I stood there on the street waiting with the other saps. As passing tourists, guide books in hand, gazed anxiously into the window of the still closed restaurant, I resented Botin more and more. I felt my inner Anthony Bourdain welling up from the pit of my stomach. I resented Botin, purported to be the oldest continually operating restaurant in the world, because I wanted to go. More specifically because everyone wanted to go. It wasn't a secret. I wasn't the only American. And yet. I couldn't walk away. I had to know I could be granted a table. I hated myself for being such a sucker. I was loosing food cred by the second.
"Pity," said the officious gentleman guarding the door when I revealed I did not have a reservation. Steeling myself to be turned away I heard him instruct one of the staff to escort me downstairs. I was in.
Clearly this charming cellar, a room that would have delighted me in any other restaurant, is where Botin chooses to corral their foreigners. Americans, Germans, English and a lovely pair of Italian girls on vacation. Everything but Spaniards. I assume the upper floors where passer-bys can see in were filled with Spanish speakers to give the next group of excited eaters, tour books in hand, a moment's joy thinking they were the only ones to have tracked down the locale -- which in spite of it's obvious fame - is a bit tricky to locate.
Thus far Spain has been a three ham a day country. Not that there is anything wrong with that. But I decided to branch out. Roasted peppers and salt cod. Buttery vegetable crowned with a light vaguely vinegary dressing of fish. Crusty bread and I was starting to feel pretty good.
All that resentment melted away into abject joy when I spied the irresistibly crispy exterior of this mountain of roast lamb. Cooked on the bone in the wood fired oven that is the restaurant's claim to fame, every bite brought a rush of juicy well done meat and the crunch, that intoxicating crunch. Crisp, delicious savory meat. I could tell the Germans across the room, who had ordered badly, were jealous when they saw my plate. Potatoes are nice, anywhere else fried eggplant would have been a star but at Botin meat is the hero.
"Pity," said the officious gentleman guarding the door when I revealed I did not have a reservation. Steeling myself to be turned away I heard him instruct one of the staff to escort me downstairs. I was in.Clearly this charming cellar, a room that would have delighted me in any other restaurant, is where Botin chooses to corral their foreigners. Americans, Germans, English and a lovely pair of Italian girls on vacation. Everything but Spaniards. I assume the upper floors where passer-bys can see in were filled with Spanish speakers to give the next group of excited eaters, tour books in hand, a moment's joy thinking they were the only ones to have tracked down the locale -- which in spite of it's obvious fame - is a bit tricky to locate.
Thus far Spain has been a three ham a day country. Not that there is anything wrong with that. But I decided to branch out. Roasted peppers and salt cod. Buttery vegetable crowned with a light vaguely vinegary dressing of fish. Crusty bread and I was starting to feel pretty good.
All that resentment melted away into abject joy when I spied the irresistibly crispy exterior of this mountain of roast lamb. Cooked on the bone in the wood fired oven that is the restaurant's claim to fame, every bite brought a rush of juicy well done meat and the crunch, that intoxicating crunch. Crisp, delicious savory meat. I could tell the Germans across the room, who had ordered badly, were jealous when they saw my plate. Potatoes are nice, anywhere else fried eggplant would have been a star but at Botin meat is the hero.I skipped dessert to carry the flavor of that charred meat on my walk to the hotel.
I am a sucker. A sucker who eats well.
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