Wined, dined and rested.

This is just a really quick post that I’ve meant to write for a couple of years, ever since friends took me to a place where they insisted I order a portion of tortilla. In my head I went straight into my “Oh for goodness’ sake, why do they bang on about a bit of egg and some undercooked onion and potato, all entirely without flavour, isn’t there a nice dish with lots of chile……” routine, but I am fond of my friends and would never say such a thing out loud.

So we went there. To this place. To this place where I was made to eat Spanish omelette, poor old me.

And where is the place, I hear you ask? Well, I’m not sure that I’m going to tell you. Because OH. I mean OH OH OH. Do I really want to make it even more famous than it is already in its home town?

Where do I begin to describe how amazing the Spanish omelette at this place actually is? OK, it’s still egg with potato and onion, but they do SOMETHING to it. Expeliamus? Tortillacadabra?

It is the perfect temperature for a start. Not tepid or cold like a large slug.

It is crispy on the outside, not heavily squidgy like a cadaver.

It is just the right texture of gooey on the inside. It has FLAVOUR. The potato is soft but not waterlogged. The onion is a flavour not a great strip of raw vegetable.

And it’s served with just the right degree of rather rushed businesslike normality that you find in all the best Spanish tapas bars, as if they were just serving something ordinary, like a piece of bread or a cup of coffee. Oh yes, and it usually involves the waiter behind the bar shouting something to one of his colleagues further down the bar (never with any useful purpose, as far as I can make out with my fluent understanding of Spanish waiter-ese).

Sigh. I am going to have to mention where this is, aren’t I…… Well, it’s in one of my favourite Spanish cities, Zaragoza. I’ve described some of Zaragoza’s foodie credentials before – but just in terms of the hitherto humble tortilla alone, listen: this is a city that has an institution called “La Liga de la Tortilla” with an annual competition to discover the best tortilla in the city. Respect

And my favourite tortilla place? It’s a tiny café called “El Circo”, in calle Blancas, a back street of Zaragoza, a short walk from one of the main tram stops in the Plaza de España. It has no special décor – the three melamine tables look as if they were bought in the 1950s, the zinc-covered bar that runs down one side of the interior has a selection of unpretentious tapas behind a glass cover, and the scuffed floor is covered in scrumpled paper napkins and abandoned tooth picks.

And it is packed. It is packed within 20 minutes of opening, with local office workers, with students, with grandmas and street sweepers and university professors and secretaries….. and me. And because this is Spain it gets very loud very quickly – perhaps this is why the barmen shout incomprehensibly to each other behind the bar.

So that’s it. I launch this vital piece of Zaragoza knowledge onto the internet out of the goodness of my heart, though it pains me to share it. If you go there, mention me please – maybe they’ll let me have a slightly larger slice next time I go?