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.
