Bar Canyí

Elbows on the bar, vermut half drunk, and a clear view of the plancha, which is where this kitchen makes its argument. No wizardry back there: a cook who turns things at the right second and salts as if he's paying for it himself, which at this level is what skill actually means. Tapas land in sensible order, hot things hot, cold things dressed at the last minute instead of an hour ahead. None of it will detain the memory for long, and I doubt anyone in the kitchen minds. It's a neighbourhood default, the address you half keep to yourself out of mild selfishness, shut Sundays and Mondays and better for not courting anyone's approval. Every so often I drift in expecting little and drift out rather pleased. That will do.