Day 12.2: Allium

Mother of God. Sweet, sweet Mother of God.

I wasn't intending to post about dinner, figuring we'd just go to some restaurant off the La Rambla, but Mother of God.

After taking some down time this afternoon, we wandered down into the Barri Gòtic, a neighborhood in Old Town. The streets were dark and narrow and, in the fading daylight, starting to glow with the dim light of cafés and the smell of good food. Despite being warned about the neighborhood after dark, our interest was sparked by a wide window looking in on a small but beautiful kitchen of one of the neighborhood's restaurants. Ignoring our instincts to check Trip Advisor, we got a table for four.

The restaurant is called "Allium" (Ah-lyoom) and features a combination of traditional North Spanish and Catalonian dishes in an inventive and modern presentation. After ordering drinks and a few starters (local beers, a burrata with stuffed peppers, and salmorejo with Iberian ham), we were presented with complementary pate and pa amb tomàquet (rustic bread with fresh tomato and olive oil-- a Catalonian specialty). It was here that we realized the utter magnificence of the meal that was to come.

This was our first experience with pate, which was served with tiny crostini. It was smooth and intensely flavorful, with a hint of spice. The pa amb tomàquet was light and airy with all the intensity that a good summer tomato should have. And these were just the starters...to our starters.

Then came the salmorejo, a thick and creamy relative of gazpatxo, topped with hard boiled egg, slivers of Iberian ham, and a swirl of deeply fragrant olive oil. The first spoonful had all the zest and garlicy richness of my previous experiences with gazpatxo, but it differed in its silken thickness. The ham, salty and paper-thin, cut a sharp contrast to the summery depth of the salmorejo. The addition of the egg added substance and interest to an already incredible dish.

The burrata was fresh and clean in the way good dairy should taste, seated on a bed of fresh greens and sun-dried tomato paste. This was paired with four tiny, slightly spicy burgundy peppers stuffed with a paste of what could only be called "deliciousness."

Having gain an appreciation for what our chef was capable of, we strategized the selection of our entrees. We opted for Catalonian specialties and more ambitious dishes. I got Catalonian pork sausage with white beans (Botifarra amb mongetes), and Mom ordered Tagliatelle with fresh summer vegetables topped with a cheese crostini. Dad, impressed by his first paella last night, got a paella amb marisc, filled with shrimp and mussels, dark with squid ink. Matt got a coastal specialty, Fidueá, a distant relative of paella, prepared with short, thin semolina noodles and calamari. It was served with garlic mayonesa prepared to mimic crème fraiche.

Rather than try to explain our reaction to the food, I'll allow you to imagine our experience based on my description. I'd be happy to reenact my personal reaction when I see you next.

Having finished our finished our dinners, but not surrendered, we accepted a dessert menu. Naturally, by this I mean we shrugged noncommittally when it was presented, trying (and likely failing) to hide our eagerness. While we perused the menu, Dad ordered a coffee and Matt a dessert sherry, Pedro Ximenez.

We eventually made up our minds, deciding to combine forces on Flan and another Catalonian specialty, cheese with honey, only to be promptly corrected by our waitress.

"That is, for me, not so tasty."

Okay...

"It is not the best."

I'm interested.
"Crema Catalana is much better. Like crème brulee. Local specialty."

Fine. Do we still want the flan?

"No, it's too similar. Panna cotta."

Done and done.

And thus we ended up with two desserts we didn't know we wanted. And we loved them as our own. Firstborns. Sports cars. Whatever Rumpelstilskin would take.

The Crema Catalana was, indeed, like crème brulee, but spiced exotically and with a more rustic texture than most crème brulees. The panna cotta was made with Madagascar vanilla and ringed by a clean and subtle citrus syrup. Both silenced what had been lively chatter, leaving the four us warmed by the kind of bliss only a good meal can bring.

It was a truly remarkable meal and we're convinced Allium is headed for great things. If you're ever in Barcelona, or even northern Spain, be sure to look them. It's well worth the trek into the undiscovered parts of old Barcelona.


Also, major thanks to Matt, who helped write this. If the State Dept. thing doesn't work out, here is proof that he needs to be a food writer.