‘The intent is clear – we will feed your inner cave-person’

Asador 44 emerges from a foggy Cardiff day like a reassuring fire pit. A stone’s throw from Cardiff Arms Park, it’s a Spanish restaurant created by two brothers who travelled across the Basque region, Galicia and further, working in kitchens, becoming absorbed in the idea of large cuts of meat and entire fish roasting over the coals of the parrilla grill.

They now have a number of places in Cardiff, Penarth and Bristol, and this is one perfectly suited to fill your boots before a spot of rugby in the stadium down the road, now part of the Millennium Stadium complex whose towering arches look, at first glimpse, like the sails of a massive yacht heading down the street.

The establishment is a mix of oak flooring, white tiles, whitewashed brickwork and steel joists. As you sink into comfortable leather seats and banquettes, your eyes are drawn to large fridges ageing huge cuts of meat, shelves of fat cookbooks, little rooms filled with wine and, behind glass, chefs tempering fire and smoke. The intent is clear. We will satisfy your inner cave-person.

The service matches with charm and enthusiasm and we’re enticed to eat Cantabrian anchovies (I’m unable to let them lie on any menu) and salchichón (Spanish salami). A line of six of those salty, oily fillets munched alternatively with the salchichón, with its hint of black truffle, are heavenly paired with the restaurant’s own white wine: UVA 44, a fresh and aromatic albariño. And there’s a pair of prawn croqueta, looking like two darkblack chocolate truffles, a fine mix of shellfish hiding within some sort of charcoal covering, topped with a dollop of mayo and a baby leaf of coriander.

These are all magnificent bites, delivering what the walls of the place seem to offer: wholesome, satisfying, invigorating flavour.

Our kids are also happy with their food: fish goujons and tender strips of steak with chips and broccoli.

The menu challenges us with the prospect of a cochinillo, a whole shoulder of suckling pig. Can we manage this, on top of what we’ve ordered? Because, as with anchovies, Emily and I also can’t pass by the words ‘whole grilled squid’ without needing to see it manifested as flesh on a plate…

Our can-do mentality sees us marching on, crossing the battlefield of meat and ‘poor man’s potatoes’ in cider; the latter a slow-cooked mix of spuds, tomatoes and onions. That squid is a thing of serene, pinkish beauty. Lightly touched by the fire, it is the softest, tastiest squid that I can remember.

We attack the pork, delving through its crisp layer of fat and deeper into the soft, young piggy flesh. Actually it’s not as vast as the promise. Any healthy rugby fan could easily sink a single portion, especially when encouraged by glasses of the restaurant’s equally fabulous UVA 44 syrah.

There’s a side plate of broccoli too, covered in what is normally a bready, garlicky soup – ajo blanco – but, blended with cashews, makes for a moreish sauce dollop.

Then, what’s this? A side of cabbage in miso butter with morcilla has the flavour of fresh cowpat searing through it. This must be the morcilla, a Spanish type of black pudding mixed with pickled onions and spice. I like a gutsy dish imbued with the flavours of the farm, the soil, the labour of a toiling farmer. But its scent of the dung heap is too much for me.

It’s a minor blemish in an otherwise tremendous emporium that celebrates the glory of rustic Spanish cuisine.

Any healthy rugby fan could easily sink a portion of the suckling pig, encouraged by the fabulous house syrah