To be honest, we party more than we eat in Barcelona. Blame our location — the chaotic Gothic quarter, a heartbeat away from touristy La Rambla and its thudding clubs.
After three exhausting days of staggering back to the hotel at 4 a.m., and a diet chiefly consisting of coffee, vodka and olives, we decide we need some downtime and good food.
Which is how we find ourselves at Barceloneta Beach. We spend the morning snoozing on the powdery sand between quick dips in the icy blue water. Soon, we are starving.
Determined to avoid the tourist traps, we walk past the main road's flashy tapas bars and delve into the city's old fisherman's quarters. While investigating the narrow streets we wander into a grungy old bar featuring glass counters stacked with plates of sardines, olives and classic Spanish bombas — deep fried balls of mashed potatoes and meat.The old man who runs the place emerges from behind a counter to welcome us, as his wife scurries into the kitchen.
There's no menu here. She starts emerging with plate after plate of freshly made food.
We eat crisp, deep-fried anchovies. Gorge on salty Chorizo sausages soaked in wine. And demolish two plates of addictive Patatas bravas, little cubes of fried potato. Everything is served with a spicy tomato sauce, and aioli.
Delighted by the garlicky aioli (made by whisking together egg whites, olive oil, lemon and garlic) we ask for refill after refill, till the owners finally just bring us a massive serving bowl brimming with the creamy sauce.
Predictably enough, by the time we leave, we smell like garlic bombs. Still, they're both nice enough to hug and kiss us goodbye.
