Cal Pep

I first ate at Cal Pep nearly four years ago, when Alec and I came to Barcelona for the first time.  We had left the kids in Galicia with Myron and Raquel and had escaped for a few days of grown up time.  In Portugal the week before, I had read Bill Buford’s Heat—a terrific book—and learned about Cal Pep.  I had to go.

Having heard that it would be crowded, we showed up a bit before opening time to queue up along with everyone else—the restaurant was not exactly unknown.  Cal Pep consists of a long counter behind which most of the fried and grilled food is prepared, so you can watch the cooks at work.  There is also a large dining room, but you need to make a reservation for that, and the counter is really where the action is anyway.  We put ourselves entirely in the hands of the counterman and had a fabulous meal, the details of which I no longer recall.  I remember that it was really good, and that we had lots of little plates of delicious things, some good wine, and tiny glasses of some kind of special digestif just before we left.

We had gotten a sitter for Friday night, and decided to go back to Cal Pep—for the first time since the first time—with Alec’s brother, Rich.  I worried that I had built it up in my memory over time to such a high level that it could not possibly live up to what I recalled.  Remembering the lines, we arrived shortly after the restaurant opened and, indeed, had to wait in the narrow space behind the counter stools for about a half hour for seats to open up.  I worried a little more when I heard so many people in the restaurant speaking English, their guidebooks peeking into bags and pockets.  Had Cal Pep begun to trade on its reputation, experiencing the decline in quality that so often results?

I had no reason to worry—the food was as good as ever.  The staff at Cal Pep is all male, mostly young, with Pep himself, hovering over all of the activity.  Dressed in a regular shirt and slacks, he no longer works the counter or the kitchen, but he is clearly in charge.  At one point, I asked the waiter if he had some lemon to squeeze over the fried artichokes.  He wagged his finger at me and said,

 “No.”  Which seemed to me a bold-faced lie, as the seafood cases included mounds of lemons. 

The waiter returned a couple of minutes later and explained, “We don’t recommend that you use lemon on the artichokes.” 

“Okay,” I said.  “You’re the boss.”

“No, no,” he corrected me, gesturing toward Pep.  “He’s the boss.”

We ate razor clams and pimientos de padron,  lovely little clams presented on a shallow pate of chorizo-flecked broth (you use the clam shell to scoop up the broth and then slurp the whole thing into your mouth), tender tortilla española, and monkfish with tomatoes and sautéed potatoes.

The food at Cal Pep is as good as I remembered.  But I think another reason why I remembered our first meal so fondly is that it’s the kind of place where you feel as though the staff is truly happy to have you there.  Which is not an easy feat to pull off, given the constant stream of people who turn up every day, many of whom will never be back.

We ended the meal with a terrific crema catalana—rich and smooth, with a perfect crackle of a crust.  Add it to your long list of places to eat if you find yourself in Barcelona.