It is then that they will turn to their Spanish friends in the food world for suggestions. With the reluctance of someone revealing a secret, those friends will respond, more often than not, with the name of an unfancy tavern most tourists never visit: Asturianos. Asturianos is one of a handful of places where Madrid’s chefs and food writers, its wine vendors and restaurant owners go for “real” Spanish food. Most of these places hardly ever appear in English-language guidebooks. They are not places where anyone gets blown away by the latest theatrics of some hot young chef or, heaven forbid, has an “experience.” Rather, they are places where the atmosphere is convivial, the wine list is always good, and the food, simply prepared, is made with the finest ingredients. Here are four favorites.
Asturianos
Asturianos, situated on an unremarkable street of offices and overbright bars in a working-class part of Madrid, is the kind of place that jaded foodies fantasize about after studying one too many minimalist menus that identify dishes only by their top three ingredients and the farms that grew them. There are no such menus here. And there is no celebrity chef either, just Doña Julia, her graying hair caught up in a white cap. Nor are there complicated dishes involving fantastical combinations; instead the straightforward menu includes filling bean stews, long-braised meats and fish lightly roasted in cider. There is certainly no sharply designed dining room demanding attention. Still, regulars love the place all the more for its homeliness.
There are, however, fat sardines, lightly briny and swimming in concentric circles of tomato concassé and bright green olive oil. In season, there are boletus mushrooms, their deep musk complicated only with a bit of garlic and a quick sear. There are plump cockles, barely cooked to retain their full sweetness. A darkly rich bit of beef shank, braised to velvetiness, is served with nothing more than a few fried potatoes to absorb the delicious wine sauce. The fabada, that most typical of Asturian dishes, is exemplary here — the big white beans tender and vibrating with flavor from chorizo and blood sausage. And a luscious cheese flan makes converts of those otherwise bored with this most Spanish of desserts.
And then there is the family that runs the place. Doña Julia has been doing all the cooking herself — in a kitchen the size of a bathmat — since the death of her husband, who started the restaurant in 1966. Her sons, Belarmino and Alberto Fernández, run the front of the house, with Alberto holding down the jobs of both sommelier (working with a vineyard in Méntrida, he produces the house wine, Tres Patas) and all-around good guy. With his easy warmth and startling command of both the finer points of Spanish cuisine and popular American television series, he is one reason that meals here tend to push unusually late into the night, even by Spanish standards.
Sacha
Sacha is another family-run establishment dear to the hearts of Madrid’s food cognoscenti. In 1972, a couple — he Basque, she Gallegan — opened this restaurant in a neighborhood just north of the Santiago Bernabeu stadium. They named it after their son, Sacha Hormaechea, who, after attending culinary school in Catalonia, took over the restaurant, infusing his mother’s classic bistro-style menu with modern sparks that lead him, on occasion, to add such travesties to the classic canon as a guacamole salad.
On a warm night, there may be no more pleasant place to sit in Madrid than on Sacha’s leafy terrace. Service can be formal, but somehow that seems fitting for food that deserves to be taken seriously. Order from the right side of the menu was the advice I received from one restaurant critic, and once there, I quickly realized why: that list changes according to the seasons, yes, but also to the chef’s whims. Sacha is known for his way with powerful meats — his beef with bone marrow is legendary — but on a recent night he was in a lighter mood. Tiny mussels, no bigger than a child’s thumb, were the most delicious I had ever tried, their brininess infused with a little herbal spice from a sauce of stewed fennel.
Equally tiny and sweet baby squid came skewered and grilled, their oily ink the only accompaniment. A “false” lasagna of spider crab — the shreds of meat topped with a light béchamel and a single handkerchief of pasta — was creamily tender. And grilled scallops, served in the shell with their roe intact, were like little bonbons of the sea, thanks to a drizzle of butter.
Arzábal
The first Arzábal, all six tables of it, became so popular after its opening in 2009 on the far side of the Retiro Park, that its owners, Ivan Morales and Alvaro Castellanos, decided to expand by opening a second restaurant, bigger but otherwise alike in look and feel to the first, one building down from the original. In both, a wall of wine bottles, including those of the ironically named house wine, Terrible (it’s actually quite good), constitutes the primary design feature. Arzábal, in both its incarnations, is so cozily warm that the minimalist setting seems like mere backdrop to a scene of intense conviviality.
Meals start with a wooden tub of good butter (a rarity in Spain) brought to the table to be scooped out with tiny knives and spread across decent bread (ditto). There are two menus, one purportedly for the bar and the other for tables, but most diners ignore the distinction and order from both. A plate of croquetas, their crust light and crisp, their béchamel redolent with Ibérico ham, are among the city’s best, as is the salmorejo, the gazpacho-like emulsion made here from the ripest tomatoes.
This is not innovative food, just traditional tapas made modern by the quality of their ingredients and the light hand brought to their preparations. Many dishes are pushed toward extraordinary by the addition of a single, unexpected ingredient. A skillet of fried eggs, for example — the most basic of Madrid tapas — is made memorable by a shower of black truffle. The same goes for the amusingly named Self-Important Potatoes, a dish of simple fried spuds that get a boost—and a jolt of deliciousness — from the addition of tiny prawns. And roasted cod, which comes to the table with a golden gratinée, gets an infusion of serious earthiness from a black olive tapenade.
Laredo
The equally popular Laredo recently underwent its own expansion, moving this summer into a larger and more modern space (the old one was adorned with ship wheels) just up the street from the two Arzábals. The new design includes a sleek dining area, but the better part of the space is given over to the bar, which is a good thing considering the crowds who flock there nightly. Here, too, raw materials come first — a huge display case offers a peek at them as you move from bar to dining room. And here as well, the preparations are mostly simple, though the chef, David Laredo, gives more free rein to his imagination than others do. That does not mean liquid nitrogen and spherified squid ink; with the exception of some pizza croquetas that taste like a Spanish version of a Hot Pocket, his innovations are subtle.
Plump steamed clams get a hit of nuttiness from a sauce made from amontillado sherry, instead of the usual white wine. With the simple addition of grilled wild asparagus, cut into beads and showered, along with a good dose of Parmesan, a simple tomato salad becomes something memorable. The unlikely prawn and onion tempura comes in a crisp, translucent tangle, the best fried shrimp and onion rings you’ve ever had. Even the revuelto — the standby of scrambled eggs usually mixed with mushrooms or ham — turns exciting when it contains creamy sea urchins and tiny fava beans.
By Lisa Abend in "The New York Times" October, 14, 2012. Adapted and illustrated to be posted by Leopoldo Costa.
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