We’ll dance around La Sagrada Familia
Drinking Sangria
Mi niña, te amo mi cariño
Mamacita, rica
Si tú, te adoro, señorita
Nosotros, vivir la vida
Come on, let’s be free…

Yep, you guessed it (and if you haven’t: shame on you), I was in… Barcelona! (A series of fiesta- and food-related emojis here seems nothing short of inevitable (💃🏼🍻🎇🍷🥘👯).) (I hope you appreciate that as much as I do.) After my well below average stays in Toulouse (so far out of town you could have been mistaken for being in Spain already) and Montpellier (so far below average it could barely work out average’s gender, let alone its eye colour), I was more than ready for five nights of top-notch paella and tantalisingly toxic punch in the Spaniards’ party capital. (It was initially meant to be four nights but, after suffering for thirty-six long hours at Jimmy’s boot camp, and then getting rapidly more infuriated with the whimsical (read: intolerable) landlady at the so-called Toulousian auberge, I decided to cut my losses (a few days late I will admit), throw caution to the wind and double book my last (pre-paid for) night in Toulouse with an additional night – a prelude, if you will – in the Catalonian capital before the city’s main event: A Night with (well, four if you are counting) the one and only, the inimitable, the inspirational (drum roll please) Big Sissy Louise! (Although she far prefers to go by her middle name, so henceforth she will (lovingly) be referred to as Deborah (pronunciation: deh-BORE-rah).

But first I must tell you about the most wonderfully unexpected amuse-bouche (or, to keep things culturally correct; aperitivo) which came in the form of a fleeting foxtrot with my longest-standing (and equally probably the longest (in length) when standing) best friend Charlotte. Not quite as overtly welcome as the chance encounter itself was the fact that meeting up with her (away with the girls for a birthday weekend) highlighted the shameful truth that I am – truly – a terrifically terrible (read: boring) traveller. The previous evening I had microwaved myself a jacket sweet potato (topped with spinach and two poached eggs (a rather cracking combo if I do say so myself)) and hit the sheets at approximately 9.57 pm. Charlotte, and her four mates (all (bar Charlotte) over the age of forty may I add (does nothing to help my street cred in this story)), on the other hand, was partying in a rooftop club until 5 (yes FIVE) am! To make matters (my speedily diminishing credentials) worse, I turned up at their hotel in ripped jeans, sneakers, make-up-free face and my borrowed-from-mum day backpack (the one redeeming fact being that I forewent the dusty pink cap) to be greeted by five of the most glamorous Brits abroad La Rambla had ever caught sight of. ALL in maxi dresses (and, to add insult to injury, ironed), with their hair freshly styled, their make-up perfectly in place, wheeling lovely little cabin bags behind them as they clutched their handbags (in colour coordination with their frocks) gracefully in their manicured hands. And all of this was seamlessly achieved on a severe hangover and about three hours of sleep. I could barely manage a matching pair of trainer socks following eleven hours of shut-eye. Anyway. After the obligatory introductions (Charlotte, I provide my sincerest apologies for any embarrassment caused when unveiling me to your perfectly preened pals) the six of us went for the most amusing brunch and coffee (obviously I (most probably to everyone’s dismay (/ expectation following the shoddy appearance)) whipped out my supermarket-bought banana and yoghurt (still riding the budgetmobile)), where I simply sat back and was thoroughly entertained by the hilarious stories from their booze-fuelled weekend in the city. By the time the bill came my cheeks ached from laughing and, although far too brief, I was thrilled to have miraculously been in the very same city at the very same time as my chica, on a very well-deserved break from the everyday (which, as I’m sure you’ve gathered, is my current speciality).

Now back to the holiday in hand. I arrived at our accommodation first, with Deborah (remember: deh-bore-rah) meeting me circa three pm. With my banana and yoghurt brunch and her Pret at the airport munch, we were both teetering towards the tapas side of the hungry scale when we met. And oh weren’t we in the best place for this rumbling-a-tumbling scenario. (We did endeavour to spend the entirety of the rest of our four-day trip remarking “we definitely need to eat there” to every tapas bar we walked past (and in the Gothic Quarter of Barcelona these are far from infrequent). However. Our first snackette of the day (we certainly weren’t going to classify it as a meal and reduce our future eating capacity) was rather underwhelming (Deborah and I would go so far as to deem it wildly dissatisfactory but I suspect we are a touch more unforgiving in the culinary department than the general populous). But we really only have ourselves to blame. (And our growing hanger (which can be to blame for many a fateful decision).) Firstly, the restaurant (if it deserves that title) was in between one of the most touristic streets and one of the most touristic squares in the whole of the city. Secondly, there were no other punters there (not even any chavvy British ones who might mistake the customary Spanish omelette for a spicy Mexican wrap). Thirdly, it looked really rather shit. Anyhoo, we allowed our (by this point) screeching stomachs to seat us down and tentatively ordered one portion of patatas bravas and another of some questionable ‘house style’ octopus. The potatoes looked far inferior to any patatas bravas I had ever ordered in UK, with the unsightly (but, taste-wise, critically redeeming) addition of a splat of white gloop and a splot of burnt orange (in colour) gloop, with no frills, no finesse and – God forbid – no sautéed garlic or shallot. (It transpires that this rendition of the famous dish is, in fact (and unfortunately), the traditional recipe which is used here, there and everywhere in Spanish kitchens (including that of Alfredo Rodriguez (our cooking class guru) (which just proves the sad reality to be true)). And as for the octopus? Tasted more like meat than seafood. Which is not the ideal taste sensation for a budding pescatarian (now verging on full-on vegetarian (due to this and other (similarly nauseating) fishy situations)). So we had learnt our lesson the hard way, and from that point forward did not deign to dine anywhere highly touristic, entirely empty or clearly a little bit shit.

