Kitchen Blitz

Take back the dim lights, the coordinated table settings, the big and little forks. Skip the cloth napkins, the white tablecloths, the detailed plate placement, the perfectly selected wine lists. Forget about getting dolled up because the likelihood of you running into someone you haven’t seen in awhile and might want to look great for probably won’t show up. Heck, you can show up in your PJs if you really want.

As nice as dining out is, there’s nothing quite like a homemade meal. If your family is anything like mine, eating in is a treat in and of itself. The rich smells of a heavy red and mushrooms simmering and filling the kitchen, the clank of glasses taking ice from the freezer ice dispenser, the gentle (or not so gentle) bickering of loved ones scrambling to finish up. Sure, there are no waiters or extensive menus, but a dimmer solves mood lighting, background music is replaced by satellite radio from the TV and an every-so-often tablecloth will dress up the kitchen table. What’s best is, seconds are readily available and gratis.

While some families see holidays as the apropos time to seek a special meal out, mine takes it upon itself to cook in. Where better to celebrate family than the heart of it all – the home?

But good food is a sport.  It requires patience, practice, the ability to read plays in the form of recipes and an inkling to know when to change up the action when runs aren’t going your way.

Just ask my not-so-little little brother, Mike, who tackles the kitchen in addition to his high school football field. Instead of watching tapes, Mike watches Alton Brown. Warm-ups include going to one or two or even three grocery stores. Two-a-days are the days of preparation it takes to craft the main dish. And practice comes in the form of making multiple side dishes.  

For Father’s Day, Mike, who's just as big a fan of the Food Network as I am, decided he wanted to barbecue in honor of my pops (very manly!). Being a high school football player/soon-to-be U.S Coast Guard student and athlete, “too fattening” isn’t a concept brother bear needs to dote on. When he cooks, you know you are in for something delicious, but just as he does on the field, Mike likes hearty. He’s a real man’s man. A “gimme-steak, skip-the-veggies” kinda guy. So his menu for Father’s Day – a day to celebrate being a man – my brother decided to do a double play on an all-American favorite: the burger.

Gorgonzola and sun-dried tomato burgers (1/2 lb. each), served with a sautéed onion and mushroom topper on lightly grilled, pesto-painted French bread rolls

Honey Dijon broccoli slaw with chopped celery, crispy bacon bits, sweet raisins and almond slivers

Iced Tea

Mike's burgers, made from ground chuck, chopped onions, crumbled Gorgonzola and thinly sliced sun-dried tomatoes, are hand-packed and grilled to a medium-rare perfection on a charcoal grill. The cheese crumbles inside the burger make for a mouth-wateringly interesting take on the cheeseburger. It is so good, in fact, that it has to be served not on a regular hamburger roll, but on a spongy French roll.

In place of ketchup, Mike makes a homemade pesto, which he spreads on both sides of the bun, from fresh, blanched basil and toasted pine nuts. For the onion and mushroom toppings, he sautés the fresh veggies in red wine and the oil left over from the bacon that was used to make the broccoli slaw.  Talk about one football-field-sized burger!    

The caveat is you have to have it his way. No ifs, ands or buts…buns and pesto and all. Usually, I prefer my burgers without buns because I’d rather savor the meat, but with the fluffy French bread rolls and the garlicky pesto, there was no way I could resist. (Sir, yes, sir I will eat everything you prepare and take one for the team!).

The summery slaw, with its tangy, yet sweet Dijon dressing has just the right amount of crunch from the raw broccoli, the almond pieces and the fresh bacon bits.  It compliments the heavy, barbecued burger, but stands on its own as a cold, refreshing side that need not remain in the sidelines.

I'd be hard-pressed to find a restaurant that could provide the food and fabulous company we had this Father’s Day. No upset here. Mike’s well-thought-out meal was a touchdown if I ever tasted one. 

