Three brothers and a souvenir too far
For a long time, I’ve wanted to go to Barcelona. One might say I’ve yearned. I wish I could say it didn’t disappoint. It’s not like I didn’t love the city – every lane, corner and balcony is a location manager’s or photographer’s dream. One balcony clearly acts as storage: old bikes, filing cabinets, fishing rods and broken chairs. Move a dwelling over and you’ll see a picture-perfect setting, with large monsteras aka cheese plants, elephant’s ears, ornate citrus trees and vines dropping down over the railings towards the streets. And of course, the ubiquitous array of clothes drying on their lines, showing this city is well lived-in. As you look up, you begin to see how dense the city is. Which reminds me of the abuela who was looking down at her plaça and caught our attention, or was it my daughter’s curly hair that caught hers? She waved, we waved back, she blew a kiss and blessed her. The old lady’s smile made my afternoon. I bet she would have a story or two.
The doors you pass by might be an old-world charm farmacia or a graffiti-clad roller door. I’m sure there’s a book about the doors of Barcelona and if not, there should be. Like in any other major city, walking around Barcelona you come across a huge number of mostly American franchises (a street next to the Sagrada Familia is a prime example of this) which begs the question: do we need the same shit everywhere? I think not.
Those who have been to Barcelona recently will know what I mean when I say I was put off by the ridiculous amount of souvenir shops, especially down Las Ramblas. Tacky crap after tacky crap. It’s a very hen’s and buck’s weekend vibe, a chance for local merchants to make easy money, but where does it stop? I walk past stunning and unique architecture and boom! I see a t-shirt in a shop that only a fuckwit would wear, whether inebriated or not. Seems to be a lot of this. History says that Las Ramblas once was a street performer’s mecca, the birthplace of human statues and other acts. I saw one angel but a lot of cocks. Something is wrong.
As I explored the city, I stumbled into Plaça de George Orwell. It got me thinking about what George’s observations would be today, and how would he compare the present day to the 1930s, looking at the city purely in terms of its great architecture, food and people. I’m not going into politics here, but would he agree with “tourist go home”? Hey, I’m not condoning locals spraying water on tourists, but I do think the city council should say, enough tacky shops. Let’s go back a few decades and leave it there. Should apartments be for locals only? Well, that’s a debate for another time.
You’re wondering about these three brothers, right? I’ll get there….
Walking around central Barcelona you find some great eats like an old empañadas bar, heladerias, drinks and tapas all with tourist prices, but as we wandered through El Raval to our apartment in Sant Antoni (as I said, a debate for another time), you are suddenly in local territory. Kids playing in the streets, balls being kicked and friends talking to each other across the street. For us it was also time to scan for a place to eat, looking for local and traditional, and the biggest tick at the moment: kid-friendly. Sometimes this is not as easy as one would think. I find that sometimes a place will say they are kid-friendly, but are they really? You sit there, and you see childless folk look at you. You’re hated. I’m not being that guy. But on the other hand, a restaurant that’s geared for families gives me anxiety. Oh yeah, let’s go out to hear some other kids say dad, dad, dad! At a certain age they all sound the same, that’s why I hate playgrounds.
So there it was: O’Toxo Tres Hermanos, in the heart of Raval. Everything looked right, and after a quick glance at the menu it made our shortlist. Having dropped the family off at our apartment, I decided to mosey on down to see if they had any tables, with an obligatory Estrella and holiday smoke stop on the way. Hey, I work hard and we all need a “smell the roses” moment from time to time. Well, in this case a “quench a thirst, people-watch and listen to the sounds of the street” moment. Table reserved.
Our table was right by the bar, the staff were friendly and switched to English with no problem – wish I could do the same with Spanish, maybe mañana. After we ordered beers and holiday cokes for the kids, we discussed what to eat. Looking around, O’Toxo is old school, traditional, with hard sturdy pine tables circa 1980s (you know the ones), but who cares. I’d be happy with a milk crate for a seat if it all works, and so far so good. The array of cured meats, fish, marinated olives and veg under the fridge on the bar which you can see from the street attracted a crowd of locals stopping for a beer and a chat. The kids were excited and looking forward to trying lots of little dishes: a bit of fish, chorizo, patatas bravas and meatballs. “Yay! I want meatballs!!”, boomed my daughter, she’s pretty loud and I think the chef jumped and promptly proceeded to prepare. We opted for the O’Toxo platter, which consisted of tortilla de patatas, chistorra (Navarre style chorizo), pescaditos fritos, patatas bravas, and buñuelos de bacalao, plus pimientos del padron and pan con tomate, and of course the meatballs.
Everything was delicious, especially the meatballs. I have never seen anyone enjoy a dish so much as my daughter with these meatballs, so we ate there three times in as many days just to see happy children, but also to enjoy the atmosphere of locals popping in after work, and the older couple having lunch and a bottle of wine on our last eat there, the lady being ready for her siesta as her husband had his espresso over ice. It pays to watch the locals eat – we followed suit and the iced espresso was the perfect drink in the Barcelona heat.
I’ve never eaten at the same place again while exploring a city, but it just beckoned us each day. O’Toxo is a total must for any local or weary traveller.
O'Toxo Tres Hermanos, Carrer del Carme, 59, 08001 Barcelona, Spain
Website: restauranteotoxo.com
Instagram: @otoxo3hermanos