The only food I have ever got into an altercation over with a stranger is a tortilla. This happened last year at Bar Antonio in San Sebastián, a small restaurant in the new town known for its vast, burnished tortillas, which are made only twice a day. It is first-come, first-served, so if you hesitate, you lose out. Promptness is rewarded with something approaching potato-based transcendence.
Being five feet tall is rarely useful, but it does allow me to move through crowds with the efficiency of a rodent. As the clock crept towards 11am, I threaded my way to the front just as the tortilla arrived. A beetle-browed Spanish man handed me a slice. At the back of the restaurant, I caught the eye of a woman who had remained seated for a good forty minutes, seemingly under the impression that patience alone might summon a portion. She was visibly incandescent and began shouting at those of us now cradling our slices. There is something almost cheering about how quickly the human desire for deliciousness curdles into fury. At Bar Antonio, all it took was eggs, potatoes and olive oil.
I have yet to meet anyone who doesn’t like a Spanish tortilla. Dissenters tend to fall into the same troubling category as people who consume Huel or claim to enjoy folding fitted bed sheets.
As this is the UK issue, it seems appropriate to showcase a dish from one of London’s most beloved restaurants: Barrafina. Now an institution, it’s easy to forget how disruptive it once was. When the first branch opened on Frith Street 16 years ago, a no-booking policy in central London was radical. The Michelin star that followed was rarer still, bestowed on a restaurant that chose a casual atmosphere over starched tablecloths and silver service. More importantly, Barrafina recalibrated the British idea of Spanish food, retiring the beige trinity of mayo-drenched bravas, rubbery calamari, and garlic prawns in favour of dishes lesser-known.
The tortilla has remained on the menu for good reason. Cooked in a dinky 12cm blini pan, it is the ideal size to share between two, with a custard-soft centre flavoured by caramelised alliums and a gently crisp, salt-flecked top. You may baulk at the recipe’s use of ready-salted crisps in place of potatoes, but this is essential. As Barrafina’s executive chef, Francisco Jose Torrico (AKA Paco), explains, a high-quality crisp filling ensures consistency and eliminates the risk of undercooked, unevenly sliced lumps of spud. Any other advice? “The quality of ingredients matters the most,” he insists. “Splurge on good olive oil, eggs and, yes, crisps.”
