Eating at ‘The Heaven of Medinaceli'

Its strategic location, along the invaluable artery that connects Madrid with Aragon, Barcelona, and France, often means that travelers stop for a coffee and stretch their legs before continuing on their journey, or, on the contrary, they do so on their way home to eat, refuel, and face the 150 kilometers that still separate them from Madrid with renewed energy.

Medinaceli, a city well known to this globetrotter, who, despite having studied it extensively, never ceases to fascinate and, most importantly, surprise him.

But on this occasion, far from being influenced by its monumental picturesqueness or its legendary mysteries—among which are two enigmatic landmarks in the history of Spain, the whereabouts of the mythical Solomon's Table and the tomb of Almanzor, that extraordinary leader who was considered "the scourge of God" in those apocalyptic times around the dreaded Year 1000—the traveler, leaving behind the small memorial plaque commemorating the cursed American poet Ezra Pound "that the roosters still crow in Medinaceli," allows himself to be carried away by the seduction of the old alleys until he finds a place where he can satisfy his stomach's impetuous growls of protest.

And he finds it, near the strange, ghostly, and semi-ruined convent of Saint Roman, which, due to its unusual appearance, is said to have been an old synagogue, and the solitary medieval icehouse, although far, at least in the traveler's mind, from those other traditional establishments that still remain faithful to roast lamb, Castilian soup, and pickled trout.

The traveler, of course, has nothing against them, and having tasted their delicacies, feels no qualms about recommending them, but it so happens that, on this occasion, he feels compelled to try something new and knows, from hearsay, that here, at ‘The Heaven of Medinaceli', they have opted for something new: fantasy at the service of signature cuisine.

He positively knows that gastronomy, like travel, also pays homage to that mysterious Greek "Fatum," practiced by heroes like Ulysses and the Trojan Aeneas, which can be summed up simply in a genuine and redundant phrase: adventure is adventure. And both the traveler and his irrepressible stomach, although born immaculately innocent, were recruited early on for adventure by commanders like Homer, Kipling, Salgari, Verne, Cervantes, Machado, Bécquer, Villon, and Rabelais, whose invaluable instruction kept them sharp-eyed in the metaphorical barracks of the road.

The afternoon, although a storm threatens, is hot and the muggy atmosphere prompts the traveler to take advantage of the opportunity to satisfy his hunger and curiosity on the restaurant's terrace, where a gentle breeze, not entirely unpleasant, does to the napkins and tablecloth the same thing the New York subway grate does to Marilyn Monroe's famous white dress.

Cinematic eroticism aside, as daydreams are also a lifeblood, the traveler knows that signature cuisine, among other qualities, is characterized by an essential ritual in all marketing: presentation. So, even opting for a basic first course, such as a Russian salad—which they call "Russian heaven" there—the sight of it, encased in a crispy shell—similar, by the way, to the one imagined by the brilliant Botticelli for that singular work of beauty and symbolism, his "Birth of Venus"—seemed to give the dish a special flavor, possibly also due to the fresh, homemade mayonnaise lovingly made from old grandmother's recipes.

The second course, sandwiched between small spreads of a special sauce called "aperitivo sky," brought with it the flavor of Cantabrian hake, also crispy, battered with nacos (mashed potatoes), soy sauce, and honey with potatoes and guacamole, which enhanced the flavors, leaving the palate with dreams of heaven and earth.

Satisfied and with a good pot of coffee under his belt, the traveler headed for Madrid, while the strains of an old Willie Nelson classic anticipated more excitement to come: "On the road, again."

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