Mad Figueres

Inland and westward from Cadaqués, across the protective mountains of the Cap de Creuce, lies Figueres, the hometown of Salvador Dalí.  In the short trip across the mountains, the simplicity and beauty of the Costa Brava are replaced by a bored, tired, and cranky city of roughly 45,000 people.  Perhaps the gloomy weather is responsible.  Or, perhaps it is the lingering political discontent.  In Figueres I witnessed the (in)famous Catalonian political discontent and separatist sentiment for the first time (see picture).  Aside from this, nothing remarkable is happening in Figueres.  The town looks almost identical to the ones I pass by on the train ride from Barcelona, with one notable exception.  Roughly in the center of the city lies a giant, egg-adorned palace celebrating one man's zaniness.

The Teatre-Museu Dalí is housed in what used to be a municipal theater, before it was destroyed in the Spanish Civil War.  The museum claims to be the "largest surrealistic object in the world," and its location next to the church where Dalí was baptized make it the perfect place to house the artist's collection.  Furthermore, it is here that Dalí held his first exhibition of paintings.  I expected to find the museum largely empty on our Thursday visit, but found just the opposite.  Aside from the expected throngs of tourists, the museum was packed with young people, many high school-aged students.  More shocking was the fact that they seemed genuinely interested in Dalí's works; his technique, form and structure (or lack thereof).  This was only the first time I had witnessed what I would come to recognize as the Catalonian respect for the artist (more on this later).

Much of the art in Dalí's house of wonders makes the place feel like an amusement park more than a museum.  It isn't the kind of place to make one pause and reflect on the dignity of man, but rather to ask how in the world he thought of, or created some of his most eccentric works.  Some, like the portrait of Abraham Lincoln (composed of several smaller images, including a naked woman's backside) are truly impressive.  It wasn't until I viewed the painting through my camera that I could make out Lincoln's portrait.  Others made me scratch my head in confusion.  For example, the courtyard with an old 1920's car parked in the center with a bronze statue of a big-breasted woman, all surrounded by life-sized Oscar statues looking down from the windows of the floors above.  Another was the Mae West room, complete with the lips-shaped couch.  The animatronic crucifixes and moving jewels were similarly puzzling.  Perhaps the most impressive item in the whole museum was housed in the Dalí Jewels collection adjacent to the main theater building.  A gold heart pendant is cutaway to reveal a core of ruby's that pulses like a beating heart. 

Whatever one might think about Dalí's state of mind, his skills as a painter, jewelery craftsman, film maker, and architect are undeniable.  Another interesting thing that I learned was that Dalí was in collaboration with Walt Disney to produce a surrealist cartoon titled Destino.  Production was never completed, but Disney released a short version in 2003 based on work uncovered during the production of Fantasia 2000.  While the Dalí Museum simultaneously impressed and confused me, I was also disappointed to learn that many of Dalí's most famous works, such as The Persistence of Memory and Swans Reflecting Elephants, are not housed in the museum but are scattered across other museums.

Figueres became even more strange over dinner.  Our hotel, the Hotel Empordà, is a curious mix of new age modernism and old world class consciousness that make for an interesting stay.  The spartan room looked like one of the modern showrooms at Ikea, but was quiet and surprisingly comfortable.  Downstairs, however, in the Restaurant Empordà, one walks into an aura of stuffiness that seems stuck in 1929.  White coated waiters attend to their guests every need, and it seems to be the kind of place where protocol governs everything from where you place your silverware to how you drink from your glass.  Curiously enough, the restaurant was Dalí's favorite, which is surprising because the museum leaves the impression that Dalí wasn't a fan of anything formal or conventional.  The dining room was empty when we arrived at 8, and only received a couple more tables of guests throughout our meal. The food was very good (reputed to be some of the best in Catalonia), but very expensive, and very different than the warm-hearted meal we enjoyed in Cadaqués.  

The paradox between the socialist and separatist past of the region and the stuffy atmosphere of the restaurant are curious, to say the least.  As we prepared to leave Figueres the next day, I was sad that we could neither afford a meal, nor procure a reservation, at the famed El Bullí in nearby Roses.  Alas, there was plenty of food waiting for us in Barcelona.

Quaint and Calm Cadaqués

Good wine.  Olives.  Fresh fish, grilled whole. Pa amb tomàquet.  An ocean breeze.  After a couple of days in Cadaqués,  I'm not sure what more we humans need to be completely and utterly content than these simple ingredients .  The final town before the French border on Spain's Mediterranean coast, Cadaqués has been called the most painted village in the world due to its appearance on the canvases of Dalí and Picasso.  The white-washed buildings of the town are nestled haphazardly in the small space between the mountains and the sea.  The terrain makes for harrowing transportation, as the hilly and winding narrow streets will be completely quiet and empty one second, and fraught with speeding mopeds or cars the next.  Sometimes one's only option is to dash for an empty doorway.  The town's population of less than 2,000 inhabitants swells in the spring and summer when tourists from all over Europe flock to the Costa Brava.  In February, however, the town is empty, as business owners lazily renovate and prepare for the crowds still several months away.  The absence of sandy beaches has helped to insulate the town from over-development and thus preserved its historical charm better than some of its neighbors.  People don't go to Cadaqués looking for a good time; most of the action on any given night seemed to be the lively coffee conversation between old men at the "Societat l' Amistat." 

