Coure

Outside, Sant Gervasi keeps its composed quiet, which makes the low roar you walk into at Coure a small pleasure. The noise is the good sort, conversation rolling over the sounds of a kitchen doing things properly, and by the second seating it swells until the room feels like one long table. Nobody is performing. Sauces are reduced to where they should be, proteins cooked to the right point and then left alone, seasoning laid down with confidence rather than caution. This is a chef's restaurant in the plain sense of the phrase, substance ahead of styling, a reputation built slowly and still defended plate by plate. Every few months I take a corner table, let the din close over me, and remember why the city's classics became classics.