Alta Cocina lives up to its namesake

Miami-style dining means skinny white jeans, flowy blouses and large hoop earrings are nightly staples, and eating dinner is more of an event rather than an existence ritual. South Florida, known for its beautiful people and beaches, is also home to world-renowned chefs and modish restaurants. Whether it’s delicious food, exquisite presentation or a trendy atmosphere, most Miami restaurants promise a unique dining experience, hyped by word-of-mouth buzz and buttressed by a hefty price tag. More often than not, however, most places succeed in only one of these characteristics – be it charming atmosphere, stellar food or great service – but rarely will I find a place that can thrive in every aspect.

Alta Cocina – meaning haute cooking in Spanish, or high-class cooking in layman’s terms – was a pleasant surprise. On Sunset Strip, the rather subdued entrance would make the restaurant easy to pass, but it would be a shame to skip a meal here. The owners, a husband-and-wife pair originally from Trinidad and Guatemala, serve “global fusion” cuisine with a Latin flair. The crisp, white tables under the low-key lighting contrast eloquently with the black pillars supporting the restaurant and the abstract, ruddy artwork on the walls. The silverware is heavy; the wine glasses vary in size based on which fine wine you select; and the tweed-like menu is adorned with simple, yet bold metalwork.  The modernesque bottle display, featuring horizontal wine bottles behind the bar, serves as the restaurant’s focal point upon entrance. On a Saturday night, the low murmur of voices does not soil the intimate atmosphere, making Alta Cocina equally ideal for an evening with friends or family or a special someone.

The wait staff is well-versed in the extensive wine list and is eager to help make pairing suggestions based on meal selection. Because every option on the menu sounded tantalizing, Andrew and I asked our waiter, Noah, for some help. (Who else better to ask than someone who knows all the food from personal experience?)    

To begin, we selected the pulled short-ribs served atop seared, melt-in-your-mouth scallops sitting on a dollop of leek confit. Andrew and I split the petit portion, knowing that we each had our own meals coming. Though a bit small, the taste was big, yet not overly creamy and wet our palates for the rest of the meal. I’d return to Alta Cocina for this dish only, but I’d be sure to order the full portion next time and eat it all myself.   

For my main course, I chose the Thai sea bass served with flash fried bok choy in a zippy coconut broth with long-grain white rice on the side, but only under the premise that Andrew would give me a bite of his. He ordered the grilled rack of lamb with wild mushroom risotto and lamb jus for his entrée.

Unlike the appetizer, the meals were filling portions (Andrew even had to take some of his meal home!). My sea bass had a crispy top layer, yet was flaky on the inside and easy to eat. My only complaint was that is was practically drowning in the almost overly empowering spicy, soupy broth. Though the rice helped to cut the zing, I did not want to lose the tasty fish in a mouthful of plain white rice. The bok choy, however, was a light vegetable that complimented the fish without stealing its thunder.

Andrew’s lamb was tender and nearly slid off the bone. Likewise, his risotto was delicious and lived up to our waiter’s proclamation that this entrée is heavy and full, yet delicate. I would certainly order his instead of mine.  

Though for dessert our waiter who had been dead-on with all of his suggestions told us to try the white chocolate raspberry bread pudding, Andrew and I selected the only true chocolate choice on the menu (he knows my chocolate sweet tooth!) – the bittersweet chocolate cake with el ray chocolate sauce and vanilla bean ice cream. Served warm in an upside-down soufflé mound, the moist, uber chocolatey, molten-chocolate-cake-like dessert with cold ice cream was just the sweet I needed to complete my relaxed, hour-and-a-half dining experience.

Alta Cocina, as its name suggests, proved to be high-class in every sense – from the décor and ambience to the food, the waiters and even the other guests.       

You only live once?

