(Or Catalunya? Shall I risk political correctness?)

To say that Barcelona is the best city in the universe is to betray my Hong Kong heritage and risk expulsion from the Melbourne community.  But I’’m going to say it.  It’s friggin great.

The first time I went to Barcelona was to meet the captain and chief stewardess aboard the yacht we were to start our new life upon.  It was a short stay - after a cursory meet and greet, we went straight to work and sailed off to Genoa within the week.  Yet, it showed great promise - tapas bars open til the wee hours, chic local fashion boutiques and the Picasso Museum were all within our reach in the neighbourhoods of Barceloneta and El Born.

The second time, we were docked for 8 weeks after chartering non-stop for three months.  It was shipyard period, and James - my partner and chef of the yacht - and I weren’t going to miss this chance.  There had been so much drama on the board, and cabin fever was festering amongst us all.  There was only one recourse - to take refuge in the vineyards of Catalunya and flush out the bad vibes with wine.  In fact, we were barely tied to the dock when I was already on the phone, trying to confirm vineyard visits.  We ended up in Priorat twice, once just James and I, the other time with his folks, who came to visit.  The cherry atop the sundae though, was my opportunity to go to Recaredo in San Sadurni d’Anoia with my girlfriend Em and a seemingly never-ending dinner at Tickets.  These are all separate posts you can explore!

For this post, I’m going to talk about two things: the concept of ‘place’, and vermouth.

The very first time I was introduced to vermouth was through a Negroni.  Back then, I worked for Sonny in Perth Australia, one of my soulmates, my mentor, and the best maitre’d the world has sadly never heard of.  New to the world of fine food and wine, she made me a Negroni, my introduction to the excitement of cocktails.  Gin gives the oomph and Campari gives citrus bitterness, but vermouth gives the damn cocktail its soul.  Its sweetness, it’s distinctive backbone of spice and herbs, were the make-or-break for a good Negroni (and ice! Oh my God don’t forget the ice!).

My next dabble with vermouth was through the now explosively popular Maidenii vermouth from Victoria.  The restaurant I used to work for in Melbourne was one of the first to stock it. Made of Victorian Shiraz grapes and indigenous flora, it not only complimented the restaurant’s ethos - it was delicious as well.  While vermouth was always a cocktail ingredient to me, Maidenii showed me that it can also be a standalone act.

Of course, in Spain, vermouth is almost always a standalone act.  I would go to the most random, obscure tapas bar, and the vermouth is always local, made by the owner’s parents in a farm somewhere in the Catalan wilderness.  Only one place, Bar Mut - one of my favourite restaurants where, in the place of a menu or the winelist, was a charismatic waiter - was I served a Martini Rosso with much relunctance and apologies.

A quick google-able intro on vermouth - an aromatized, fortified wine that finds its home in the Mediterranean - more precisely France, in the form of Noilly Prat and Lillet Blanc; and Italy, in the form of Martini, Cinzano and Carpano.  France tend to give white vermouth and Italy rossos, but, in the current age, the line is much blurred.  Spain has some big brands, like Lustau and Yzaguirre Rojo, but at least in Barcelona, abuela’s best is the standard here.  Which brings me to the concept of ‘place’.  Vermouth, although a delicious drink on its own, drew its popularity from the need to make use of the flooding wine lakes of Europe.  It’s not, in most cases, ‘fine’ fortifieds like sherry or port.  Who knows the soil type? The grape variety? The trellising system?  Who cares?  

The ‘place’ is in a my point of view is where it is drunk: watching futbol in the local Spanish cantina,  eating pan amb tomat, anchovies and jamon while people watching, or straight out of a barrel from your local bodega, when you’re too lazy to fight off the people standing in front of the pintxos in El Born.  The place for me to drink a glass of iced vermouth, sometimes even with a spurt of aqua con gas, is Barcelona.  And damn, were great memories made from it.

Storytime! Here is another take of the concept of ‘place’ with regards to vermouth!

While chartering in the Bahamas, a guest, an older French gentleman with a friendly, albiet cheeky disposition, asked me for a Martini. I asked him if he prefered a lemon twist or olives.  “Lemon twist’, he said, satisfied at my barmanship.

Overhearing our conversation, the chief stewardess grabbed the bottle of vodka and laid it at the bar for me.  I, ever the know-it-all, informed her that the Martini must be made of gin, unless informed otherwise.  A friendly discussion ensued, with my chief stewardess noting that if they were Americans, it would most likely be a request for vodka, as that was what she was taught since time immemorial.  Careful not to sound patronising, I disagreed, as classics are classics, and I went about my merry stirring with gin instead.  

Proud and confident I approached the guest, serving him his beverage in a Martini coupette. He looked at me in confusion, but with a surreptitious shrug, took the drink and sipped.

“This is not Martini!” he exclaimed, uncharacteristic to his usual demeanor.  ‘Oh’, I remarked, even more confused.  Could he have wanted the vodka version instead?  He turned to his friends, “C’est trop fort!”  With my rudimentary french, I still couldn’t understand why he would think it too strong, after all, whether it’s made with gin or vodka, the drink’s well known to be almost straight liquor.  And then it hit me…

“Je suis desolee,” I excused myself.  Quickly, I chucked some ice into a highball, then a slice of lemon, then a healthy glug of - of course - Martini Bianco Vermouth (!).  Monsieur clapped his hands as I approached with his drink, glad to be rid of the ‘Martini’ I previously served.  

What a frickin’ doozy that was!

*Blog posts are not necessarily in chronological order, and is based on travel notes and fond memories.