Jesus of Nazareth had a very bad temper. He condemned us to the drug of bread and wine, distributing them first among the leaders of his own sect and then turning them into what the pretentious call pillars of the collective imagination of the West. I have learned, slowly and laboriously, to abandon the perfumed liquid thing; but I still sell my meager patrimony for a slice. Gnawing on bread, soaking the plate like a furious madman until it ends up whiter than a baby's bottom is, with the comfort of tobacco, the only vice life allows me. Perhaps for this reason, at home we celebrate the possibility of having a sandwich for dinner with a contained but very lively joy. In fact, we chose the apartment on Sant Sever street, among many other reasons, for the tempting proximity of Can Conesa (a canonical sandwich bar, with an unusual variety) and the tiny Frankfurt Sant Jaume that hides in the opposite corner of the square, more meager in terms of choice, but with a sauce for carnivorous sandwiches that goes straight to burning your liver.
New York taught me –how tiresome with New York, for god's sake– that the sandwich, far from an easy resource, is an object of very high culinary value. Fortunately, among the few things with which Barcelona can compete with the rest of the cities in the world is the art of satisfying the stomach well. In our city we not only find splendid sandwich shops, but a series of magnificent chefs who have found in bread the perfect way to atone for our sins. The competition is tremendously fierce, but at home we always end up opting for the perfect balance between order and adventure, and that is how we very often rush to Bodega Santo Porcello (San Antoni). Its Libidine (with roast beef, mayonnaise, lettuce and pickles) is something important, and the Porca Vacca (with taleggio, gorgonzola and burrata cheese) will make you feel guilty for existing. Let yourselves be guided by the sandwich of the day: recently I devoured an invention of coppata pancetta with calçots and arugula that still has me stunned today.
From Porcello, as from Italy, we value the work of civilizing excess and transforming it into beauty. This also happens at Bar Torpedo (Eixample upwards), where the beloved Rafa Peña gave us years ago a place that should have four or five replicas in other neighborhoods of the city. I am a doctor honoris causa on the subject, and I can say his cheeseburger is one of the few Barcelona specimens that could be perfectly served in any North American city; there's also his pastrami tongue bikini, which is disgustingly succulent. Even vegetarian bores will find solace there, because the stewed eggplant sandwich is one of the city's bread peaks; and also pay attention to the fries (an indispensable complement to a good bite), because I would say they are among the best in Barcelona. I hope Rafa makes even more money at the Gresca restaurant (and in his Madrid forays) and can soon expand the business to other parts of the city.
In our city we not only find splendid sandwich shops, but a series of magnificent chefs who have found in bread the perfect way to atone for our sinsIn terms of excellence, the only equivalent to the places in my olympus I have found in Sants es Crema, the grill entrepanería of chef Jordi Bernús. I only know Jordi from exchanging glances, but I can affirm that he is one of those cooks I usually like: a scoundrel with a melancholic background, a thuggish appearance, and a very high dose of bad temper. Tremendously in favor, especially if it is necessary to apply it to the art of grilling meats. There I guzzled the pork jowl sandwich (smoked for eight hours) with achiote and lettuce; a real bomb. The tandoori, the tongue, the triad of mayonnaises and the variety of breads culminate a splendid proposal; this week they have announced a sandwich hot dog with chicken karaage, romesco, daikon and enoki salad, and Galician 'teta' cheese that will knock down the bravest (yes, I don't have a damn idea what most of the words in the sentence mean; but that doesn't matter, because I like Barnús very much and I hope he has some free space at the bar tonight).
There is the aristocratic sandwich, which allows us to enjoy without losing our composure, but then there is the bocata that stains our lips and forces us to wash our hands. My persistent depression often (or too often) makes me want to feel a bit guarro (dirty), and it is in these circumstances that I end up at Mirsch (the Indian Garito on Carrer dels Àngels). I would say that their Butter Chicken Pav (with spiced and fried chicken thigh, bathed in butter sauce and a toasted butter bun that melts in your mouth as easily as the independence process) is, for now, the best sandwich in Barcelona. Demented. And go ahead and get messy with sauce. But if we talk about getting dirty, one must invoke the presence of pulled pork. In that shredded territory, I opt for the sandwiches from Chivuo's (with coleslaw) and La Porca, with herbs and onion. Let the other chefs in the city not get angry, because I am not ubiquitous, time is limited, and freelancers often don't get paid until the tenth of the month.
Take and eat, says the Gospel.
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