Temptation, Treason & Tapas

Is there a more Bacchanalian cuisine than tapas?  It all depends on the participants involved.  If you do it right, the seemingly incessant stream of bite-sized flavours, colours and textures demands an equal outpouring of red and white.

Of course, half of the allure is in the communal nature of it. It was bank holiday weekend.  I was booking a table for ten.  Seven women, three men.  All single. Isn’t London grand for the boys?

Choosing the cuisine was easy.  But was I going to remain faithful to my beloved Navarro’s, or stray somewhere new? 

Navarro’s, at 67 Charlotte Street, has been a steady on the top tapas list since 1997.  It’s old-fashioned and festive in the kind of way you expect Spanish restaurants to be.  It knows how to push all the right buttons with satisfying classics like champiñones al ajillo (mushrooms in garlic and rosemary) and bacalao a la roteña (stewed cod).  The voluptuous Navajas Tinto Crianza 2002 (Rioja) is alone worth a rendez-vous. 

But there was another place just down the road I had stolen more than an occasional glance at.  Fino.  Standing over there at 33 Charlotte Street like a smug stud since it first crashed the tapas scene in 2003 with its swank cocktail bar and basement restaurant, it seemed everybody wanted a piece of Fino’s “modern” tapas.  And now so did I.  I’m sorry; I was weak.

And this was the night.  We staggered the men around the table; and, already slightly light headed from the sugary cocktails, I had the delicious task of ordering.  I asked if there were any special requests.  Then I ran down the menu, asking for two of this and three of that. 

We got off to a fumbling start with a tellingly sanguine-less sangria: high on sugar, lacking in body. We switched to wine.  Soon the food made us forget the initial awkwardness.  Queen scallops arrived on rows of Botticelli shells resting atop salt dunes as if offered by Venus herself.  The usual patatas bravas were reincarnated here as thick garlicky sticks with a side of hot sauce.  The cod showed up in the form of breaded, round croquettes and tartar dip.  Tortillas (omelettes) were stuffed with either spinach or chorizo.  Hands criss-crossed as more than two-dozen plates danced over the table.  There is something about eating with a group that infuses the experience with a devil-may-care attitude. 

Tapas go fast, and so did the talk, including a biting exchange between The Personal Trainer and The Barrister about the nutritional value of alcohol, a love letter on the marvels of RSS while The IT Guy read this blog on his Blackberry, and an expose on the bathroom etiquette of women in New York vs. London.

And so onto dessert.

Now this had become a rampant affair.  And if it was going to be new, hell, it was going to be different.  Out went the traditional flan and crema catalana.  “A round of white and dark chocolate shots!” someone yelled.  The lack of restraint was contagious as the last course appeared. Spoons floated in flights of both ceremony and deliriousness over the plates, dipping into the warm fondant and pistachio ice cream here, and then the stack of sugar-dusted donuts there, before the raspberry shortcake was thrust into the centre of the table, punctuated by restrained sips of the layered liquid chocolate and more copious ones of the dessert wine.  I’ve no regrets, but perhaps I should have concentrated more on the fondant.  A good fondant gets me every time.  There it is, looking so handsome and composed.  But give it a good poke, and the real substance of it starts to unravel.

I woke up the next morning with neither a hangover nor a shred of guilt.  Modern love, or old-fashioned romance?  When it comes to tapas, you don’t have to choose.

Tortilla Española for Two

2 medium roasting potatoes such as King Edward
Olive oil
A good pat of butter
1 small onion
6 medium organic, free-range eggs
A bunch of flat-leaf parsley, stemmed and finely chopped
Maldon Sea Salt
Black pepper for grinding

Scrub and cut the potatoes into 1/2-inch pieces. Place in a roasting tin, toss with enough olive oil to lightly coat and spread in a single layer.  Bake at 200C/400F until golden, about 40 minutes, stirring halfway through so they don’t stick.  Meanwhile, put the butter in a heavy 8-inch skillet and turn the heat to medium-low.  Peel, halve and slice the onion, then add it to the pan when the butter melts.  Cook, stirring frequently, until translucent and just starting to colour, about 10 minutes.  In a bowl, lightly scramble the eggs with the parsley, salt and generous grindings of black pepper.  Add the potatoes to the onions, stir and cook for another minute.  Pour in the egg mixture and turn the heat up to medium.  As it starts to cook, use a spatula to gently coax the sides of the omelette toward the centre of the pan, allowing the uncooked egg to run down the sides and into the bottom.  Cook until mostly set.  Pop the whole pan under the broiler and grill until the top is nicely golden. (Keep a close eye on it; if the edges start to act like a soufflé, press them down with a spatula.) Cool slightly, flip onto a plate and cut into wedges.  Serve with slices of creamy avocado, a jug of good sangria and a clean conscience.

Comments

[rachel]

You are so right. Tapas makes an evening so damned convivial. I'm definitely going to check out Navarro. But if you fancy a trip to Camden, I can recommend Jamon Jamon on Parkway. They don't have an extensive menu, but what they do have they do very well. When the weather warms up they also pull back the roof, so you feel as if you're sitting in a Mediterranean courtyard. Lovely.