Take a walk down Las Olas on a Friday night. Circa 8 p.m. No, really, do. Patios are jam-packed with people waiting for tables – upwards of an hour, have you – and sipping on martinis made with premium liquor. The valet guys can only catch a break from parking Mercedes, Ferraris and Porsches when Hummer limos pull up. And women too old to show so much leg are attempting to keep eyes from their varicose veins by loudly displaying their two, humongous fake additions in dresses that appear too trashy to have cost $250. Men sport toothy, perfectly white smiles as they usher appetizers and drinks to bimbos they’ve never even met. As for an economic crisis, I wouldn’t even believe it. I suppose people would rather spend money on a fancy night out than on their mortgages?

At the culmination of my first official week of work, I felt entitled to a delicious dinner at a trendy hot spot. Missing Barcelona’s late-night scene and my “there’s-always-something-going-on” social life, I needed to escape from a dinner in the confines of my home. Las Olas, with its plethora of expensive, yet usually tasty restaurants, promised not only dinner, but a chic ambiance for a Friday night. I selected YOLO – a restaurant that opened after I left for Spain and nightspot that friend’s raved about.

YOLO (You Only Live Once) had mixed reviews online, but an eclectic menu with main plates ranging from $16 to $35. A call the morning of snagged me reservations at 8:30 p.m. (apparently everyone makes reservations for 7:30 p.m. and 8 p.m.), and my best friend, Andrew, and I arrived early to enjoy a drink on the lounge-style, South-Beach-wannabe patio before our meal. It was here that we played a rousing game of “Who can spot the most fake boobs.” Andrew, naturally inclined as a male, of course, won, but I like to believe this was because I was more intrigued by wads of cash folks were doling out, drink after drink (what about this economic crisis my parents swear we are going through?)

With a name like YOLO, I envisioned oily, bready, creamy foods smothered, covered, sautéed and flambéed in butter and, oh, I dunno, chocolate. I mean, that’s what you’d want to eat at a place that stands for You Only Live Once, right? The one-sided menu was more like that of a high-end wedding reception, with a choice of fish, chicken or beef. I opted for the rotisserie chicken marinated in crushed herbs, served with herb mashed potatoes, and Andrew ordered the New York Strip on special with gilled veggies and the same mash. I must say it was pretty “cool” that the hostess used a rather large stamp to punch the list of specials into our paper tablecloth.

My chicken was good, and the portion size was adequate. Just good and adequate. The potatoes were light and airy. You-only-live-once light and airy…not at all. The atmosphere, trendy and modish, added some needed pizzazz, and the meal overall was enjoyable (but perhaps that’s because I was in great company). So if you can really only live once (and you actually are in an economic crisis), then perhaps you should take a trip over to Jaxon’s Ice Cream Parlor and really enjoy some relatively cheap, worthwhile calories and fat in the form of a kitchen sink.

We all gotta start somewhere...

It’s pretty tough for a suburban slicker turned city chick returned slightly changed suburban slicker to keep her many lives separate. After four months of here and four months of there and yet another four months of somewhere else, I feel like I’m on a rollercoaster and just when my stomach catches up with the rest of my body, the ride plunges again. I find myself mixing my “excuse me’s” with my “perdona’s” with my “get the hell out of my way’s.” And I can’t for the life of me remember if I should walk, take the subway or drive my car to my destination.

Being home means being a team player. Contributing to household chores, running errands and remembering birthdays. With my newfound love of cooking (especially after taking a cooking lesson in Spain) and since I have to wash the dishes anyway, I figured that for my mother’s birthday I should prepare a dinner.

Calling myself a beginner chef would be a fallacy. If I told you I have prepared more than simple scrambled eggs, tortellini, oatmeal or tuna fish, I would be lying. I’d also be lying if I told you that I am an expert microwaver because I have been known to reheat food that’s still wrapped in tinfoil, and I have set off sparks when trying to boil water in a metal-insulated coffee mug. On occasion, I have left a pot on a heated stove without anything in it, and aside from packing the occasional brown paper bag lunch or baking pull-and-peel cookies, I can scarcely tell the difference between a whisk and a monkey wrench. I was never one to participate in preparation or cooking of my childhood family dinners, and it probably didn’t help that we ate out at least four nights a week. Thus, I got the gift of dinner table gab, but not the flare for food.