With a large chunk of our time spent eating delicious Spanish delicacies (excluding the first fateful forage into the country’s characteristic cuisine) I have the very tempting opportunity to tease your tastebuds with titillating tales of each and every bite we savoured around the city. I could write lengthy prose about the bold homemade aioli- and pesto-smothered toast; the delicately crafted scallop ceviche; the sumptuous and juicy prawn topped polenta. But don’t worry. I won’t bore you with the intimate details. I will simply surmise with one piece of advice: go (to Barcelona in general) hungry and you will (one hundred percent guaranteed) leave full. (And then I will write in unnecessary detail about one of our favourite foodie encounters: our Master Cooking Class with the fabulous Alfredo.)

The class started at 10.30 am (a little strange to me (the cooking class virgin) but actually totally normal (according to the cooking class maestro (Deborah))). We put make-up on for the occasion (naturally (think of all the tapas-titivated selfie opportunities)), made the four-minute stroll from our hotel to the Master Kitchen, and knew as soon as we were buzzed in and entered the kitchen / living / dining room bonanza that we had picked the right class. The space was big, bright and airy; beautiful light fittings hung down from the high ceilings; bottles of the finest wines adorned the walls; and fairy lights were aplenty. I was in heaven. We were the first to arrive (eager as always when there’s food involved), shortly followed by a South Korean marketing man, an American nurse / engineer couple, an Australian couple of which the man had no culinary flair except for insane egg-cracking skills (which had been developed during a part-time stint at McDonald’s in his teenage years) and the most hilarious retired American couple who’s constant bickering and general conversation proved comedy gold for the entirety of the class. With introductions out the way we approached the cooking station – an enormous central island surrounded by swivelling high stools, took our seats and were greeted at the table by ten incredible looking tapa, pre-made for us by Alfredo himself, who was going to talk us through each of the small plates (with the help of his glamorous assistant (sous chef and Spanish-English translator, Maria)) before we got to taste. Oh. My. God. Each one was friggin’ delicious. My personal favourite was the (I acknowledge rather boring) mushroom croquette, but other highly recommended morsels included the tomato- and toasted almond-topped mussels and anchovy-topped slices of creamy manchego…😍 Unlike most other classes, here we cooked together; each appointed by Alfredo specific tasks in the making of the dishes, which seemed, to me, a brilliant way to run things. You could laugh at other people making a hash of things (which, in our lively yet down-to-earth group, was really rather fun); it gave more time for the all important sister selfies (while not falling behind our classmates on preparation of our meal, of course); and – most importantly – it allowed plenty of time for drinking the continually-flowing crisp white wine (I think we probably averaged one bottle per person by the end of the class). On the menu (after the endless tapas) was Spanish omelette, seafood paella and Catalan cream (crème brûlée for all the British (and French for that matter) folk). Each course was expertly taught, expertly made (😉) and expertly devoured. Up my sleeve there are now many a culinary trick and tips for cooking the above three courses, as well as general kitchen genius (including removing the garlic smell from your hands without using any soap (!!!)). You may now and forever more refer to me as Delia / Nigella / Ping (from MasterChef…remember?!).

