Time to get Sevilla-ized: Tapas and Papas

Day 5

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.

Goat cheese au gratin browned with honey. Oh, and did I mention bathed in melted butter? If I was on death row, this would be included on my last meal wish list.

Pork cheeks were like short ribs, fork tender with veggies and a reduced, red wine gravy. Hello there, sweet cheeks...and good-bite.

Swordfish swam in a white wine/ orange sauce that also starred cinammon and raisins. Somehow this odd combination brought the perfect balance.

Sirloin in mustard sauce, though tasty, wasn't my favorite. But that didn't deter this mama from enjoying her papas, thin coins of lightly fried potatoes, served with almost every meal here.



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

Pre-dined Valentine - Wine Vault and Bistro

Valentine’s Day. Absolutely the worse holiday known to man (and woman). If you’re single, it magnifies your “cheese stands alone” status by a thousand. If you’re in a relationship, affections are held hostage, forcibly released through Hallmark hallelujahs, stuffed animals that you were already too old for 10 years ago and roses picked up at a gas station after realizing that TODAY was Valentine’s Day. Money forced. Love lost. And the reason why Bubba and I decided not to do anything this year.

But that was before I was tempted by a former love of mine…the Wine Vault and Bistro, offering a pre-Valentine (Feb 10th), three-course menu for $20 (paired with a wine flight - $15)*...and practically begging me, "Will you be mine?"

Sweet seats
2 (of us) + 4 (seats in front of the fireplace) + 1 (enormous heart constructed from corks) = infinate amounts of pleasure secluded in the most romantic seat in the house.

First course
Roasted pork belly/ herb crushed potatoes/ pickled mushrooms/frisee/ butternut squash puree: I’ve been to Chef Alex Guarnaschelli’s Butter in Manhattan and her pork belly’s got nothing on the Bistro. This was the most tender, meaty belly I'd ever eaten - minimal fat and a crispy, caramelized pigskin that scored more than a touchdown. 2007 Gerard Bertrand “Pic Saint Loup” Rhone Red Blend (5 oz. pour)

Second course
Seared duck breast/ crispy confit/ wild spinach/ sunchoke puree/ xo sherry/ black trumpets/ broccolini: I like my breasts with some bounce and this was cooked to medium-rare perfection, strapping in its juices with crisp, salty skin. To the side, a cluster of meat pulled from the thigh made me think of ZZ Top's, “She’s got legs…she knows how to use them” because The Vault knew how to kick it when it came to confit. Besides consistently topping themselves on the plate, I always walked away with a bit of culinary knowledge like learning that sunchokes were from the stalk of a sunflower – who knew? 2006 Baxter “Toulouse Vineyard” Pinot Noir (5 oz pour)

Idiazabal + chestnut ravioli/ charred onions/ parsley pesto/ hazelnuts/ nasturtiums: Our next lesson began by introducing us to a new ingredient, Idiazabal, a salty Spanish cheese. Melding with the heartiness of the chestnuts and wrapped in its delicate frock of homemade pasta, this little circle had style, both bright in flavor and color, beautiful inside and out. 2007 Talbott Chardonnay (or) 2006 Baxter “Toulouse Vineyard” Pinot Noir (5 oz. pour)

Third course
Local strawberry tart/ green strawberries/ vanilla cream/ chervil/ meyer lemon: I’d keep walking because this tart was pretty pedestrian (was the pastry store-bought?) - the only throw away dish of the meal. 1998 Doamine Fontanel Rivesaltes Ambre (3 oz. pour)

34-yr-old px sherry float/ housemade butterscotch ice cream/ caramel powder: This was rooted (without the root beer) in classic float formation with a slight twist of spirits to give it wings. Cuarante y Tres “Licor 43” Spanish Liquor (1 oz. pour)

The best restaurant in town, as far as I'm concerned. Current and inventive, in both, concept and ingredients – if you haven’t been, you need to go. You won't be disappointed...cross my heart and hope to dine.

