In the same way that upon finishing the Recherce proustiana we would like to resurrect Albertine and have Marcel narrate again how as a young man he went to sleep too early or, when we read the most dignified death of Don Quixote, we would want to close Cervantes' book to reread the first sentence of the unknown place in La Mancha that no one dares to remember, our most beloved restaurants provoke in us a mysterious impatience to finish the last coffee, or the umpteenth and unnecessary gin and tonic, and start again the meal that has given us so much happiness. We are bursting with joy, the conversation has numbed our tongue like marinated meat and our stomach is about to burst, but we feel that nostalgia of wanting to quickly regain the hunger that the starters reveal, or the first stomach growl when the first anchovy appears and the body's senses are reawakened in anticipation of the growing surprise of each new dish that appears on the table.
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Our sad, poor and unfortunate tribe has always had a tendency to praise misfortune, because cowardice leads us to the art of wallowing in defeat, defect and incompleteness, when deep down it is much more difficult to sing the immense nuances of joy, and that is why we have spent much more poetry on mausoleums than on restaurants. This week I have returned to Gresca again, and specifically to its wonderful bar, which is one of the places in Barcelona where fantasy reaches such subtle limits that they even overflow my ductile prose. At the Gresca bar you will enjoy the false illusion of sitting on the podium of the Berlin Philharmonic, and I say that the thing is false because the ones who will command the harmony, the songs and the tempo are chef Rafa Peña and his splendid partner Mireia Navarro. Refuse to look and let no one dare to annihilate the surprise: let Rafa choose and wait.
The privilege of sitting at the bar of Gresca (the Wuhan bug has reduced the capacity to four chairs radically poured into the kitchen stoves) lies above all in watching Rafa work because, although he cooks for more than one table or supervises each of the dishes in Gresca's two dining rooms ---to the left is the nocturnal frivolity and to the right a white sanctuary ideal for a meal where conversation has some touch of transcendence--- his hieratic immobility immediately surprises. Just as Di Meola or McLaughlin swiftly and uselessly pursued Paco de Lucia's genius while the guitarist looked at them condescendingly, firing more notes than the two of them combined and with a more paused hand gesture, Rafa is an unalterable slow man who moves objects with his eyes and programs the mixture of marinated anchovies with lemon and sesame with a single click of his pupils.
First, you will be surprised by the excellent double-fillet anchovy served with a delirious tomato bread that seems to have been born to dialogue with the cured beef. Life has taught us to despise cabbage and even artichoke, so often fried as if we wanted to turn them into dry straw, but Rafa has given them a new life that culminates in the miracle of lacquered eggplant with parmesan cream and any of the thousand ways the chef enjoys playing with dashi. LSeasons change and years make us older, but the Iberian pork loin bikini with Comté, solidified and crunchy like a cookie, continues to generate an illusion similar to the bell that certifies recess. Only with the fantasy displayed in the starter party, Gresca already holds the grace of being the finest delight in the Eixample and the best pleasure paradise in all of Barcelona.
The privilege of sitting at the bar of Gresca (the Wuhan bug has reduced the capacity to four chairs radically poured into the kitchen stoves) lies above all in watching Rafa work because, although he cooks for more than one table or supervises each of the dishes in Gresca's two dining rooms
My new new age existence as a nocturnal and alcoholic ex-combatant has neglected meats, because my stomach became terribly princely and it doesn't like to work, but the hare terrine, roasted sweetbreads with cabbage and mushrooms or the perfectly cooked steak with a mustardy salad do not come from any known animal, but directly from the thighs of the Virgin Mary and occupy no space, place or weight. If cowardice does not allow you protein, you are in a conversation where it is necessary to hunt when the first lie will arrive, or simply the sea suits you more, pray that Rafa has the scorpionfish reserve with soy or trust a cod with romesco with the daring appearance of a teenager betrayed by the tenderness of his skin. Ordering dessert has always seemed absurd to me, but Gresca surprises again with its cheeses and with one of the city's top flans.
Contemplating all this from the Gresca bar, I insist, is much more transcendent than glimpsing the Pantocrator of the MNAC or the filigrees of Gaudí's costume jewelry, precisely because Rafa is able to maintain the temper of joy until the end of the meal. The day we went, this week, a well-known Madrid chef was to our left and one could see how, despite his gesture of sufficiency, in the most intimate part of himself he could not help but be surprised by the growing science of each dish he ate. When all this that I tell you, and which not only includes Rafa and Mireia, but also the quiet wisdom of Sergi, one of the best sommeliers in Barcelona, ends with a bill that in any city in the world would be at least three or four times more generous, the pleasure we have experienced is mixed with a certain very Christian shame.
What a nerve, to have Gresca so close and for Provenza street, this ancient kingdom that only increases the list of our endless defeats, not to bear Rafa Peña's name
Barcelona can be admired from one of its immense hills, but it can also be captured in all that remains of its fantasy and love for lived pleasure that reappears insatiable, at the bar of its best restaurant. What a shame, to have Gresca so close and that Provenza street, this ancient kingdom that only increases the list of our endless defeats, does not bear the name of Rafa Peña. Head to the bar, you will contemplate the miracle of the unmoved mover and you will see how joy has many more colors than cowardly sadness and its tiresome presence in most of the souls that surround us. Sing joy and embrace the bar, what a bar, even more bar, all the bar that is necessary. Thus sings today this stab of mine.