38 GASTRONOMY
HUNGRY FOR MORE Head to this Poble Sec institution with a hearty appetite and it will be rewarded. By Tara Stevens. Photo by Patricia Esteve. ***La Perla, Passeig Exposicío 62, Poble Sec Tel. 93 329 2052, Open: Tue-Sat 1pm-4pm, 8.30pm-11pm. Approx €40 per head incl. wine
L
a Perla is one of Poble Sec’s oldest restaurants, yet until now it’s
Take my advice and turn up with the appetite of a lion for every-
never crossed my radar. Occupying a corner block just below the
thing is colossal, almost as if they are feeding Romans. We start with
Grec Theatre it is, by all accounts, something of a neighbour-
leeks gently stewed in aged Jerez vinegar. They are as soft as butter,
hood institution—the owner at the excellent nearby tapas bar Quimet
velvety as cream, sweet as molasses, and I’m told, come in a can with
y Quimet put me onto it—popular with good old boys wanting man-
the date of vintage stamped on it. As conservas go, there’s no doubt
size, no-fuss fare, and dedicated smokers, wanting, well… a place to
they are among the best I’ve ever had, and make a superb foil to the
puff in peace.
salty, pink anchovies cured and marinated in a secret in-house recipe.
Hence, the air on the day of my visit was thick with the smell of
Canelones, when they are eventually found beneath a lake of bé-
black tobacco. Ducados I’d say if pressed, a smell I always used to
chamel and cheese sauce, are tightly packed with lovingly seasoned
associate with Spanish airports, but had forgotten about since the EU
stewed pork. Granted it is probably not the kind of food you should be
set about enforcing a mass give-up. The truth is, although the smell
eating too often, though there’s no doubt in my mind that half the cus-
brings back fond memories, it is a bit off-putting, but persevere—an
tomers in here come daily, but there’s something so honest and hearty
all-out ban of smoking in public in Spain is due in January—and La
about it all that it gladdens your very soul.
Perla genuinely is a bit of a jewel, run by several generations of a family who are obsessed with the food they put on the table.
Next up is prawn, monkfish and scallops stuffed into the shells of the latter and also laden with béchamel this time stabbed with a little
At the long, Art Deco bar, six old men are lined up tucking into small
nutmeg. I can almost hear my arteries screaming “Stop dammit, no
mountains of toffee-coloured paella (the sign of a good sofregit—long-
more” yet I’m powerless to resist. No wonder obesity in Spain is on the
stewed onions and proper seafood stock) richly studded with mon-
rise, I think, vowing not to eat another bite, and then of course I do,
strous langoustines and generously piled with socorrat (the crunchy
because by this stage you’re in too deep and even starting up smoking
bits). Elsewhere tables are laid with white paper tablecloths and by
is seeming like a good idea. Doesn’t it combat fat?
2pm the joint is full. Wine and general joie du vivre is free flowing,
So pleased is the waiter by now with our performance that when we
apart from our waiter who takes exception to my naïve request for a
waiver on the subject of dessert he brushes us off. “You have to have
smoke-free table. “Everyone smokes” he shrugs, though does concede
dessert,” he says, this being a more-is-more kind of a place. So we
to move us from a particularly smoky corner.
polish off a deep, home-made apple pie which comes, you’ve guessed
In the end it’s not so bad, and he brightens considerably as we pass back plates practically licked clean. “You like?” he smiles, thawing slightly. Oh yes, we like very much.
it, with a gallon of whipped cream. Remarkably, and aided by a shot of marc de cava, we manage to eat the lot, and go back to work.
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