Eating brains and more falling in love
A restaurant review and a story of when I met, Gresca Bar, Barcelona.
This August, I was on the train to Barcelona, the final stop in my three weeks of solo travelling around Spain. What am I going to do in Barcelona? I thought, well, find some fantastic restaurants, of course Lana. Lana? Yes, Lana.
I hesitated because I had become sick of restaurants at that moment, especially after three weeks without my kitchen. I am privileged enough to be a chef who cooks on a farm with out-of-this-world organic produce. This means I have the lucky fate of eating quality seasonal produce as a necessity. It goes to waste if I do not eat or preserve it. This privilege makes the real world problematic for me these days.
Let's pause to define what this absurd term the real world means to me. I use it very ironically (because fuck knows which world is the real one) to denote the society outside of the farm. The real world is the city, towns, restaurants, supermarkets, trains, buses, airports, travel, new cities, pubs and cafes. I have to go into the real world sometimes because I miss it. I miss some of the people there and some of the stuff that happens there. I voyage into the real world because I crave someone to cook me a meal, make an oat milk flat white, or pour me a beer. I start to talk to myself far too much to be considered healthy, and I go for a little too long without shaving my legs.
However, like most itches needing scratching, this craving for restaurants in the real world only lasts a little while. Because in the real world, I usually end up paying lots of money for something that is, more often than not, better quality, for free, on the farm.
Forgive me if I sound pretentious (I grew up on Findus crispy pancakes, chicken chargrills, and oven chips, so it is an illusion.) Good food starts with good produce, and it can often feel like in the real world of Instagrammable food, good produce is swiped aside in favour of aesthetics- to look good on social media.
Even though I have started to get sick of restaurants recently, I am more optimistic that great restaurants still exist and are out there for me to find. Many other chefs are as irritated as I am by Insta-perfect plating and as passionate about seasonal organic produce; I just need to find them. I take this search seriously, like collecting gems worldwide in my make-believe video game.
Whilst on the train (and after a two-hour-long conversation with a Glaswegian who had just been on an ayahuasca retreat), I finally returned to my quest to collect a new gem of a restaurant in Barcelona. I turned to my beloved Eater magazine for the article 'The 38 Essential Barcelona Restaurants'. Perfect, I thought. After a quick scan of the article, my attention was instantly caught by the Gresca bar, as bright as an emerald.
The review read
Chef Rafa Peña's passion for food is as great as his disregard for formality and fine dining accolades. A favourite among the city's chefs, Gresca is a must-visit for lovers of nose-to-tail cooking who want to experience the best of seasonal Catalan cuisine without the stuffy service and delicate portions of some Michelin-starred restaurants.
Gresca Bar couldn't have sounded more like the kind of place that I would like. Passionate about nose-to-tail and seasonal eating, I saved it to my Google Maps without much thought.
Whilst enjoying a glass of Tinto de Verano (Madrid's answer to sangria), I was looking at the Sagrada Familia on what, to my eyes, is the best rooftop in Barcelona (which I snuck into pretending I still worked for my old travel company associated with the hotel), I took a look on Google Maps to notice that I was a short walking distance from Gresca Bar. Convenient, I thought. Almost as fortunate as my ballsy attitude to sneak onto the rooftop.
Still interested in my Tinto de Verano? I thought you would never ask. Well, as I said, it is sangria, but it's not sangria. It is sangria Madrid style that when you order it, it instantly signifies that you either are from Madrid, are connected to it, or have at least been there. The difference is that it is usually served with a large helping of vermouth and wine, and it shouldn't be served with any more fruit than a simple slice of lemon or orange. It's basically sangria but for the real boys. I lived in Madrid for three years, which I wear with irritating pride, hence ordering it all over Spain. Yes, very ballsy in Catalonia, I know. But I digress; back to the story!
Obviously, the stars were pointing me to go and try Gresca Bar, so I walked there with a head full of vino to see if my ballsy attitude could help me once more by getting me into Gresca without reservation. Did it? No. But I did manage to get a table for the following evening. Success, I thought.
The next evening, I walked an hour to Gresca in the blistering 40-degree heat of a Catalonian evening, trying to eat up some time, and I was still two hours early for my reservation (it's incredible how much you can fit into your day when you are on your own). The wait put me in a strange mood that day. I was bored of my own company, something I should admit more often. But being my perpetually cheerful soul, I sat there, determined to see its beauty because it was beautiful. I was taking myself out for dinner, a moment of self-love (cringe) but also more profound than that somewhat overused phrase. I was expressing my commitment to my craft, my love- the kitchen.
And this leads me to the entire point of this story. From the first moment I walked into Gresca Bar Barcelona, I have never felt more in love with my craft. As soon as my soul made contact with the first touch of the door handle of that building, I was not alone; I was with my tribe. And bearing in mind how lonely I was feeling that day. That feeling of connection is a moment that will stay with me for a lifetime. And that feeling is also why I sat here almost in December, nearly four months later, still lingering on that feeling and needing to share it. And that feeling is EXACTLY why I must continue searching for great restaurants, of which one million percent still exist. That connection that I made with Gresca Bar is precisely the feeling that sets great restaurants apart from the rest and is the precise feeling that a fantastic restaurant should evoke.
Gresca bar sports an open kitchen. And I was among the lucky eight people who sat at the bar. I was at the pass, literally sharing air with the chefs. I wondered if they somehow knew who I was and how exciting that was for me. It was the work of God; it must have been.
I was honoured to listen to the chefs discuss their next moves. I could hear their passion for curating the perfect dish with every single word they spoke to each other. I was sandwiched in between the seriousness of it all. I could feel which dishes were of personal significance to each chef. I could sense the care in every gesture each chef made. I could tell which chef had used yuzu instead of lemon on the tomato salad. It was their idea, and they were proud of it. Their love for what they do made me feel human. It validated the very core of who I was. It brought tears to my eyes.
I was under their spell. I trusted these people to lead me through the entire experience as if they knew me personally. I didn't even make the order myself. The waiter ordered for me on instruction that I liked everything and was an adventurous eater. He offered to make tasting plates of many dishes so that I could try many things by myself. Amazing right?
I ate brain that night. It was calf brain and butter sauce. The butter sauce was so symbiotic with the taste and consistency of the brain that the plate felt like an expression of butter in its purest form. It was butter; the menu could have read that way and made perfect sense.
The sweet waiter recommended the French toast to me for dessert. I saw it come out on the pass a few times. “That's not French toast, though I said; it's Torrijas!” His little face lit up in respect, answering, "Yeah, amor, it is." Spanish people are very connected to Torrijas, a dish eaten during the holy period of easter. I can understand why the English translation of the Torrijas would be French toast because it is similar. But this was Torrijas, which is different, not only because it is the Spanish version, but also because Torrijas are sometimes made with wine instead of milk (very Spanish, yes). Gresca Bars version was served with an out-of-this-world chocolate sorbet. The perfect end to an excellent meal. A meal that I am writing about four months later with the same love in my heart that I had when I had the Torrijas on my spoon.
A very sun-kissed me on the rooftop (secret location)
Viva Barcelona
Lonesome Tinto’s, tanned thigh
Smoked Oyster
Chicken hearts
Calf’s brains, potato and butter sauce
Sweetbreads and Morels
Las Torrijas
A job well done
All without the Michelin star price tag
C/ de Provença, 230, 08036 Barcelona, Spain
I'm a big fan of brains. The best I've had was at Clipstone in Central London. Simply cooked with burnt butter. Such a great restaurant.