Along with the consumption of the entirety of Catalonia’s tapas supplies we did some sightseeing activities (bloody good sightseeing activities come to that). First up was La Sagrada Familia. (Which we did not dance around (like Ed) (sorry to disappoint).) With pre-booked tickets (I’m now somewhat of a professional when it comes to religious building queuing time reduction) we swanned past the ill-prepared swarms, gawking unapologetically at the magnificent (yet TOTALLY FUCKING RUINED BY CONTINUAL BLOODY CONSTRUCTION) exterior with its fairytale-esque bone-like structure adorned with bright, glistening pieces of fruit (not real (they would be awfully off by now)), almost enticing you in to see what treasures are to be found inside. After the obligatory (and extremely unflattering) Sagrada Selfie (imagine the camera angle required to include all of the ruddy spires) we crossed the threshold and were instantly transported into another world. The basilica is vast, the ceilings are tall and the decoration is exquisite. (I am aware that this description is fitting to every basilica that has ever been built.) But this one was different. It felt modern even though its construction started 135 years ago. The stained glass windows were totally unique, like nothing I have seen before (and (not to brag, but) I’ve seen quite a few stained glass windows in my time) and the illumination they created as the sun shone through was something quite spectacular, which, I have no doubt, would have been in Gaudí’s creative vision. We were so in awe we even watched the infomercial that was playing on repeat in one corner of the church. It was actually very informative! Did you know for example (in the voice of Jimmy Carr), that Gaudí was actually killed by being run over by a tram?! And not only that, no taxi driver would pick up the injured man and take him to a hospital because they thought he was a beggar, unaware of his real identity?! (I am not condoning tram hit-and-run cases on beggars.) But can you bloody believe it! Imagine! (Having now lost one potential question for my Christmas quiz I won’t reveal any more juicy facts for fear of ruining the festivities altogether.) But just trust me on this one: go (with a pre-booked ticket) and you won’t be disappointed. (Although the infomercial may be more mercial than info following that super saucy (and obviously super tragic) leak.)

Continuing with the Gaudí theme we visited Park Güell. (This was booked in for directly after the cooking class – which overran – so was reached after a rather stressful (mentally), rushed (physically) and uncomfortable (food baby-ly) journey involving slow metros, uphill paths and an extremely unwelcome wrong turn (of which I did not let on to Deborah (I was navigator) for steam was already escaping from her delicate little earholes).) But we eventually reached the gate (indigestion in tow) thirty minutes after our booked slot but (thanks to my natural Spanish charm (or possibly the fact that they allowed for a thirty minute grace period (although the fluttering eyelashes can’t have done any harm))) gained legal access (to Deborah’s visible relief) and entered the magical world of Gaudí’s creative genius (again). However. It was a bit too crowded for my liking. Don’t get me wrong; the mosaics were great, the Hansel and Gretel houses were very reminiscent, and the guided tour (done by me for dearest Debbie) was truly second to none. I just would have preferred a private visit with the architect on hand to answer any queries, but I guess you can’t have everything in life.

Once we had completed the park, and wandered the hour-long route back to our pension, it was time for our final evening. (Why is it that this always comes around far too quickly?) Obviously dinner was surplus to requirements, so with my love of a good sunset and the beach close to hand we decided to partake in a ‘last night spent watching the sunset on the beach’ scenario. Two factors rather scuppered this plan. Firstly, due to one party pooper named geography and another named architecture, one cannot actually see the sun set while on the beach in Barcelona. (Bit of a bummer.) But we weren’t going to let this tiny, insignificant detail ruin our night. So to the beach we headed, drunk with the joys of the last night of holiday (and also with a little of the remnants of the morning’s white wine). And guess what bloody happened along the way. We only bloody bumped into Cris from Brazil whom I had met two months prior in Lake Bloody Bled! Shouting out “Cris!” I confused my sister no end (also the name of her husband whom we had just been talking about (all good, Chris, no need to worry)) who suddenly thought that either she had been ambushed by her lovely other half, or that I had developed some kind of rare family-member-name-calling Tourette’s Syndrome. I soon explained and introduced her to the present Cris, who we invited to come and join us at the beach. He was waiting for a friend and so would maybe join us later. (Pfft.) So on we went, stopping en route to collect a cheeky couple of cans and packet of cheesy Doritos (for sustenance as we watched (pretended to watch) the sun go down over the beautiful Balearic Sea). Soon we were on the beach, the blanket was down and the can’s were popped. Before we even had the chance plant our delicate derrières we were joined (a little suspiciously speedily?) by Cris and his new mate Sunglasses*. To introduce both with thoughtful details: Cris = lovely, interesting, normal; Sunglasses = inappropriate, immature, and clearly a little bit horny. A lovely conversation developed between myself, my sister and my recently reacquainted Brazilian friend. Then Sunglasses piped up. He wanted to introduce us to his friend, Mary. We were all rather perplexed. Magdalene? Berry? The mother of Jesus? All wrong! Turned out he wanted to introduce us to his stash of Mary-juana. We were still all rather perplexed. (Since when did it stop being just teenagers that smoked weed (and gave it a rather unfitting, dated female pet name for that matter)?) Anyway. Out came Mary, off came the sunglasses, and now came the awkward monologue surrounding his lady friend’s aphrodisiacal qualities. It was an interesting five to ten minutes… Suffice to say we three all politely declined a drag, and Deborah and I made a quick dash for it at the soonest possible moment. (Sorry, Cris!)

Thus, all that was left for us to do was to go for a drink (obvi, babe) and reminisce about our week of unbeatable food, breathtaking architecture and our baffling encounter with the potty (pun intended) young man.

*I cannot remember his name for the life of me, but he was wearing a rather large pair of sunglasses, which is what he shall now be named. (This was a good look and he even appeared quite handsome, until he took them off and we realised, unfortunately, that it was purely a good pair of shades.)