Our last night in Spain, and Dave was still with us. He'd been here five days by then, a lovely calming presence in our wild, chaotic family. He's always down for the long walk into Old Town, and he loves food as much as we do, so there was nobody better to spend a final evening with.
The plan was simple: leave earlier than usual, because in Spain, starting to eat before 7pm is a public embarrassment. We left the house around 5:30 and made our way down the coast on foot.
About halfway in we stopped at a little beach bar we'd never have thought to eat at. The location was the whole point. Right on the sand, the girls running back and forth between the table and their Fantas, the three of us with our last tinto de veranos of the trip. That drink has been Dave's gift to us. Red wine and Sprite on ice, simple as that, and somehow exactly right in the heat. We'll be replicating it in Toronto, especially the next time someone has the audacity to bring a Jackson-Triggs into our house.
After the drink we kept walking into Old Town. Jo had spotted two places earlier in the week, neither of which had come up in her pre-trip research. She just stumbles on them. The plan was to do both, and what we didn't realise until we sat down was that we'd accidentally booked ourselves a tour of two different Spains.
Taberna Es Bien V&A
The first place was old-world. Bullfighting on the TV inside, which I have no real issue with culturally, but it is a wild thing to look up from your plate and watch a live bull execution. I caught myself watching far too much of it. We kept angling the girls' chairs.
The server was an eccentric old gentleman, hardly any English, doing his best with our Spanish. Every couple of minutes he would step away from the table to hug a passer-by or scoop up someone's baby. Clearly a local legend. He brought us the chicharron we'd been chasing the whole trip, though they had a different name for them here, something like tara nos. Crispy, salty, perfect. Not another tourist in sight.
Restaurante Ambre
Fifty metres away, and a different century. Modern, millennial, run by two friends, one front of house, one in the kitchen. We were still in early by Spanish standards, so it was quiet, and we sat outside.
The gildas were the best we've ever had. Wrapped in both sardines and anchovies, with artichoke and red pepper. Then an aubergine carpaccio with pistachio and feta on top, which was extraordinary. Sliders and fries for the girls, who were happy. Octopus. Then a pork shoulder on the bone, prepared in a way that felt much more like a schnitzel than what we'd expected. Golden, crisp, very good.
On their way to the bathroom the girls peeked into the kitchen, and the chef noticed. A few minutes later he came out, invited them back in, and scooped them each a bowl of ice cream. They were bewildered. It absolutely made their night.
Hearts and bellies full, one last good evening with Dave, two restaurants neither of us would have found without Jo's wandering. A fitting end to Spain.
