Melós

A slow-cooked main course, deep and unshowy, turned out to be the truest thing Melós told me all evening, though the first ten minutes had already set the terms. A greeting with no script to it, coats handled, water on the table before we asked, menus left with us rather than recited at us. The pace is unhurried and the cooking keeps the same temperament: capable, honest, a notch above merely fine, and sensibly priced for this stretch of the Eixample. I kept waiting for the plate that would rattle me. It never arrived. What arrived instead was steadiness, which I have learned to value more each year, even if it will not dominate anyone's memories of Barcelona. I can see myself back regularly, whenever I want to be fed properly and otherwise left in peace.