Quique Dacosta's restaurant in Denia
I write about restaurants. I write about eating, drinking and living - which is, after all, the same thing - so I am rather too often confronted with the obligatory little question "Why do you like restaurants so much?"
And I like them, damn it. I like restaurants as I like to live and I like to scratch minutes at the hand of the clock of the unexpected, like those kisses that don't belong to you. I like -I need- the tingling of doubt and the butterflies clapping to the sound of the cramp of the now, like the ones on that road that took us to Cala Montjoi . I like -they move me- the mushrooms of the blue swan , Joaquín's gin and tonics at the Dickens and endless afternoons in the magical after-dinner conversation with Quique Dacosta .
I like the markets and the smells, the Pinotxo sandwiches at La Boquería and the bravas at Raussell. I like -I love- the serenity of Pitu Roca, the croissants of Le Pain and every corner of Lo Viejo in San Sebastián, from the gastrotapas at A Fuego Negro to the pintxos at Txepetxa. I love the Monvínic cheeses, the Mugaritz flowers and the embarrassment of what was said with three too many drinks.
Here we will talk about everything. Of the sublime and the mundane, of thread and wood. They will be -I hope- pages where, away from the spotlight and nonsense, there will only be space in the arena of the gastronomic ring for the honest matador: the cook -winemaker, sommelier, bartender, who cares- whose only trophy is the happy diner, the loyal customer. The good table.
Where one can relax, those restaurants where crossing the threshold of the door means entering a more civilized, more authentic and, ultimately, better world. We'll talk about those eating houses -what a nice word, food house- where coverage forgets the mobile phone and the fury of everyday life is nicely sublimated by the smile of the waiter and the ceremony of the service. Where you can breathe respect, calm and unhurried after-meal conversations until that magical hour of mid-afternoon, when the women are prettier, the jokes more witty and the crisis a memory of tomorrow.
The eating houses where we fall in love, where we meet new friends and forget several unforgettable girlfriends. Where, after a couple of drinks, the capote is left and the crutch is taken, where time passes slowly and lovers still whisper nonsense in each other's ears. Where it is easy to believe - to believe again - in gastronomy as a civilization: as leisure, as culture, as a philosophy of life.
In short, fine dining, because "To be happy is to hide in the last corner of the world" as Cortázar said. And that last corner is none other than the table of your favorite restaurant.
How not to love them?
* Jesús Terrés writes about wines, lifestyles and gastronomy in Condé Nast Traveler and Vanity Fair. You can find him at GQ on the Nada Importa blog and on his controversial Twitter @nadaimporta. He likes to talk about bars, good men and fatal women. And he loves good food almost as much as good wines, watches, pooches and The Godfather.