Paint the town red in La Rioja
TRACEY DAVIES joins a wine and tapas crawl in Logroño
“DON’T look too closely and don’t ask what it is until after you’ve tasted it,” says Federico, a tapas aficionado and my guide for the evening. I glimpse at the plate of what looks like a flat, meaty wafer, take a bolstering swig of wine and tentatively pop a piece in my mouth. “It’s pig face,” he says with a grin. “Or careta de cerdo, to use its [more palatable] Catalan name.” It’s like a very thin, very crisp pork crackling, and as long as I don’t make eye contact, I’d happily polish off the lot.
I’m in Logroño, the beautiful, boozy and blissfully untouristy capital of La Rioja region, a city so steeped in winemaking history that when it rains I’d bet good money it has a rougey tint. I’m on a wine and tapas tour of the old town, where almost 50 tapas and wine bars crammed into four narrow streets form a fabulous foodie bar crawl.
It’s 9pm and the cobbled medieval streets are buzzing. “Tapa means lid or cap, and was originally just a piece of bread or a slice of jamón popped on top of your wine glass to keep out the fruit flies,” explains Federico. But over the years, tapas has really upped its game and is now a culinary emblem of Spain. In Logroño, the scene is reinforced by reasonably priced, superb Riojan wines.
Thankfully, I’ve worn elasticated trousers because next up is El Rincón de Alberto, a long, narrow bar with stone beams, where I meet chef-proprietor Alberto as he carves soft, sweet jamón Ibérico from a tanned, porcine leg perched daintily on the bar. Alberto’s speciality is seafood and with a flourish he serves up a fat, purple and white octopus tentacle brought in fresh from Galicia. Almost a foot long, it’s boiled until tender then chargrilled and served with pink wine salt and olive oil. It is magnificent. But before I can work my way through the other seven tentacles, Federico whisks me off to our next stop.
From the cheerful crowd gathering outside Bar Ángel, a rather unassuming hole-inthe-wall, including a gang of cheery stags in sailor suits, I can assume the food here is very popular. My host picks his way through the throng to the wine-laden, zinc-topped bar, returning in moments with a bottle of Tempranillo and a plate of pincho champiñones con gamba – bread topped with three fat, garlicky button mushrooms and a prawn.
With garlic butter dripping off my chin, I ask Federico if he has a favourite bar. “All of them!” he cheers. With prices starting from one or two euros a piece, you can feast like kings in places like Juan y Pinchamé, a snug little bar hidden down a cobbled lane, which serves up pinchos of fresh pineapple and langoustines, and Las Cubanas, a more contemporary spot with exposed stone walls and polished dark wood hidden behind its dusky red facade, where we gorge on small plates of cochinillo – soft, suckling pig topped with crispy skin – and yet more fine Tempranillo. Of course