After much discussion, Googling, research and everything else imaginable, Patsy and Rhonda tell us that they will be taking Michael and me to lunch at Restaurant Hofmann. The name means little to me, but Rhonda has eaten there twice before on previous trips to Barcelona. She insists it is wonderful. I believe her.
Friends Arrive
Patsy and her friend Rhonda arrive late Sunday afternoon, suitcases in tow, walking down the street. Michael heard them first and walked to the balcony shouting that he didn’t want what they were selling. No entrada. Then he opened the apartment door, descended the elevator and unlocked the building door so they could enter.
The next thing I know a woman I don’t know but feel like I do, is shaking my hand, “Hi, I am Rhonda.” Of course. Patsy and Rhonda two intrepid adventurers—are sharing our space for a few days before they are off again.
Yesterday Michael and the two girls went in search of breakfast pastries while I sat in the living room drinking coffee. This morning they search for bottled water, coffee to brew, and a few other things—what they are I am not sure. I sit here after eleven hours of sleep, trying to regain my senses. I do not feel in the least bit guilty being in my robe while everyone else is out and about.
Michael returns first lugging a huge container of water into the kitchen. Later Patsy and Rhonda walk through the door with a bag of assorted goodies. Three women and one man living in a relatively small apartment with a hallway that is five miles long. Michael may deserve a medal — at least several bottles of good wine. He is offered lunch.
Only half of the Hallway!
Restaurant Hofmann
After much discussion, Googling, research and everything else imaginable, Patsy and Rhonda tell us that they will be taking me and Michael to lunch at Restaurant Hofmann. The name means little to me, but Rhonda has eaten there twice before on previous trips to Barcelona. She insists it is wonderful. I believe her.
Dressing for lunch, I decide a lightweight merino wool sweater will be too warm, dragging out a linen blouse, I begin to iron. Apparently, this apartment cannot take a washer in motion, a TV talking, lights on, a computer being clicked, and an iron on high for linen. I blow a fuse. After a fuse is blown a second time, with everything off but the washer, a light or two, and the iron on high, I give up. I step out on the balcony and decide that I am dressed just fine. I rewind a muted scarf around my neck and fold the linen blouse, tucking it away into one of the many master bedroom drawers, not sure why I packed it in the first place.
Seventeen minutes away by foot, we arrive at the restaurant at 1:30 p.m. — thirty minutes early. We are seated and given a menu, all in Spanish. We worry about pig trotters—we are not sure what they are but they sound like feet to us. I visualize cloven hooves. Patsy says she will not eat foie gras. Michael gives her a hard time.
The Tasting Menu
Rhonda and I are both eyeing the tasting menu, then realize that the entire table has to agree to participate—trotters and foie gras are part of the menu—we downplay the ingredients.
“It depends on the chef and the treatment of the ingredient,” I say, “you have to trust the chef.” I look up. I trust these chefs. Today, there are more chefs in the kitchen this hour than there are customers in the dining room.
We continue to look at the menu trying to decipher Spanish and Catalan into English without much luck. I echo my original spiel. I say we should trust the chefs. Any food in expert hands will come out in an expert way. We dither. Finally, Rhonda and I take matters into our own hands, deciding for the four of us that we should just jump in with both feet and order the tasting menu at 69,00€ per person. Rhonda orders a fine bottle of cava. I feel guilty being treated and offer to pay half. I am overruled.
Amuse Bouche
And so fine dining begins—with an amuse-bouche of steak tartare, a slender piece of toast as thin and delicate as lace, and a glass of bubbly cava—at 2:00 p.m. in the afternoon.
A basket of artisan bread and rolls, accompanied by assorted salts and sweet butter, is added to the table. Discreetly, we all pounce.
1st Course – Stuffed Chard
Our first of six official courses arrive, Farcellets de acelgas rellenos de mascarpone, piñones y pasas con polvo de jamón translated into Farcellets mascarpone stuffed chard, pine nuts and raisins with powdered ham.
Patsy asks the waiter, “Where is the chard?” adding, “Chard is supposed to be a leafy green.” This chard is pureed, condensed, softly jelled and shaped.