That being said, I suppose I should call myself a sorry fledgling – desperately trying but completely vying - in the kitchen. Mother bird is about to push me out of the nest and I am smart enough to know that I’m gonna land with one heck of a splat. So a dropped red wine bottle, a fried microwave and a terminally screwed-up electric can opener seem like minor issues that I’m sure every great chef messed up at one point. My mom’s birthday meal is a great excuse to catch up with my cooking faux pas in the comfort of my own home under the direction of my not-so-little younger brother, who relatively knows his way around the kitchen.      

I flipped through my mom’s Bon Appetite and the darling cookbook my mom’s friend, Cindy, sent me after I raved about her superb scallops. Because I believe every meal should be centered on a theme, I selected a hodge-podge of items to create a menu inspired by my trip to Spain (plus, I knew it would help my homesickness for Calle Aribau, 80).

A feast in honor of Mommy’s birthday

Assortment of Mediterranean olives

Creamy gazpacho with chunks of fresh cucumber, tomato and onion, garnished with basil and grated parmesan cheese

Spanish tortilla made with chopped sweet onions and sliced potatoes

Steak fajitas with grilled peppers and mango, served with a special, whipped sour cream-based sauce invented by my brother

Steamed carrots, broccoli and water chestnuts

Chocolate birthday cake (bought by my stepdad) 

The olives served as a Spanish “pica pica,” or a small delight for my family to nosh on about 20 minutes before the commencement of the formal meal. Thanks to Bon Appetite, I prepared a tasty tomato soup with a tad of garlic. I chopped and blended a day in advance so my gazpacho would have time to chill in the fridge. Cold soup is always my mom’s favorite, and I knew a completely homemade gazpacho would serve as a tasty treat in the humid Florida heat. It actually turned out to be everyone’s favorite part of the meal. 

The tortilla recipe I used for my premier plate was a traditional Catalonian one that I learned during my cooking lesson in Barcelona. It is, by far, my most preferred Spanish dish, so I knew that I would have to incorporate it in my menu somehow. The second plate, steak fajitas, was a concoction invented with the assistance of my brother, who has always enjoyed a hefty hunk of meat for his main course. I did, however, put up a few fights.

Perhaps I should backtrack for a moment. When I dine out, my orders tend to be reminiscent of Sally’s from “When Harry Met Sally.” “I’ll have the grilled chicken sandwich without the bun, but with extra lettuce and extra tomatoes and honey mustard on the side. You can hold the pickle. As for sides, well, I won’t eat French fries, so can I get a side salad with balsamic vinegar? Of course, I’ll want the vinegar on the side too. Thank you and that’s all.”

Needless to say, I needed to fight for my brother’s special sauce to be served on the side of the fajitas (not all of us are so athletically inclined and can easily lose unwanted calories). Plus, I have never been a fan of anything drenched in sauce - I think it’s a sign that either the main course isn’t strong enough to stand on its own or that the sauce isn’t flavorful enough to be served in moderation. I also suggested chunks of mango on the side since I felt the meat and peppers could use a bit of tangy sweetness (I have always had a sweet tooth!).

Lastly, to compliment the heavy fajitas, as well as to help out our digestive tracks, I served steamed veggies. I must admit, though, these came from a bag of SteamFresh and were nothing special. But when served with the rest of the dinner, these light veggies were just what we needed.  

Good food, however, does not make a good meal. A beautifully set table and proper presentation are key (at least all those childhood years of dining out taught me something!). I served my olives with rainbow-colored toothpicks, and the tortilla was cut like a pizza pie (I figured that if my food was awful, at least it would look pretty). The piece-de-resistance was my gazpacho, which I served in chilled wine glasses with a basil leaf sticking out and grated cheese.

