I have committed many (and ridiculous) heroic acts for love, such as getting on a Rodalies train or sharing a vegetarian menu. A few days ago, with that affable and sinuous tone of voice that women use to impose their will, Alba proposed that I spend a week's vacation in the mountains.
My dear costella was unaware, although she could perfectly imagine it, of the ancestral hatred and repugnance I feel for stone paths and heights in general: as a child, my father and mother thought of signing me up for summer camps near a mountainous reservoir (an experience I remember with a very deep and painful anger, not only because of the dreadful sports activities offered there, but also because of the disastrous presence of a band of friendly monitors hooked on a guitar, with the consequent and unbearable songs). But I finally agreed, hoping that in the Pyrenees I would at least find temperatures akin to my winter spirit.
After asking for help on Twitter, colleague and chef Jan Farrus reminded me of the existence of Can Marxant, his hotel in Tavascan. As soon as I arrived in Pallars Sobirà, that land I had so despised gave me the relief of a chill for which I would have paid all the gold in the world. Escaping the dreadful heat of Barcelona would have been reason enough to visit this corner of the world for a few days, but at Can Marxant you find a lesson in extraordinary hospitality. Jan has gathered all the effort of his grandmother Maria (empress of an exceptional garden) and his father Ricart; these generations bear fruit in the excellent cuisine of a chef who could command any great restaurant in Barcelona, but who has decided to explain to us that there is no more productive ambition than loving one's own home. If you visit Can Marxant you will not have time to experience any desire because Jan and his family will already put it on the table for you. If you stop messing around and come to Tavascan, apart from the cold, you will find three generations of hospitality excellence that are hard to match anywhere else.
Jan Farrus, a chef who could command any great restaurant in Barcelona, but who has decided to explain to us that there is no more productive ambition than loving one's own homeOnly thus can it be explained that, apart from spending hours quietly reading on the terrace of Can Marxant (and infecting the parish with the unbearable smoke of my cigars), Jan has managed to get this servant to move her ass to the beautiful pond of Naorte and head to the summit of the Certascan refuge (a demented place that survives near 2,300 meters high and where its splendid viscounts surprise your stomach with some very correct spinach cannelloni). The scene was admirable: I climbed the mountain dressed as a prototypical pixapí, practically as if I were going to buy the morning ensaimada at Can Brunells, and with my street sneakers and my Iaios brand sweater that must have been detectable from Mars.Upon seeing me jump full of joy into a small pond to immerse myself in the icy water of the Lladorre river, Alba looked at me as if her balance with whom she lives had been changed: "If they had told me I would do this with you, I would never have believed it," she reminded me while we gorged ourselves on our little trip, devouring a truly epic potato omelet.
We have experienced luxury and visited the best hotels in the world. But at this point in the game, only things that come from love and are done genuinely excite me. Days ago, I arrived at Jan's house seeking only the stellar experience of sheltering myself. Now that I am about to leave here, the prospect of arriving in Ciutat Vella and continuing to live amidst the fiery air and dirty streets seems as disgusting to me as the summer camps that tortured me as a child. One must come to this land, not only for its airs, but above all to see how our prejudices dissolve with the passage of time like those stellar garden tomatoes from Maria that are already part of my palate's brain. As long as the sun burns, we will return to Can Marxant. And if it doesn't, we will too.
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