Friday Madrid... Midnight Repast

When I walked in the door the men at the entrance to the dining room turned with prepared expressions that dissolved as they recognized my face. I stepped down from the entrance and they put their arms on my shoulders smiling and told me my friends were sitting in the back. Three tables had been put together--a decent banquet board for the small restaurant on Cava Alta which seems to remain invisible to all but a few discerning denizens--and two open bottles were just being set down among wide crystal bowls on slender stems.


Cam, Alex and the rest looked up and smiled. Cam stood, introduced me to the two men and one woman I didn't already know at the table and I took a seat across from her next to Alex. They poured my glass and conversations resumed, ladies' and gentlemen's. I told the girls about my previous weekend in the mountains and we talked about Spanish regions and their respective merits as the maître d placed herbed cheese and sweet nectar toasts on the tables to start our appetites. By this time it was 11:30 and I'm sure no start was needed. But at Cosas del Toni, no step is skipped. I really came only for the wine and conversation, and had eaten my dinner before so I passed my aperitivo on. Then Toni came out. I'd been to the place in the past, and had always been impressed by the treatment I received. There's no doubt it came from being with Cam, my friend who seems to be everyone's friend and every restauranteur's favorite patron. Once I walked in after the sign had been turned late one Sunday to say hello and have a glass with Cam. The cook warmly said hello and disappeared into the kitchen. A few minutes later he reemerged with a vegetable and cheese omelet for me in case I was a bit hungry. Another time I'd complemented his cooking and he thanked me with thirty cod croquettes. These were not irregular occurrences, and Cam had told me stories of the affable patron joining his table and magnanimously donning his parties with his festive air and culinary talents. So when I finally saw the man himself, I was a bit starstruck.

The large guy with white pony tail and matching beard came over wearing his black and red chef's coat and shook all our hands with benevolent force. He asked Cam what was wanted and he said two kilos of meat. I almost choked. Toni mentioned salad and Cam approved. For three guys, two girls, and my non-eating self. Well, at least it meant more wine would be coming. I filled another glass. Conversation resumed and pretty soon two wide plates were put down covered in mixed salad greens and ripe red tomato slices, oiled and vinegared with sea salt and fresh pepper and drizzled with a melted cheese rue. Here I forgot all about my abstinence and indulged myself on fleshy, acidic, fresh soft tomatoes with the salt still crunchy. The crisp greens were dark and herbaceous, but the dressing brought up a level. Aromatic and slightly sharp warmed white cheese draped across the leaves and fruit and wrapped around my fork smoothly in those first few bites and the creamy, slightly bready texture of the rue coated my mouth perfectly with the oil. I couldn't have been happier that my end of the table aimed to save room for the meat.

The salad cooled but remained out for picking while the smaller but much heavier pair of plates came out bearing thick strips of tender, seared beef. This was what Cam had always talked about regarding Toni's.   The guys at the other end dove in with ready forks and the girls carefully portioned out a slice or two to start while I looked on over the rim of my glass. I took a sip and when I looked a second time, one of the pieces had been cut and I saw just how red the center of the meat was. I had to try and when I did I was glad. Juicy, warm, tender, rich in texture and secreting flavor with each fresh bite. No sauces, creams, or spicy rubs. This was a celebration of quality ingredients and the love of preparing them. The texture of the meat went perfectly with the tannins in the wine, and both flavors spoke of earth and air and blood.

Then the man came out again. He stood at my end of the table and asked how things were. The response was obvious. He looked down and saw me drinking and asked if I liked the wine. The response was obvious. Then I asked him about his favorites. He paused. At the moment, he said, he thought the best bottles were coming from the Priorat. I couldn't agree more, I said. He put up a finger and withdrew, returning a moment later brandishing three bottles of what he claimed to be some of the most exquisite wines he'd purchased recently. They looked lovely, but that was all. Unfortunately he wasn't in the mood or position or whatever to break into them. Then he explained that they were upwards of fifty euros each and one of them was discontinued. I forgave the man. He sat and we talked about the different wines in Spain and their application. Somehow we drifted into olive oil. He left again, only to come back with a gorgeous tin and two separate bottles. The tin was, like the wine, an object for adoration, whereas the other bottles were to be tried. He had a man bring some warm fresh bread and small dishes and he poured shallow pools of clear, almost luminous golden-green viscosity into which we dipped and over which we pored. We disagreed on the topic of preference and explained why and for that respect was built upon.

Meanwhile the feast had been continuing and meat was reheated and salads all but vanished. Finally the last was taken away and Toni rose gravely to see to the transition into digestive measures. Coffee was suggested and orders taken. Then the man disappeared again, this time returning with three square glass bottles stopped with corks and without labels. One bright yellow, one pale brown and opaque, and the third clear and steeped with some sprigs of green herb. Licor de hierbas, sweet almost syrupy was the first. It was one of the first drinks I'd had in Spain the first time I came years ago. Now I find it cloying, though nice in a very small measure. Crema de orujo is also sweet and creamy and is flavored somewhere around hazelnut and coffee, by which I find it a lovely dessert. But my favorite of Spain's three main digestivos is Aguardiente de orujo, the clear, colorless liquid with an aroma that wilts flowers and a potency to frighten any self-preserving creature away for life. It has the perfect level of refreshing distillate flavor that invigorates the senses and burns clear through any amount of food awaiting digestion. These too we discussed as the was brought out to fill the room with its smell. The crema was beautifully pale and after lifting my shot and engulfing my senses with espresso, I looked to Toni contemplating his cup and told him how wonderful the coffee was. Not burnt or stale or overdrawn or bitter as with so many other Spanish espresso shots. This was right on target. He told me about his brand new machine and the wonderful beans he got. We finished our cups and all sat talking loudly as the dining room had been emptied for some time and the staff had come out to stand, sit, talk, and slowly wrap up for the night. Somewhere just before two we stood giving and receiving hearty handshakes from from all the men who'd attended to our meal. Smilingly they thanked us and invited us back anytime. Toni and I embraced, exchanging thanks and well-wishes. I said I would come back and he gestured that it went without saying. Nothing less would be accepted. I walked out into the cool night air  feeling like I'd had one of the best times there was to be had that Friday night in middle autumn Madrid.