The steak turned out a bit overcooked. The potatoes in the tortilla were not soft enough. I added a bit too much extra virgin olive oil in my soup. We didn’t begin eating until 8:30 p.m. since I totally miscalculated how long everything would take. And I put the SteamFresh bag with the wrong side up in the microwave. But everyone seemed to enjoy the meal and it was my first true experience cooking. No blown up microwaves (just a blown up bag of veggies) and no cuts on my fingers from all the chopping. Alright! 

So voila (and I learned they actually do say this in France) - my meal was a success. One small step for womankind, one giant leap for this kook in the kitchen KP.  

Italy knows good eats

Spring Break. The time in every girl’s life that she must starve herself for a week or two or even three before daring to strip down and frolic in the sun with friends. Though she knows it’s merely impossible to lose the unwanted flab in such a short amount of time, it’s inevitable that she will skip the chocolate croissant, the whole milk in her coffee and the other half of her Manchego-cheese bocadillo. Where the trouble comes, though, is when she knows she is going to Italia, where the word food is synonymous with carbs and chocolate, and the idea of steamed or grilled vegetables is as laughable as genuinely expecting to see the Pope while touring the Vatican.

While a crash diet the week before break seemed promising, in hindsight it seems foolish. The smooth gelato beckons, the steamy, frothy cappuccino calls, the Chianti and Prosecco promise to get you buzzed, and the pasta – oh the pasta, in all shapes and sizes, but always al dente – will get you every time. Period.             

Since I had no idea what to expect from Italy, I dismounted the plane in hopes of finding some spaghetti with meatballs, chicken parm, garlic bread and fettuccini alfredo. Well, I’m “alfred-o” not.

Of course the long, round noodles that I know to be spaghetti exist. And yes, there are meatballs. But together? No way. As hard as I looked, for the life of me, I could not find the staple American-Italian dish. As for garlic bread, turns out Italians have simple breadbaskets with dry, stark-white bread and prepackaged breadsticks. Waiters will look at you strangely if you ask for a plate so you can dip your bread into olive oil with pepper or balsamic vinegar. They do, however, love to put oil and vinegar on their salads…which they eat after dinner. They say it helps with digestion. Why yes, of course this makes sense, I thought to myself. After an entire plate of alfredo (the thick, creamy, heavenly sauce that no one, no matter how skinny, should be allowed to eat), the Italians are going to need something to keep it from sticking to their insides. Oh wait. Italians don’t even know what alfredo is. So much for that idea. But, no worries, Italians get their fat from a whole plethora of other deliciousness that I didn’t even know existed.

Italians would rather sink their teeth into “spaghetti carbonara”, or cream, egg and cheese atop of a hefty plate of pasta. Though I never ordered it, I did snag a bite from one of my travel buddies. Other staples in the Italian diet included spaghetti with cheese and pepper and spaghetti with tomato sauce and bacon. Pesto was impossible to find in Rome, but delicious in Venice. Gnocchi and tortellini in Florence were heavenly. And the pizza, which doesn’t come in round pies, but rather in long, rectangular ones, was pure ooey-gooey sin.

On my day trip to Pisa, the boys who traveled with me and I stopped in a pizza joint, where the waitress chopped the pizza and then weighed it to give it a price. I chose the veggie pizza with fresh zucchini and tomatoes, and my slice (or better yet, my slab) was less than 2 Euros.

As I was walking away, a grungy man appeared from the back with a plate of deep-fried balls the size of baseballs. How could I resist? I ordered one to split with my travel guys (they are always hungry, even right after they eat!) as the man explained to me they are called “arancini,” or little orange, because of their shape like the fruit. It was filled with rice, peas, tomato sauce and meat. I was content with my decision to try one, and I am certain the boys loved me even more for overfilling their tummies.

