I like my food like I like my dancing (and my men): Spanish.
As a child I grew up with memories of eating Spanish and Portuguese cuisine. I remember this one restaurant my family frequented that served the best shellfish over yellow rice drenched in rich, creamy sauces. It was divine; I adored their paella, and never failed to sop up any remaining sauce from pastas with hot, crusty bread. You see, even as a child I had a fairly discerning palate but any potential for becoming a refined foodie was overshadowed by gluttonous tendencies (re: sopping up every last bit of butter and oil with carbs). No regrets is the theme, here. I was probably four anyway—what non-pageant child cares about her waistline at that age?
A few weeks ago, my best friend’s parents treated us to dinner at Casa Vasca before a night out in the the city. It’s a quaint little restaurant—almost easy to miss—found on the corner of a street. It’s crowded but not in a way that would annoy diners; if anything, it’s intimate, familiar, cozy. Perfectly set tables with pristine white tablecloths and traditional maroon napkins. Immediately we’re greeted with a pitcher of sangria and a basket of hot bread.
Over bread and good conversation, I pored over the fish and seafood section of the menu. Merluza a la vasca, or filet of sole in lemon and butter sauce? Lobster tail in garlic sauce or mariscada a la marinera? Eventually on I settled on the salmón y camarón al champán because it had three of my favorite things.
Salmon and shrimp in a rich white champagne sauce, it was ace. Absolutely decadent and lush poured over Spanish rice and washed down with sangria, and made better only by the company kept.
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Reading this certainly brings forth midnight cravings