Our farcellets are two small, green domes stuffed with mascarpone, pine nuts, raisins, and dusted with finely shaved ham. Rhonda proceeds to cut her serving into pieces when the waiter sees her; stopping, he says to eat it all in one bite. I listen and learn—two delicious bites in all.
I can’t help but think that at two bites a course we might need to stop for a post-lunch-lunch. We sip away at our cava, discussing the unusual handling of the chard.
2nd Course – Chocolate Dusted Sardines
Based on some of the descriptions, we can only guess at the next course; coca de sardinas a la brasa estilo Mediterráneo. Chocolate-dusted sardines from the Mediterranean? I have never been fond of sardines, haven’t really eaten them since I was newly married and Michael made me eat them in retaliation for serving him a puffy omelet at a point when he was not that fond of eggs.
These sardines are minus their heads and tails, laid out in neat rows, forming a perfect rectangle. Michael appears to be the only one happy to see them—and if not happy, at least accepting. Other than sardines, I’m not sure exactly what I am eating; I don’t see a dusting of cocoa anywhere. I take a bite.
Rhonda reminds me, “You forgot to take a picture!”
Not everyone finishes their don del mar. Michael adds grey salt to his dish. I follow suit. The salty, mildly fishy taste of the sea, with the welcome crunch of the crispy toast that forms its bed, works well with the cava. I’m not sure it is my favorite, or that I’d ever order it again, but I do eat the entire thing.
3rd Course – Cannelloni
Canelón de ternera, crema trufada de queso y teja crujiente; reading about our third course I think we will be served pasta, some kind of bird (aren’t terns a bird?), cream, and cheese—perhaps spicy, with a truffle? I have guessed wrong on so many counts. Rhonda declares this mini cannelloni stuffed with shredded veal to be her favorite. It is delicious.
I could go for a nice rioja—I have a taste of Michael’s, it’s good—but I happily sip my cava. Patsy refuses to eat the cannelloni because she thinks it contains foie gras. We all do, but we don’t taste it, and we don’t taste it because it isn’t there. Patsy finally takes a tiny bite of the tiny stuffed pasta and is happy for the parmesan crisp that accompanies the luscious dish.
4th Course – Fish
Bacalao en piperrade de pimientos asados, con mostaza de Meaux y ligero “all i oli” a la miel; Salt cod? Peppers. Mustard. Garlicky mayo. Honey. Really? The plate containing our serving of fish is reminiscent of the cold waters of the Atlantic. The fish is mild. The piperrade, a familiar flavor.
5th Course – Pig Trotters
The pig trotters—with foie gras and truffle sauce in Oporto crepina— arrive, and I am so curious to taste the dish that my camera is all but forgotten. A glistening dark ball surrounded by assorted sliced mushrooms, with a tiny swirl of mashed potatoes on the side, is set before each of us. The sphere is a jelled glaze of Oporto covering a mound of shredded pork, more mushrooms, and well-integrated foie gras. I think it is very good. Not everyone at our table agrees.
6th Course – Dessert
Spheres seem to rule the day here at Restaurant Hofmann. My dessert is described as some kind of sphere with cognac ice cream. It is the cognac that catches my eye. Rhonda is seduced by the chocolate in the description. Michael orders tiramisu. Patsy, vanilla cream. I think Patsy wins the day She is served a plate of fried puffs filled with cream and a small shot glass filled with raspberries. There is a spun spiral of sugar dividing the array of puffs. My heart skips a beat when the small shot glass is knocked over as the waiter places Patsy’s dessert on the table; the waiter takes a spoon and breaks the clear sugar container. The raspberries spill onto the plate.
I am getting ready to take a picture of the gold-flecked smooth chocolate ball that is my dessert—looking for the cognac ice cream that is supposed to accompany it when the waiter appears with a small pitcher of thick hot chocolate and begins pouring the sauce over the sphere. It morphs into something totally different; from perfectly rigid to slumped relaxation.
As we are all about to dig into our sweet surprises, Rhonda sees a delivery of a tree-shaped dessert at a corner table where three gentlemen are dining. She grabs my camera and says, “I’m going over there and take a picture.”
Horrified, Michael replies, “If you do, I’m leaving.”
Rhonda goes.
Michael stays.
There is more. When is enough…enough?
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