“Spanish” is one of those words overused by morons when they actually mean to say “Hispanic”. It pisses me off. It’s like calling an American “English” because that’s the language they speak. English people are English, Spanish people are Spanish. This is a Spanish restaurant.
This restaurant is, wait for it, hidden in a fucking corner in Midtown right next to a Papa Johns and an old hooker. My girlfriend and I went on a little double date with some friends during one of those typical Miami monsoon summer evenings. Sometimes in Miami it rains like if we pissed off a god by aborting its messiah fetus. It’s so violent. You see unfortunate motherfuckers walking down the sidewalks trying to stay dry, then a gust of wind comically does that thing to their umbrella where it flips inside out and they frantically try to fix it as rain begins to melt their face. Then a car rides too close to the curb and splashes them with water. Then they commit suicide.
It’s like calling an American “English” because that’s the language they speak.
I counted something like seven tables. I can only think of maybe three things smaller than this restaurant: an average fraternity house’s linen closet, MC Hammer’s current career, and a box of puppies. Along the walls they’ve got a bunch of imported shit from Spain you can buy. If you’re a fan of 150 mL bottles of apple juice for $5, that’s where you can buy them. There are olives, peaches in water, turron (which is great), wines, and a bunch of other crap.
My friend told me, “We need to order $200 worth of food because we have a coupon that if we spend $200, we get $100 off.” With four normal human beings that’s an easy challenge to accomplish, but my girlfriend has a stomach the size of an old Jewish lady’s coin purse, and his girlfriend isn’t renowned for her food consumption abilities either so we knew this would take a valiant effort. We started ordering a variety of tapas. Meat and cheese plates, every croqueta in the house, chorizo plates, octopus, paella, wines, olives, oysters, escargot, and other shit. The spinach croquetas were dynamite. It’s as if spinach suddenly decided not to taste like an overcooked goat’s asshole which costs $20. If that goat ass were free it might taste a little better. The escargot was surprisingly decent, and I say that because I’ve had some curse-worthy snail in my day.
…my girlfriend has a stomach the size of an old Jewish lady’s coin purse…
At the end of it all, we’re up to like $150 and we were full. But we got lucky, because remember all that shit I told you was littering the walls? Well, we stocked up on expensive imported shit from España and helped their economy go from deplorable to deplorable+. I got two bottles of apple juice and a box of turron for $20 and my buddy got some jars of olives and a couple of other things I can’t remember for $30. I felt less awful about spending $10 on two Juicy Juice equivalent bottles of apple juice but then remembered the coupon made it so I spent $5, so I only got slightly ripped off.
The size of the place notwithstanding, this place is great. The food is legit, and even though my feces contained bits of fat in it the next day and smelled like the armpit of an 18th century Spanish slave trader, I will be going back. We didn’t get to try the bacalao croquetas, and I like saying the word bacalao.