Barri Gothic
or the Gothic Quarter of Barcelona can stroll into any Hitchcockian whodunit
without raising any eyebrows. As I walked briskly down a narrow cobbled lane on
a chilly December night, I couldn’t help thinking that a trench coat and a
fedora would have been more appropriate than my jacket and muffler combination.
A lit cheroot would have been also welcome. Along with a steely gaze and gravelly
voice that could make a lowlife sing like a canary. And yes, a double-crossing femme
fatale with a .22 Beretta would have been welcome too.
A low growl
from my belly hauled me back to the present. I had completely lost track of
time while photographing the various nooks and corners of Barri Gothic. It was
only when I realized that shutters were being downed that I shoved my camera
back into my bag and headed towards an eatery near my apartment building. It
was small but served delicious fare at prices that didn’t make eyes water. I
arrived just in time to say buenas noches to the owner who had just finished padlocking the café. He then
instructed me to head to a square where I’d definitely find some restaurants
open. And that’s where I was heading hurriedly while imagining myself to be a lead character in a Dashiell Hammett novel.
I found myself at a brightly lit plaza with the demeanor
of a wealthy man who knows that recession
or not, he’d always be in business. There
was only one restaurant open. And it looked like it had a Michelin-star or two.
A swish set was quietly enjoying their tapas and wine. A lady in red was
plunking at a piano in a desultory manner. That should have been warning
enough. Yet I risked a glance at the menu that was displayed helpfully on a
wooden stand. My doubts were confirmed. A meal here could blow a hole the size
of Barcelona in my travel budget. Before
anybody could approach me and before I had to resort to my act of 'Oh, I just like to admire menus in foreign languages', I made good my escape. I hurtled down an alleyway inhabited by
caterwauling cats and mysterious shadows. I was a bit desperate now. And having
ventured down an unquestionably shady lane, I was getting a slight attack of
the heebie-jeebies too. Enough people have warned about the dangers of walking
down dubious alleys at night. However atmospheric they might be. It was then I
spotted Felip standing ramrod-straight below a neon sign that declared it to be
a cafeteria. Before I could ask whether it’s open, Felip bowed, clicked his
heels and threw the door open. But not before he cast a glance up and down the
street. It was mildly exciting actually. If food was not on the agenda, I might
have been meeting a key witness who would have died before the evening was
over. All because he had the poisoned rabbit stew that was meant for me.
‘Actually, I
had paella for lunch. Can you recommend something else?’ I asked, very mindful
of the ‘beggars and choosers’ saying.
‘You haven’t
had my paella.’ Felip declared. And then added, a bit haughtily, ‘It’s the best
paella in the entire Catalan region.’
‘So, is
Catalan paella different from Spanish paella?’
Felip looked
like he got an appendectomy without any anesthesia. His voice almost trembled
as he said, ‘Catalans are not Spanish. We have our own language, culture and
cuisine. We were arm-twisted to become a part of Spain. But very soon we’ll be
independent. Madrid is nothing compared to Barcelona. The biggest businesses of
Spain are here. We contribute more to the economy.’ Felip went on passionately
for at least 10 minutes about how Catalans are more enterprising, hardworking
and successful than the Spanish. He ended with, ‘I am a proud Catalan and I’d
like very much to serve you our special Catalan paella.’
I was too
hungry to get into a debate. So, I weakly nodded my consent. Felip again
clicked his heels
and marched off in the direction of the kitchen. I finally
got a chance to look around. Despite the humble signage outside, the place was
quite large. And empty. There was not even another waiter in sight. I started
wondering whether Felip was rustling up the paella in the kitchen. Though I
could swear I heard a woman’s voice. Right on cue, a matronly woman appeared
holding a plate of grilled potatoes, cut into neat cubes and another plate of
shrunken eggs (I learnt later that they were quail eggs).
‘Tapas’ she
smiled as the plates were placed before me. ‘Tapas’ or appetizers are a staple
of Spanish/Catalan cuisine. They could be cold or hot and range from fried
chorizo (slices of sausage), seafood (squid, anchovies, cod), quail eggs to
mixed cheese and olives. People usually order the house special and several
plates of tapas to go with long, animated discussions. I simply started wolfing
them down. The potato cubes had enough salt in them to give the Dead Sea a run
for its money. The woman decided that she had exhausted her social manners for
the day by saying ‘Tapas’ and smiling. She quietly retreated to a corner
and switched on a TV. A talk show came on where everybody seemed to be in great
spirits. Probably the studio was serving better quality of tapas.
Felip made
his entrance again from another corner of the restaurant. He waved at some
imaginary diners, stumbled against a chair and somehow caught his balance
before his nose harpooned a quail egg. He looked very
displeased with himself. But he gathered himself together and announced that
the special paella would be served now. He cast a glance at the woman who was
obviously quite thirsty. She was downing copious amounts of the house sangria. Felip snorted with annoyance and headed to the kitchen with his head held high.