Every morning (and sometimes in the afternoon) I would sip on cappuccino – another newfound love of mine. I thought I had tried the best coffee in the world in Spain; however, the Italian cappuccino really gave Barcelona a run for its money. When walking by the Pantheon in Rome, I spotted a yellow sign that read “La Casa del Caffee, Tazza d’Oro” (Via Degli Orfani 84). Craving something cold to wake me up, I stopped in and ordered an iced cappuccino, not quite sure if such a drink existed. The man at the register mentioned something even better, called a “granita di caffe,” and rung me up for 2.50 Euros (a pretty steep price for even a coffee addict like myself, but I needed coffee so I paid without contesting). I took my ticket over to the barista (if that’s what you call him) and he dug deep into a slushy cooler to fill my cup with literally iced espresso. He filled the rest of the cup with cream and whipped cream, and then sent me on my way with a straw as if this coffee were a mere espresso shot. It was, however, nothing short of tasty perfection. Sweet cream mixed with bitter coffee – any chocoholic/coffee lovers delight.

As you would expect, God’s gift to the world comes in dessert form and it consists of gelato, tiramisu, cannolis and Italian cookies. While you’d be hard pressed to find bad gelato, my favorite was from a neon-colored store in Florence, where the line went out the door. Every color and every flavor were piled high behind the glass encasing in metal containers, and when mixed together in a cone I thought I had gone straight to heaven.

In Rome, I was determined to find biscotti. Chocolate-chip, melt-in-your-mouth biscotti. I was told Trastevere has the best food in all of Rome, so when wandering with the boys, I found “Biscottificio Artigiano Innocenti,” (Via della Luce, 21, Trastevere, Roma) an Italian hole-in-the-wall, family-run bakery. The cookies galore were filled with jams and jellies and fruit and gummies and nuts, but my favorites were the horse-shoe-shaped, crumbly ones dipped in chocolate. My notion of chocolate-chip biscotti, the owner told me, should be dismissed just like my notion of spaghetti and meatballs.    

The conception about Italy that did hold true was the loud, jovial, big family, wooden table mantra. In Venice, the boys and I ate at a local trattoria and happened to have walked in a man’s 83^rd birthday party. The red wine flowed freely, the speeches kept coming and after singing the Italian version of “Happy Birthday” to present the tiramisu cake, the 30 guests started signing what seemed like every Italian song under the sun. Like a Christmas sing-along. Italians really do know how to throw a party…or the alcohol is just that strong.    

My favorite meal took place at “Il Gatto E La Volpe” (Via Ghibellina, 151) in Florence, where I managed to meet up with a childhood friend and some other friends I made in Barcelona who were also traveling in Italy. It felt like a very merry un-birthday party for me, since I was the only person bringing everyone together. With this motley crew, I learned to always choose wine over water (even if it makes me a tad tipsy) and I tried the sweetest, yet most tangy aged balsamic vinegar I have ever eaten. After salad and pasta and an irresistible bite of chocolate cake that one of the boys ordered, I went home with a food baby forming in my stomach and a smile on my face because Italy knows good food and good company. 

Some days

Some days you wake up and you know. You immediately start to worry. Nothing in particular is wrong. You just feel like the forces had been aligning when you were sleeping and there’s something brewing. Today was one of those days.

Though I had every good intention to go to class all day long, Monday is my longest day. Class straight from 11 a.m. to 7 p.m., sin pausa (without a break), and I awoke without my usual fervor. I showered to wake myself up and I listened to Spanish guitar on my iPod during my 45-minute hike to school from my apartment, in hopes that I would feel like my typical, eager self, ready to seize the day. No such luck.

By the end of my first class, Spanish, I was half falling asleep. My second was so painful that I began to bargain with myself in order to keep my eyes open. The idea of focusing was more of a joke than a reality. When my third class rolled around my heart was begging my body to bolt, and the thought of a fourth class made me nauseous. The snip bits of class I did catch in between my heavy-lidded blinks weren’t making it easy for me to sit still.

