Basque in a real tapas treat
HOW do you top Barrafina? That small, exquisitely formed group of tapas restaurants that never lets you down. It’s a place where there are only three states. Rapt anticipation; joyous silence, broken by the occasional slurp or crunch; and post-prandial bliss. Seriously, I must sit there, legs dangling from those gleaming chrome stools, at least once a week when I’m in town. More if I could.
It’s the simplicity of the place, the slick, rapid service, joyous bustle and utter consistency, time after time after time. The scent of grilling fish, that first taste of ice-cold Manzanilla, and the first greedy glance at the specials board. No matter which branch you’re sitting in (and there are three, each with their own identity, but all with the same rich Iberian blood gushing through the veins), delight always awaits.
One of three architects of Barrafina as it is now, along with owners Eddie and Sam Hart, was Basqueborn chef Nieves Barragán Mohacho. She joined as a sous chef but pretty soon worked her way up to the top. The original site (opened in Frith Street, now in Dean Street) won a Michelin star in 2013, but for me, her true legacy lies in Adelaide Street, where those milk-fed lamb kidneys and various other offally bits lay claim to true culinary greatness.
But she left last year to set up Sabor, in Heddon Street, with José Etura, himself formerly GM of the group.
And here we are, queuing at 12 sharp to ensure our seat. The line grows quickly behind us. The tapas bar is downstairs, with a marginally more formal place yet to open upstairs. There are stools at a bar, facing an open kitchen with plancha and charcoal grill. And a glittering display of fresh fish, beer on tap, and the specials, scrawled not on a small blackboard but large mirror. So far, though, so Barrafina.
But the room has an entirely different feel. Larger, softer, somehow warmer, with exposed bricks and bright Moorish tiles. The menu, too, is markedly different, as if devised in a conscious effort to disassociate herself from the past. OK, so there are a few shared dishes. Pan tomate, for one. But that’s hardly culinary larceny, rather a Catalan staple. Prawn croquetas too, which arrive burning hot from the oil, oozing lasciviously from their brittle crust. They have an astonishing delicacy, as do the version made with piquillo pepper.
We eat a chunk of brioche, toasted on the plancha, covered with ethereal clouds of queso fresco, and submerged in a flurry of black truffle shavings. A clean, clever mix of earth and field, a cool intermission before the onslaught ahead. There’s a monkfish consommé that is almost Japanese in its intense purity, with a sly sweetness and a resounding saline kick. Fat, succulent chunks of the same fish loiter at the bottom of the bowl. There are lovely langoustines, given the barest minute on the plancha, again possessing the allure of the truly fresh. And whole fried John Dory, with a lusty whack of white pepper. The skin is crackling crisp, the flesh a moment undercooked, just as it should be.
The baby gem salad, an old Barrafina classic, is an entirely different dish, with chewily intense sundried tomatoes and more of that queso fresco, plus deep-fried strands of shallot and garlic.
Even tomato salad, usually so wan at this time of the year, manages to possess punch. Not only are the black tomatoes miraculously decent, but made better still with soft artichokes, raw red onion and rustic Basque sausage, fresh from the grill. The hot fat coats each cool leaf. Slow-cooked oxtail succumbs to the merest touch of the fork, and provides a welcome grunt of winter, while quail is lightly grilled and sweetly succulent, with bitter chicory and romesco. The menu can tend towards the meaty. This is Spain, after all. Even the chargrilled baby potatoes, looking like Dauphinoise, come with a hefty whack of paprikacharged sobrassada.
But as ever with Nieves, there’s a deftness of touch, in this case a good whack of vinegar added to cut through any heft. We drink a really good bottle of Basque white, from an interesting list. And as ever, don’t have the space for pudding.
One visit simply isn’t enough, as there’s so much more to try. Much more. Mollejas, or fried gizzards; frit mariner; a beetroot and blood orange salad. And whatever fish comes gleaming fresh that day.
So is it better than Barrafina? It’s different, like Cervantes and Lorca. In any case, I see them as compatriots rather than competitors, both with their own distinct identity. For this young a restaurant, that’s pretty impressive. Anyway, Nieves is back, and she’s as good as ever. This town is definitely big enough for them both.