Being led to your table at Los Caracoles feels like you’re stealthily being hurried through the back door of the restaurant – through the blazing kitchen to avoid paparazzi. (You literally have to walk through the kitchen to get to the restaurant.) It also feels like the waiter has taken you into a secret loft; frozen in time a hundred years ago. But then you realise that actually IS the restaurant. There is always the feeling that they’ve just managed to find you the last table – there is a businesslike efficiency to the Spanish when they have a job to do.
Being led to your table at the 211-year-old Catalan restaurant Los Caracoles feels like you’re stealthily being hurried through the back door of the restaurant – through the blazing kitchen to avoid paparazzi.
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The old men at the table behind us laughed, “We’re Greek!” after accidentally dropping and smashing a dinner plate on the floor.
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As far as waiters go, he was best in class; a loveable rogue who toyed with the guests – he had both tables beside us laughing. I saw someone shake his hand as they left. None of this surprised me – the restaurant and its characters were as robust and colourful on my last visit. It was a warm 2004 summer evening. I was thirteen years old and with my family. I sat shell shocked and amazed, as a traditional Spanish band stopped by to belt out the Spanish version of ‘Viva España’. I ordered snails for the first time that night. Later, the old men at the table behind us laughed “We’re Greek!” after accidentally smashing a dinner plate on the floor.
The menu is deliciously heavy and rich – don’t bother visiting if you’re in the mood for something light. On my latest sitting, it was a tactical decision to order the Calamari. Having eaten many poor British versions of the ubiquitous dish, I wanted to know what it tastes like when cooked by a master. Unsurprisingly, it was the best I’ve ever had.
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