In Spanish, we reviewed grammar and prepositions. As always, my professor had us play games as memory aids and today, she had us create sentences about our dreams – the dreams of our childhood, our current dreams and the dreams we have for our futures. While students in the class elected to write about their desires for 10 cats, to become ballerinas or to have a small house with flower-filled terraces, I chose a slightly less superficial approach. The sentence I wrote to read aloud was: “Ahora que tengo 20 anos, sueno con disfrutar mi vida cada dia,” or “Now that I am 20 years old, I dream of enjoying my life each and everyday.” [Thought to self: Great KP, good thing you are stuck here in this classroom.]

My second class, Comparing Media in Latin and Anglo-Saxon countries, preached the growing role of the Internet for media sources. One of the pluses (or to some, the negatives) of the online world is the ability of the reader to customize the news he or she chooses to receive. We read a New York Times article called “The Daily Me” about how mass media is becoming individualized media because people’s intentions these days are more selfishly driven and they only want to read what they chose. [Thought to self: Go ahead, KP, be selfish. It’s the direction of the world.]

My third class, Advanced Spanish Oral Expression, consisted of my class playing a game about the history and “gems” of Barcelona. Because I have been just about everywhere in this city and have gone on at least ten tours (some guided by professionals, some guided by my guide books), I knew just about all of the answers. [Thought to self: Well KP, you wouldn’t have won the game if you didn’t explore and ask questions to waiters, policemen and locals on the streets.]   

So for once, I decided to apply what I learned in school: Today was going to be all about me and me alone; I was going to enjoy the day to the fullest; I was going to discover some new gems. After this past weekend of exploring the little streets in Gracia, biking along the beach at Barceloneta and randomly hoping on a Renfe train simply to get off where my friend and I felt like it, I was itching to get out of the classroom. Fourth class, Society and Politics of Spain, simply didn’t stand a chance. So I walked out. Out of class. Out of the building. Out of campus. And I decided to explore Barcelona by my lonesome just for the fun of it.

I took the Metro to Jaume 1 and began to walk. I walked down every single street that I wanted, without having to ask anyone if they minded. I found a beautiful store called IVO & Co. that sells kitchen goods, a coffee shop called La Clandestina, whose boho feel inspired me, and then I found Caj Chai (pronounced Chai Chai) – a tearoom unlike any other I have ever been to, whose hip drum music in the background was matched only by its young, avant-garde clientele.

Caj Chai’s dim lighting was sexy, the stonewall along one side of the narrow café had character and the loud chatter produced by the guests told me immediately that this was nothing like the tearoom you find in England. 

The mix-and-match rattan chairs coupled with high tables and low tables and bar stools provided a yard-sale-inspired atmosphere, and the twinkling Christmas lights hinted at a majestic air. The menu, enveloped by flimsy bamboo, offered a lengthy list of teas – from China, Japan, India, Korea, Nepal, Russia, Taiwan, Morocco and Turkey, with every flavor and color imaginable. With so many choices, I asked the waiter for some suggestions – something sweet with natural sugar, something with no milk added and something a little fruity. He and I selected a black tea from China with leeche nuts.

 For the fun of it, I also questioned him about the interesting looking desserts. I told him I wanted to try something I had never tried before and so he brought me “daifuku con fresa y nata,” or “daifuku” with strawberries and cream. Turns out this delicacy is a Japanese dessert made from very sticky rice, called mochi, jacketing chunks of strawberries and sweet cream. And though the consistency was something like a really soft, incredibly sticky gummy bear, it was absolutely delicious and the perfect pairing for my tart tea.

After a few sips followed by a few bites, I decided it was time to reflect. I believe today marks a milestone in my life: KP’s first day of “playing hooky”….ever. And while I would love to say it was my first and last, I’d be lying.

