Bellafilla

Garlic hitting hot oil, and under it good stock: you smell this kitchen before you have properly sat down, and in the Gòtic that alone is news. At the next table two women from the barrio argued, kindly, about whether the old Bodega La Palma would approve of its young venture in the rooms Pla left behind; by the second course they had decided it would. So have I. Bellafila cooks like it plans to stay, turning its back on the wallpaper paella that keeps this postcode fed and fooled. Come at midday for the set lunch, when they charge you like a neighbour; evenings drift towards tourist arithmetic. They shut Sunday and Monday, so think ahead. Twice a year, corner table, regulars in earshot: that suits me perfectly.