*weekly three-course dinners for $20. Find out what they’re serving this week: www.winevaultbistro.com

Museums and Marrow - Madrid

Day 4

Lasting Impression: Visual caffeine washed the walls of Madrid’s Thyssen-Bornemisza Museum, where contemporary angles weren’t only architectural. Along with housing all the big wigs of impressionism (Monet, Van Gough, Degas), more recent works like Edward Hopper’s lonely Hotel Room and Lichtenstein’s pop-art kept us buzzing*.

Freeze Frame: How Bazaar…how very Harper’s Bazaar. Mario Testino and his camera were well-known for capturing notable persons (supermodels, celebrities), for notable publications (Vogue, Vanity Fair), but his grand-scale, photo exhibit (All or Nothing) in the museum’s basement elevated his altered “apple of my eye” images to the highest level.

Taking the ordinary and making it jump, shaping the odd and making it human: a waif wearing underwear and hip padding in a deserted mannequin factory; the close-up of a tanned, woman's face removing a fake eyelash in her floppy sunhat; a dog winding its leash around a blonde’s floor-length gown as she stood on the outermost point of a boat (you wanted to scream, “Don’t fall in!”).

And when the exhibit was over, I wanted to scream, “Don’t end!” Testino fabricated intricate worlds and spun their story, flawlessly, in one frame. He shoots…he scores**.

Local love: The cold had started seeping into our bones, so we were overjoyed to find a place, not only open (around 4pm when most close before dinner), but lit up like a birthday cake. La Daniela Medinaceli was crowded with a band of rosy cheeked locals who wouldn’t surprise me if they burst into simultaneous song. It was like everyone was in on the same joke here with knowing smiles passed around like punch-lines.

Maybe the joke was on us since our sub-par Spanish was of no use against the rapid-fire repartee flung at us with the intensity of ninja stars. An awkward dialectic dance ensued, but brought us to the understanding that La Daniela’s special was a soup loaded with beef, chicken, chorizo and veggies. Did we want that?

Soup was exactly what we were looking for – nothing warmed you better from the inside out – and we nodded approvingly. So we were a bit surprised when our waitress brought the bulbous tureen boasting a flavorful broth containing thin noodles, but void of any meat. Where’s the beef?

How can you have any (black) pudding, if you don't eat your meat? What we hadn’t understood was that “the special”, was a list of courses: the first course was soup…the second course was the meat and veggies.

We figured this out when a behemoth platter of brisket, bone marrow, black pudding, chicken, chorizo and some gelatinous fatback thing was plunked down at one end of the table, and a heaping mound of chickpeas, carrots, cabbage, potatoes and falafel at the other.

We marveled at our table, wide-eyed, before digging in with the wonder of archeologists. Bubba was the most adventurous and even gave the fatty blob a try. The best part was that we never would have ordered this if we knew what it was (blood pudding wasn’t necessarily a favorite of mine), but as we looked around, everyone else was enjoying the same feast…and now we were in on the joke too.

But the real reason for all those sideways smiles and rosy cheeks was revealed when our waitress cleared the dishes and brought over two enormous, glass bottles containing what appeared to be oil and vinegar, but were identified as after-dinner digestives – Spain’s answer to grappa. The “oil” was similar to Limoncello and the “vinegar” was anise-flavored.

Either/or, I felt like Alice accepting her “drink me” directive in Wonderland, but rather than shrinking, we left 10 feet high…and a bit dizzy (suddenly it didn’t seem so cold outside anymore). One of my most cherished memories of the trip. Be sure to fall down this rabbit hole.



*photo#1 - Woman in Bathroom, 1963- Roy Lichenstein
**photo#2 - Todo o Nada (All or Nothing) exhibit brochure cover - Mario Testino

Royal Palace, San Miguel Market - Madrid

Day 3

The Emperor’s Old Clothes: Do the drapes match the carpet? Well, indeed they do. But what was really impressive about Madrid’s Royal Palace was that the furniture in every room matched the fabric…on the walls. Yes, the walls were upholstered - opulence beyond words. Endless square footage stretched out to more than 300 rooms, most retaining their own theme: the throne room (equipped with royal seating, of course), music room, gala dining room, etc. In the former dressing room of the King, some kid behind us said, “That means the King was naked in here.” I like the way you like kid…the naked King room. Although most of the walls were swathed in fabric, a couple of places like the porcelain room, made entirely of tile, and the royal pharmacy, still stocked with glass bottles as if someone might walk up to fill a prescription, brought a surreal glance into everyday life a couple hundred of years ago.

