Nobody is really sure how things got so out of control that night in Barcelona’s old town. Assigning guilt would imply that there was premeditation or gross negligence. ‘Who was liable?’ is probably the right question to ask, as I reflect back about the looks on our faces when we were confronted with the check; a silent yet damning witness to our gluttony. Between the three of us we didn’t have enough cash to pay the waitress. Father had to bail us out with his credit card. 

What was supposed to be a ten-day Father-Son-Son road trip across Europe of three responsible adults seeking rest, relaxation and winter sunshine, descended quickly into a unsupervised all-you-can-eat, offseason, deep fry smorgasbord with too many mixed drinks and saturated fats to be good for any of us. 

The first signs were already visible on the drive through France. Halfway to Catalunya along the famous “Rue de Soleil” we stopped for fuel just north of Lyon.

“How can gas station food taste this good?”

“It’s France!” 

“I mean, this is really good!” 

After a long hike on our first day, up and down the coastal hills, around bays and coves and out to sea again, the ever elusive lighthouse on the point became more a source of annoyance than motivation. Worn out, we turned around and went to find something to eat. 

Our days had been planned full with outdoor activities. Several coastal hikes along the Costa Brava had been selected to get our hearts pumping, our shoulders loosened up and fresh sea air in our lungs. The morning mist and clear, crisp autumn afternoons created the perfect temperatures for rigorous walking and climbing along the sea cliffs. The mild sea breeze coming off the green Mediterranean Sea was enough to restore the homeostasis of any overworked and underpaid modern professional.

“I’ll have one of with mushrooms, one with bacon and one with chicken.” 

“Una de cada? One of each?” the waiter confirmed.

“Si. Perfecto. Gracias.” 

“Would everybody like to sample the croquettes?” 

In the village center of the seaside town of Begur, in a low-key sports bar called ‘Tot Hora’ (‘Every Hour’), we sat on the bohemian terrace in the falling afternoon sunshine, with our feet up, drinking ice cold cola from tall glasses with large ice cubes. What more could we want?  It had been a great first day. The contentment only lasted until the first batch of croquettes were served; hot, lightly crispy and gorgeous. With one bite we all realized that a sampling, “una de cada,” was not going to be enough. With one of each gone, we ordered more—more with the bacon, more of the mushroom ones, and certainly more of that pollo loco! 

With those three handmade and lightly deep-fried croquettes the entire purpose of our vacation was redefined. We ordered again and again and again. The colas came as fast as each batch of croquettes were inhaled. 

After the binge in Begur we resolved to be more moderate, to eat healthier. We decided to cook in, to clear our collective conscience and to keep our costs and blood pressure under control. Rustic autumn produce and fresh tropical fruits from Andalucia were in good supply at the Supermercat just outside of Begur where we had rented a house. It’s just too bad we didn’t buy any.

“My doctor told me I should avoid caffeine for a while,” son number one said, evaluating the choices of soft drinks, an aisle long and two meters high.

“This is Coke Zero Zero. No sugar. No caffeine,” son number two said, holding up a twelve pack. 

“I can’t stand the taste of that diet crap,” Father said, screwing up his face.

“How about we mix it with the limes from the tree in the garden?” son number two asked.

“That might work!” all agreed.

Breakfast consisted of scrambled eggs with chorizo, washed down with Coke and Lime. For dinner we cooked charbroiled hamburgers in the barbecue pit, in November. 

“The beef tastes so much better here!” Father exclaimed, his mouth half full, wiping his chin with his hand.

“Happy cows, happy beef! No feedlots here. They must be wild grazing cattle.” 

“…those limes, they are so zesty. It’s like liquified sunshine!” son number two said gazing at his fizzing, sweating glass. 

“Yeah, that Coke Zero is just the neutral delivery agent for the lime juice anymore. Keep it coming!” 

Empty cans and spent lime rinds filled the garbage can in the kitchen to overflowing.

In Barcelona one can sample offerings from every culture on the peninsula in just one afternoon, hopping from one tapas bar to another, eating here a little and there a little. In these chique bars and ethnically themed restaurants on the wide, tree lined thoroughfare of Passeig de Gracia, traditional cultural norms of strict meal times are blurred beyond recognition. One can eat at any time of the day. 

