A Delicious Thing Happened On The Way To The Monastery

by Dana Baluk (Canada)

I didn't expect to find Spain

We set off at lunchtime on empty stomachs because that’s what a great host I am. I planned to grab something on the way and get on with the business of enjoying the mountaintop spectacle of the Monasterio de Santa María de Poblet with my guest. Problem: There are not a lot of roadside cafés amid the hairpin turns on Spanish mountain roads. I was ready to eat my shirt when we finally came across an unimpressive restaurant, not much more than a door in a whitewashed wall, at the side of the steep road. I cranked the steering wheel to the left and skidded to a stop in the parking lot. Given its location, I should have known better than to judge the whole restaurant by its unassuming door. The restaurant opened onto a panoramic view over the foothills of the Prades mountains, sweeping our gaze out to the Mediterranean Sea. It beckoned us in with exposed wooden beams, warm ocher walls, terracotta tile floors and maroon tablecloths. My Spanish skills had me ordering off English menus and I often ended up with some untranslatable surprises. This time, our garlic toast arrived deconstructed. The waiter, seeing our confusion, came over and demonstrated: Take a piece of toast, first rub a clove of garlic all over it, then a tomato half, then drizzle a bit of olive oil, a sprinkle of sea salt and voila! It burst with layers of flavor I never knew garlic toast could have. I needed to know what other treasures lurked on the regular menu. At the next possible opportunity, I dragged my Catalonian neighbor there. “Oh, they have calçots!” “Qué?” He explained that calçots are unique to Catalonia and only available between November and April. They’re like green onions but milder, left in the ground through autumn and winter and grow to the size of a small leek. Grilled directly in the fire until they’re charred on the outside and juicy on the inside, they’re served in a terracotta roof tile. When you order calçots, all your table linens are removed and replaced with paper. Paper tablecloth, paper napkins, you even get one of those ridiculous lobster bibs. I was immediately covered to my elbows in soot. More demonstrations were necessary: You grab the calçot by the bulb with one hand and peel off the charred outer layer then dip the warm succulence in salvitxada - a rich, nutty, smoky tomato concoction. I was smitten. The rest of the meal included local meats and sausages, and copious red wine served in a porrón, a traditional Spanish decanter with a pointy spout designed so you can pour the wine directly in your mouth without touching the glass. I failed the skills test on that item as well. This feast changed my life. Every time I had a visitor in town I’d take them to Les Espelmes. It made me look like a genius tour guide. “Oh I know the perfect place for lunch!” I’d make a reservation, in my broken but improving Spanish, and away we’d drive up the mountain for a most exceptional culinary experience with heart-swelling views. After several such visits, I called to make yet another reservation. Before I could give my name, the person on the other end of the phone said, “…for Dana?” It made me giddy to be known at such a remarkable restaurant. I was a regular! Okay, yes, I was probably the only one with such an appallingly recognizable accent but still, I was practically a local. And that monastery which instigated this life-changing discovery? I only ever went there the once. I vaguely remember the place. I’m sure it was a magnificent representation of Spanish architecture. But for all its imposing historical significance and grandeur, it didn’t leave the lasting taste in my mouth the many trips to Les Espelmes did. What I wouldn’t do to walk through that understated door again, be greeted by name, and dig into a sooty pile of calçots. It’d give me another chance to master the porrón.