If you want to go to the best restaurant in the world — at least, according to Restaurant magazine — you need to hop on a plane and fly to Spain.
The restaurant is El Celler de Can Roca, located in Catalonia. It was started by two brothers in the 1980s, who were then joined by a third brother in 1997, with each brother being responsible for one facet of the restaurant’s operation. (Guess UJ and I need to get started on our “best in the world” business concept!) El Celler de Can Roca is celebrated for the pervasive family dynamic in the restaurant, its understated but passionate ambiance, and the creativity and technical innovation of the food.
Five American restaurants make the top 50 list: Eleven Madison Park and Per Se, both in New York City, Alinea, in Chicago, Le Bernardin and Daniel, in New York City, and The French Laundry, in Yountville, California, in the Napa Valley.
How do you really decide the best restaurant in the world? Restaurant magazine actually publishes a “manifesto” on the topic — which indicates that the best dining experience is decided by the gut instinct (pun intended) of the gourmets who did the voting, rather than in a dry set of factors to be considered. I agree with that approach. When I go to a restaurant to have a fine meal, I’m not weighing checklist items, I’m looking for a wonderful and memorable experience. It sounds like El Celler de Can Roca delivers.
Jerry Springer?!? You know, the show that should make any American feel deep pangs of embarrassment and concern about the future of our country? The show that allows Springer to question guests about “topics” of evident national concern, like a young woman from some obscure town who’s stepping out on her boyfriend with another guy. Every show seems to involve at least one point at which angry shirtless reprobates try to duke it out, or catty, gum-snapping women with mile-high hair and inch-thick makeup start a slap fight. Guys wearing cheap “Security” shirts struggle to stop the mayhem, chaos reins, and the audience of voyeurs hoots with glee at the humiliating fracas.
It wasn’t difficult to reach that conclusion. He would hang around our table, clearly eavesdropping on our conversation, and then offer his extended and thoroughly unwelcome comments about whatever we were discussing — be it music, or weddings, or whether the restaurant in question would be a good place for a first date. After the third or fourth such incident, I felt like checking under the table or looking behind nearby chairs to confirm that the waiter wasn’t lurking nearby, ready to spring up and offer another lame joke or awkward self-reference.
The name probably tells you everything you need to know about the place. It was the era of the Yuppie. Bootsie, Winky & Miss Maud was targeted to appeal to just about anyone, so long as they had two X chromosomes and were over the age of 30. It was the kind of place where you would take your Mom and your maiden aunt during their visit to the Nation’s Capital. Over the tastefully decorated tables, small talk was made, happy chit-chat and talking with hands was everywhere apparent, and polite laughter rang out. As I recall it, the menu included delicate salads, delicate quiches, delicate sandwiches cut into quarters, and light desserts. I think every dish — even desserts — featured asparagus.
The reason? Noise. Lots of noise. Ridiculous amounts of noise. Ringing, echoing peals of laughter from the people a few tables away. People standing next to our table talking loudly to each other. People everywhere talking louder and louder to try to make themselves heard, in an ever-escalating spiral of bedlam. So much noise that Kish and I had a hard time hearing each other. So much noise that the waitress apologized for how noisy it was.
The Wrestling Fan and I were up in that area so he could run an errand, and we decided to stop to see what the Goody Boy had to offer. On the inside there’s a bar and a large, open seating area with the kinds of ’50s signage you’d expect from a diner. I had a cheeseburger and fries, pictured above; the Fan had the fish sandwich special. The cheeseburger was a half-pound of beefy, cheesy goodness, and the fries were hand-cut and well seasoned. The Fan didn’t comment on his fish sandwich, which was huge — but that probably was because he was too busy gobbling it down to mutter any words of praise.
The Clarmont was one of the anchors on High Street in German Village. From its dated, Jetsons-like sign, to its highball drinks and traditional steak and seafood menu items, the Clarmont screamed “old school.” That was one of the charms of the place, and made the Clarmont a restaurant landmark. It was a place to have a drink after work or, for some people, to have a “power breakfast.” I recall going there for lunch a few times, but I haven’t been there in years. Perhaps the clientele that appreciates old school restaurants has just dwindled to the point where the restaurant was no longer profitable.