At Txapelas, just off of Placa de Catalunya, in the middle of the afternoon, we discovered the Basque equivalent of tapas, called pintxos. As with the croquettes in Begur, which was just a warm up round, grilled gambas on skewers, mushrooms, wrapped in bacon, doused in herbed olive oil were too tempting to withstand. After quickly dismissing everything else we sampled, I was surprised that the waitress didn’t ask to see our money before she left a plate of twelve more skewers on the table and walked back to the kitchen with an order for twelve more. Like sharks in a feeding frenzy, we closed our eyes and just kept on eating and didn’t come up for air for twenty minutes. As bad as all this was, the best worst was still to come. 

Hidden in the labyrinth of the narrow alleys of Barcelona’s Bari Gotic, a subdued but iconic cafe,  Els Quatre Gats (The Four Cats) preserves an historic Catalan cafe tradition made famous to the modern world in Carlos Ruiz Zafon’s novel, The Shadow of the Wind. Here the intellectuals of the day would gather to discuss literature, politics and the Catalan cause. Here, only the best and most creative and the highest quality of Catalan foods are served along with, much to our delight, Coca-Cola with lime. 

What happened at Txapelas a few days earlier should have been a red flag for us. We should have exercised more caution. Like problem gamblers in a casino, we should never have taken our credit cards with us to the table. 

“Ohhhh! They serve croquettes with pernil,” son number two said studying the menu.

“What is pernil?”

“The best, the most flavorful jamon, but Catalan style.”

By the end of the night we had consumed three platters full. 

We ordered a plate of pernil and a platter of ‘pan amb tomaquet’, roasted garlic bread with freshly squeezed tomato pulp to serve up the thin, nearly transparent, strips of pernil. The sweet tomato, the savory garlic and the cured meat filled our souls with joy and wonder. What sharpness against the silky smooth olive oil. A truly Iberian flavor. 

“Are we going to have dinner after this tonight?”

“I thought this was dinner.” 

“If this is dinner, I’ll need another Coke. One for everybody?”

Next came the Patatas Bravas. This was no sweet Yoopi sauce that beach side cafes slather on quickly fried potatoes served to German tourists. It was the pithy, spicy stuff on perfectly roasted potato wedges that caused the mouth to burn ever so slightly. 

Before the Patatas were finished, a full platter of Selecio D’Iberics, (various Iberian cured meats), arrived together with a second platter of garlic bread with tomato, the third plate of croquettes de pernil, and a last round of colas. Father, unaware of the additional orders that had been placed by son number one, declared in excitement and joy, unable to take it all in, “Muy Tapas!” 

And for dessert? White Chocolate Soup. What else? I mean, when are you going to be in Barcelona again, right? 

With the platter empty, the food consumed and us searching helplessly for someplace to lay down, the waitress, who had been so friendly, encouraging and pleased by our delight, put an end to our reverie in a cruel and heartless way. Without a word, without a smile, she slapped a small plastic tray on the table top with our check clipped to it and coldly walked away taking our last empty Coke bottles with her. 

We laughed in embarrassment as the check passed between us. Each of us tried unsuccessfully to suppress our surprise. Reflexively we reached for the wallets we were sitting on. Instinctively, we knew that between us we could not cover the entire charge of €100.19. Father had to take the hit on his credit card. 

Our shock was sincere, but even still, we are unrepentant and plan to do it again at the first chance. That said, there should be a place for frugality and fasting in every responsible adult’s life; Barcelona is just not one of them. 

Muy Tapas, todos! 

“Karren does a terrific job in bringing far away locations to your living room. If you’re getting the itch to travel, this will cement your resolve to have your own adventures. Loved it!” —Amazon reader

“I found myself smiling at so many of the stories in this book. As a lover of travel and culture myself, I feel it’s important to appreciate the minutiae in life. It’s the small things that oftentimes turn out to be the most memorable…wherever we are in the world.” —Jillayne N.