easy read with their simple interior and sidewalk seating, worn with love, but still flirting with first-time charm. Plus, Paco was one of the few places that offered English menus, and once I picked it up, I couldn’t put it down…the same went for my fork.
This might have had the comfort of a well-worn, repeatedly-read paperback, but Casa Paco wasn’t old news by any means. Their in-touch technique with taste trends rooted in old country know-how made them a need-to-know name.
I’m talking New York Times front page, arts and entertainment section, an ad in classifieds and the answer to number 18 down - Two words/ eight letters: the prince of papas, gods of goat cheese and home to the Grand Dame of waitressing (Thank you, Maria).
Casa Paco - the best seller of Sevilla.
*photos courtesy of Mom (Marcie) Alkema