Market Crash: As gusty winds blew us like giant maple leaves across the Palatial plaza, we rushed back to the warming arms of San Miguel Market, conveniently within walking distance and swaddling us in the comfort of a childhood blankie.

Brrr…baby, it was cold outside. That’s why it was so disappointing to hear they were out of the escarole/white bean/chorizo soup I had coveted the day before. But I was coming around to the idea of steaming empanadas and spinach/potato croquettes with a side of freshly sliced jamon. More cheese, more olives, more wine and then we washed it all down with enough dessert to get our hearts pumping for the walk back - my kind of energy boost.

Shop talk: It’s a curl, it’s a mane…it’s Super Afro! The shop across the street from the market was also worth a pop-in with vibrant canvases and inventive T-shirts, plus their window touted a superhero who spoke to my own curly-haired brand of heroism.

Bencotto - San Diego

I’d been chomping at the bit to check out this little known place in Little Italy getting big talk. The Ferrari of Italian restaurants flaunted floor to ceiling windows and streamlined silver railings, welcoming us to the minimalist sleekness that was Bencotto. Even with reservations, we were tucked into a tiny table next to the entrance, so I asked if we could move upstairs and with a nod of the head, we found ourselves reveling in a birds-eye view from the romantic roost above.

Appetizers
Calamari: Tender bites of squid swam in spicy, red broth and earned my respect - good calamari is hard to find.

Caesar salad: I knew there was a problem when I saw the size of the bowl, or should I say the fish bowl. The Ferrari was overcompensating and hoped volume would distract from taste...sorry, not this girl. Caesar salad had become my Holy Grail of Greens – I was on the eternal search for rare excellence and had yet to find it in San Diego. The enormity of the salad only magnified crummy croutons, lack of fresh parmesan and bland dressing.

Entrees
Gnocchi: I loved the idea of picking my own sauce (from a choice of eight) and the ability to mix and match them with a separate list of pastas. Gorgonzola stuffed gnocchi, the size of silver dollars (and as heavy as one) were ok, but the Bencotto sauce – pink sauce with pancetta – could be slathered on a shoe and still seem flawless.

Ravioli: I’ve got pretty strong opinions about raviolis because my family used to make homemade ones for the holidays and Bencotto’s proved a bit dense in the dough. The Bolognese sauce tasted as if it had been cooked down a few hours too long, but for as long as it seemed to have been on the stove, there was an absence of depth - very one note…and that note was flat.

Dessert was the final disaster. Doesn’t semifreddo mean half cold? Because this was definately half and half...half freezer burned and half rock solid. The tiramisu was all cream, no cake and a whole lotta cocoa goin’ on.

Waterboy: You would think this kid was getting paid by the drop. I was afraid to take a sip that he might see and rush over for the twentieth time. I admire your attention to detail kid, but if you like water so much, go jump in a lake.

Second chances, new orders: My criticisms may seem a bit harsh, but let me add this:

1) There was warmth here beneath the cool exterior and it was already drawing me back like a neighborhood diner where I would be comfortable enough to come in and order “my usual”. The owner was constantly on the floor, checking tables and teaching his staff with fatherly benevolence, passing on his skill set to the next generation and truly enjoying the process. There was heart here…it just missed a beat now and then.

2) We decided not to order the delicacy I had been dying to try…gnocco fritto = fried pasta. Served with paper-thin proscuitto from their fire-engine-red slicers, my appetite's alarm had been sounding since we sat down and that fire had yet to be put out. Next time, "gnocco fritto" would be the first words out of my mouth (and the first thing in it).

