Tapas and Spanish Wine: An Appreciation

At times such as these, I wish for the ability to type an upside-down exclamation point. Let me suggest to future keyboard creators "Shift+forward-slash." The symbol there now is a vertical line broken in the middle. Here it is: Apparently, it doesn't even show up as it's illustrated on the key itself. Whether broken or un-, do we need this mark? Perhaps I'm naive of the stupendous usefulness of the Broken Vertical Line in subjects outside my narrow interests... maybe, when used in conjunction with some typed-in formula in Microsoft Excel, the B.V.L. magically does your taxes, performs a sonnet, and stirs your child's hot oatmeal until perfectly lukewarm. I don't know. All I'm saying is that the inclusion of an upside-down exclamation point in future keyboards would help me best describe my experience at a certain tapas restaurant in Brookline, Massachusetts, because it was freaking incredible.

Taberna de Haro, at 999 Beacon Street, is a cozy corner restaurant right off the "C" line in front of the St. Mary stop. Saint Mary is right--step inside the glow of mini-hanging lanterns and the open kitchen's blazing pans, aflame with a lucky patron's small dish of choice, and you'll soon be thanking both Him and the mother of His son.

Not that I'm all that religious. But chef/owner/sommelier Deborah is, only her Holy Trinity is the red and white grapes, and fortified Sherries, of Spanish soil. Ask to speak with her, and she'll work with your tastes (and wallet) to find the best bottle of wine for the occasion, explaining to you where it comes from, some history of the vineyard, even replace a popular misconception with the tannin-laced truth. Hers is a bouquet of almonds, cinnamon and rosemary. She may even compliment your lady-friend companion's shirt, and she'll mean it.

So as I don't go all gooey and romantical much more than I already have, I'll simply list and describe the food my companion and I ordered and shared on our recent visit to this highly recommended taberna. My only complaint was that we couldn't taste the dozens of other equally-intriguing dishes on the menu (nor could I understand many of the names in Spanish, as my French language skills only rarely proved helpful, but my lady-friend companion translated, to me, and ordered, to our server, much to her delight).

First, a rather large wedge of potato, tall on the plate and presented almost like a slice of pie. It was soft and near-fluffy, with a sturdiness to the filling that belied its light taste. Hard to describe, and not nearly as dull as this description makes it sounds--if only I remembered the Spanish name. But it went incredibly well with the...

...Fried Bechamel and Ham. Yes, that's right--the rich 'n creamy bechamel sauce of French cuisine, one of the four 'Mother' sauces, basically a thick concoction of milk stirred into flour and butter, was somehow confined into a ball the size of a round kiwi, studded with hunks of jamon (ham), and fried. Slice it down the middle, and your knife will resist the crispy fried surface, before breaking through smoothly and unimpeded, burdened only by the errant bit of salty meat. Cut into quarters, top with a slice of aforementioned potato pie-dish, put in your mouth, and savor.

Then came the Piquillos, the Roasted Red Peppers filled with brandade, a salt-infused cod mash. Though filthy-sounding, I assure you, a smashed up mush of fish and salt stuffed into a pepper and lightly fried is a lovely thing. I was expecting something else, in fact: the same ingredients, yes, but not fried and instead in a pool of deep red sauce, tangy and pungent. That was the Piquillos of my time in the Basque region of France, close to the border with Spain, when prepared by my host family's grandmother. This, while different, was still good, though not benefitting from my preconceived, and altogether tastier, expectation.

Perhaps our favorite dish was also the simplest: a clay bowl of artichoke hearts, in olive oil, prepared as I imagine all fresh vibrant vegetables should be, that is to say very minimally. Not a whole lot was done to these edible pits, the strange contradictory core to this hard, thick-leafed veggie with the unfortunate name of some violent beatnik. And not a lot needed to be done. Take that slice of bread from the table basket and soak up the oily leavings on your plate, the better to optimize all available flavor. And when the final plate comes...

...the selection of five cheeses, nick a small hunk from the milder of them, place it on your bread, top it with a section of artichoke heart, and enjoy the commingling of strong and subtle, wet and dry, soft and solid. Just be wary of the rectangle of deep orange in the middle of the orbiting cheeses. Though you might be wrong, you suspect it's a slice of preserved quince, a fruit often made into jams due to its high pectin content, though with a tart flavor often unpopular with Americans (thank you, 'Food Lover's Companion). It won't be the flavor that will make your lady-friend companion wince: she'll use the word "slime" to describe the texture, and though you'll tease her for her finickiness, you'll see her point, and eat the rest of the cheese without aid of the mysterious shiny centerpiece.

But what an unrepresentative detail to end on! The overall experience was "a delight," pronounced emphatically and with dropped jaw. I yearn to pick mine back up off the floor and take it directly to Taberna de Haro, where the talented cooks will fill it with Spanish goodness. And I hear the sangria ain't half-bad, either.