Taberna Kamikaze

Refusing the carte was my first sound decision of the evening; the full tasting is the right call here, and the kitchen has earned the trust it asks for. I had crossed half the Esquerra expecting the woolly fusion Barcelona turns out by the dozen, and braced myself accordingly. Wrong. The Mediterranean larder submits to Japanese technique with real discipline: cuts made cleanly, fire applied briefly and with purpose, seasoning that understands where the line lies. Nothing stiffens, nothing postures. Take the counter if offered; the brigade works with a calm that is itself worth watching. Judge the plates rather than the chatter surrounding the address, and the plates win. Most months find me back there, an allegiance I grant almost nowhere, and repetition has only sharpened my esteem.