The Cadaqués I stumble upon in mid-February is a ghost town.  Venturing out from my hotel at night (it only takes about 15 minutes to walk from one side of the horseshoe-shaped bay to the other), I find it nearly empty.  The brightly-lit tapas bar in the town square is vacant except for the staff.  There are a handful of people in the town square, and a couple of people walking their well-behaved dogs.  A chilly ocean wind blows unrelentingly, and I begin to wonder why I have drug my wife all the way from the excitement of Barcelona to see this cold and empty town.  But behind an unassuming door in the dark alley of Calle Miguel Roset, lies all the warmth and charm Cadaqués could ever need.

 A meal at Casa Anita is not a meal at a restaurant; it is a meal at a friend's kitchen.  That friend is Joan Marti, known as "Juanito" or "Jefe" to his family and guests.  The 40-something owner/waiter/chef/entertainer/travel agent waltzes about Casa Anita's two small cave-like rooms with his protruding chest seemingly dragging his feet behind him.  He occasionally bursts into song, signing with gusto until some little detail has caught his eye and distracted him.  His wife, son, and another woman (either his sister or mother) work interchangeably in the kitchen and attending to guests, and he often bursts from the kitchen amidst a flurry of shouting.  There is no menu at Casa Anita; there are only questions.  "Tinto o blanco?"  "Carnes o pescados?" "Veduras?" These are the important questions.  My wife and I tell Juanito that we trust him, and thus begins one of the best processions of food and wine of our lives.

Our first course is an ensalada of grilled red peppers and onions, navy beans, and grilled eggplant (or aubergine, which created much confusion between us and Juanito's wife).  Next up is grilled asparagus with romesco sauce.  The romesco sauce is an instant favorite, and after some inquiry we learn that it's the same sauce served in the traditional calçots cookouts we saw in an episode of Anthony Bourdain.  The next appetizer, pa amb tomàquet, is a Catalan staple.  Kind of like bruschetta, it is usually just bread with finely chopped tomato on top, but this pa amb tomàquet has manchego cheese and anchovies on top, which makes it extra tasty.  The main course is dorado, a freshly caught (same-day) fish, grilled whole, along with the best papas fritas I've eaten outside of France.  While very simple, the meal is one of the best tasting I've ever enjoyed.  The fish, dressed with freshly squeezed lemon juice, tastes of the sweet smell that fills the air in Cadaqués.

I had read online that Juanito likes to advertise his brother's winery to his restaurant guests, so I inquire as to what we're drinking.  As it turns out, the bottle of red that I've almost completely consumed, along with my wife's bottle of white, is not from his brother's winery.  In an instant he produces a bottle of Perafita red.  It is, naturally, delicious, and upon finding our approval he asks if we'd like to visit the winery tomorrow.  Having nothing planned besides lounging around town, we agree.  Next we try ordering only two desserts, but true to form, Juanito's family brings out four.  First is crema catalana (much like crème brulée), followed by nougat ice cream with chocolate sauce, ice cream with jellied figs (my favorite), and a mojito flavored ice cream.  All are delicious.  Fearing the cost of these last 3 hours of indulgence, I ask Juanito for the bill.  Instead he brings us a bottle of cava from Perafita.  The bill eventually comes, and it is a mere €68.  He charged us for only 1 bottle of wine, and 1 dessert.  Not a bad price for one of the best meals of my life.

The next day, we depart from Hotel Rocamar, perched upon a hill on the south side of the horseshoe bay, to meet Juanito at the prearranged spot for our trip to the winery.  He introduces us to the manager/sales director of the winery, a woman whose name I cannot remember.  She drives us back along the harrowing road through the mountains to Perafita.  The winery is perched atop a hill, with views of Girona province, the Pyrenees, and the sea.  There we meet the vintner, also named Joan, who speaks French and Catalan.  Swapping between our four languages, they are able to give us a tour of the winery and its accompanying bed and breakfast.  We learn that the Empordà region, in particular the area around Cadaques, has an especially rich soil that produces a very strong grape.  Joan shows us where the wine is distilled and the French Oak barrels where they age the wine before bottling it.  The winery is small, producing only a couple thousand bottles a year. 

After returning to Cadaqués and exploring the rest of the town, we decide that we would rather have another night at Casa Anita than risk being disappointed with another restaurant.  Our night starts out much the same as the one before, but something is different.  Juanito is distracted.  The reason, we soon learn, is the Barcelona football game vs Arsenal.  Seeing that Juanito's attention is focused next door in the more bar-like "Anita Nit," we ask Juanito if we can have our dinner there and watch the game.  He eagerly obliges, and we enjoy our dinner while watching the game with him, his brother, and a couple of their friends.  As I said, Casa Anita is not a restaurant; it is dinner at your friend's place.  The dinner is just as good as the night before, only we have ensalada with tuna, and steak instead of fish.  Juanito's wife and the other lady do most of the serving since Juanito is distracted, and they seem proud that we want to watch the Barca game.  As we get ready to leave, Juanito tells us that if we find any trouble in Barcelona, or anywhere in Spain, that we can feel free to contact him.  "You have family here in Cadaqués," he tells us.

Cadaqués may not be as flashy or fashionable as some of its Mediterranean neighbors, but what it lacks in sandy beaches it makes up for with charm, class, and a focus on the essentials.  Good wine. Olives. Fresh fish, grilled whole. Pa amb tomàquet.  An ocean breeze.  Family watching football together.  As the people of the town have figured out, these truly are the important things in life.