Some days the forces are aligning. You’re inspired to do or become something. To get up and go. To explore for the sake of exploring. To get lost because you can. To eat for the sake of eating. To sit alone in a café. To escape from the world for a split second. To write.

Today was one of those days. 

Sugar and spice and everything nice: La Nena

There comes a time in every girl’s life that she gets sick of Catalan and Spanish food. Not because it’s not flavorful (in fact, it is) and not because there aren’t enough choices (between Iberian ham, Manchengo cheese, tortilla esapana, bocadillos galore, calcots, tapas and croquettes, I’ve got plenty), but simply because she can’t escape it. And as much as I tried to avoid it, it happened to me three months in.

To break the routine of Spanish food, I invited Irena to join me for crepes in my absolute favorite part of Barcelona, a little district called Gracia. Gracia boasts chic, one-of-a-kind clothing stores, precious apartment facades, plazas with playgrounds and the best part: unique restaurants owned by locals. Though I had only walked by the storefront of the creperie once, I made a mental note to myself that I would need to return. As Irena and I wandered off of the Metro, I had not the slightest idea of where the restaurant was located, just the faint memory of a worn-down sign. By some miracle, Irena and I walked directly up to it. Though the lights were on, a man was mopping and the door was locked. So much for crepes.

But then I remembered a seemingly adorable café off of a plaza that I had strolled by once. Destined to get away from Spanish food, I swindled Irena into walking around yet again without a definite location, just an inkling.     

And then I saw it - La Nena, with its chalk-written signs outside and child-sized, brightly colored wooden chairs welcoming me to come in. If ever a name were to be a perfect fit, this would be it. “La Nena” literally translated means “the baby girl,” and this hidden café was everything that a baby girl should be: lovable, rosy and engaging and above all, her aura should make you smile. La Nena was like a sweet dream brought to life.

Its entire existence is based on an infantile spirit, as if Mother Goose herself were to have opened it. The old-fashioned wooden shelves lined with fresh, loose-leaf tealeaves in glass jars resembled a traditional apothecary. The artwork adorning the walls were hand-painted and hand-written. My favorite was the rather large sign that read (in Spanish, of course), “No alcohol served here.” The wooden piano in the main dining room had music books sprawled across it and the bookshelves in the candy-colored backroom were full of antique books about chocolate. I felt as though I had been invited into someone’s playroom for a cozy meal. And what better to serve at a snack bar called The Baby Girl than sugar and all things nice? Perfectly in tune with its character, La Nena serves chocolates, pastries, hot chocolate, teas, coffee, infusions and light meals. Better yet, it only uses organic ingredients.   

To begin, I ordered my typical “cortado” – or an espresso cut with a dash of milk. I have found that fastest, most accurate way to decipher if a restaurant, café or bar is worthwhile is by trying the coffee (Spain really does have the best in the world, I am certain). My cortado not only came in a warm, white porcelain cup, but it was served with a homemade, crumbly galleta (or cookie), sort of like a rounded, ginerbready graham cracker. Dipped into my coffee, it tasted simply scrumptious.

   

Perusing the menu made my mouth water and eventually I was able to narrow down my choices to two: vegetable couscous or quiche. With the help of my waitress, I selected a wedge of zucchini quiche served with an organic salad. The quiche’s thick and buttery crust was rivaled by the egg, the chunks of fresh zucchini and the strong layer of cheese caked on top. The salad accompanying it was much lighter and consisted of tomato, cucumber, olives, carrots, lettuce, parsley and small squares of cheese. The dressing on the side – olive oil and honey vinegar – added a hint of sweetness. Because the food was rich and heavily saturated in and with flavor, I felt the need to take small bites to savor it. And so I did.

 

The café’s air of innocence and childhood happiness made Irena and I giddy, talking like little girls, planning our fairy tale weddings to boys we don’t even know exist. Pure delight. How apropos: I shoulda guessed that a chocolateria called “The Baby Girl” would be my most favorite hole-in-the-wall gem in the entire world.