3) Affordable: apps, entrees and dessert for about $80 total. Quite the deal and understandably why they’re so packed - comfort food at a nice price.

Puerto del Sol, San Miguel Market - Madrid

Day 2 (cont'd)
Plaza Plodding: A mariachi band played us into Puerto del Sol, the city's central square bordered by shops and eateries – were we in Spain or Mexico? Either way it was a warm welcome, and we were getting warmer…to finding the legendary pastry shop on the plaza’s edge.

We came upon a place reminiscent of the witch’s house in Hansel and Gretel with delectable scenes lit up like Macy’s window displays at Christmas.





Inside brimmed with a chaos close to that of the Stock Market floor…trading their share of éclairs.Two confectionery cases lined either side of the alley where patrons bowled their way through, hailing a cherry danish with as much determination as hailing a cab. One taste and the commotion made sense. Even Rumpelstiltskin would be impressed with their ability to spin butter into pastry. Mom’s cross between a croissant and turnover brought “ooze” (of chocolate) and ahhs, while Jon ordered a creampuff big enough to make our faces disappear behind each bite.

This little piggy went to market: Trying to purge pangs of glucose gluttony, we continued trekking along and passed through Plaza Mayor to discover one of my tip-top trip tips – San Miguel Market. This culinary campground housed endless rows of vendors integrating every food group.


Never had I’d seen vegetables so surreally vibrant, enough to make me want to reach out and grab them…I guess that’s why there’s a sign that said, “No touching”.


Whether it was the prior pastries or just food fantasy overload, I became a child on a sugar high, jutting my head in between coats, gobbling each edible prize with my eyes before turning and running amuck through the crowd again.






Fish flirted. Tapas teased. Olives ogled (who needed some branch to bring peace? These would do). And apparently pigs could fly because I had just entered...


Jamon Heaven: Sometimes you’ve got to take the bull by the horns, but I’d much rather grab the Jamon by the hoof…now this was rustic. A skilled butcher skinned paper thin slices right off the whole leg. I’m talking hoof and all, held in a metal contraption that extended a leggy invitation.


Jamon = the Boogeyman of Spain. It’s in every window, it’s behind every corner, it’s under your bed…you cannot get away from Jamon! But it is your friend, especially the Iberico variety, a region known for hocking quality hams.


Public Picnic: Seating was an issue, but who cared if I could splash around with a glass of wine while choosing my first bite…the mini-kebob with fresh mozzarella, tomato and pesto would do – let the feasting begin!







The four of us met up in the center and stood at a bar-height table with everyone else who managed to elbow their way in. The few stools provided were like a cruel game of musical chairs, but we were more focused on feeding.

All of us had gone in different directions - I headed to the cheese stand for an assorted sampler, Jon went for fish tapas, Mom hit the olive counter (stuffed with everything imaginable – garlic, cheese, peppers, etc). And Bubba hoofed it over to the Jamon.

We gorged and grabbed from each other’s plates, full again, but we’d only scratched the surface. Other market items we coveted:







Croquettes (spinach, mushrooms, cheese)
Soup (escarole, chorizo, white bean and escargot chowder)
Fish, fish and more fish (tapas, whole fish, smoked fish)
Ice cream/gelato
Pastries (cookies, meringues)
Sandwiches
Fresh potato chips
Beer
Mojitos

And that’s just what I can remember. Weekends here were almost too mobbed, but come once…and you’ll probably be part of that mob.

**most photos courtesy of Mom Alkema

Prado Museum - Madrid

Prado-a-go-go
Day 2
The Prado was in walking distance from our apartment and happened to be rocking a Renoir exhibit, but the museum’s overall focus was dark, highlighting Goya’s morbid depictions and endless rows of creepy crucifixions.


Worth a stop, but the park outside painted a much more interesting picture with characters like King Neptune who blew his conch shell (for a tip, of course)...

...and the two-manned statue that turned out to be real.









Street performers were in every plaza, all working their own angle on how to make a Euro.

**photos courtesy of Mom Alkema