The Mango Lassie

As many of you know, I spent a summer in Spain in high school, traveling with some good friends who were on a sabbatical and taking care of their kids. My love of regional Spanish cuisine definitely began during that summer as we moved from Barcelona to Menorca to the Pyrenees, Asturias and the Basque Country. But it wasn’t until I returned to Madrid as a student during my sophomore year of college that started my simultaneous study of Spanish food. I took a cooking class in the home of a wealthy Spanish woman whose father had been high up in the Franco regime and who had learned to cook from the Spanish dictator’s own chef. In hands-on sessions, my classmates and I learned to make three kinds of gazpacho, pollo al ajillo, paella mixta, fabada asturiana, pisto manchego and much more. We also learned to make classic tapas like tortilla española, patatas a la brava, ensaladilla rusa and champiñones al ajillo. Everything we made in our teacher’s kitchen was delicious. But what I didn’t realize was how difficult it would be to recreate those flavors back home in the U.S. Like the baguettes of Paris, the ingredients of Spain— the tomatoes, the olive oil, the cured meats— have a unique flavor that comes from the way they are grown, produced and packaged.

I have not been back to Spain since then, but I dream of being there. And I am always looking for a quick way back to those flavors. Because I’ve built up these expectations, tapas restaurants tend to be disappointing. That’s what I found at most of the so-called Spanish restaurants in Chicago. But everyone always asked me if I had tried Cafe Iberico, saying it was the best of the bunch. Finally, last week, I decided to give it a try. Empanada Boy went with our friends Matzah Man and Cilantrix— both Iberico fans— and our mutual friends Red Delicious and the Earl of Sandwich. Entering the restaurant was like entering a raucous sporting event in full swing. The cacophony— voices of patrons trying to communicate and the clatter as servers cleared (and more than once dropped) the hundreds of small plates— bounced right off the hard marble floor. It was hard enough to talk to my friends next to me, let alone order any tapas. I ordered a bottle of albariño and left the food ordering up to Matzah Man and Cilantrix. We ordered the champiñones a la plancha (shown above), which were satisfying, cooked in garlic and olive oil. We also tasted the pulpo a la plancha: grilled octopus, cut into pieces and served with a mound of greasy, soggy fries. A better dish was the calamares a la plancha (shown here), grilled squid bathed in garlic, lemon juice and a little too much olive oil.

The goat cheese, which came sitting in a pool of flavorful tomato sauce to be spread on bread layered with garlic-parsley oil, was boring and seemed Americanized. (Oh how I longed for the pan con tomate of Barcelona!) Mejillones a la marinera were fine, but similar to the run-of-the-mill variety offered at so many bistros.

It was the Earl of Sandwich’s birthday, so we ordered him a trio of flans. Each was a different flavor, but the all tasted like the raspberry syrup that was poured over them. A more sensitive saucing to highlight, instead of mask, the individual flavors, would have yielded better results. We also tried this bread pudding, which was good but tasted more like a dense, rich cake.

All things considered, I thought the food at Cafe Iberico was better than Emilio’s Tapas and Café Ba Ba Reeba, two other Spanish places in Chicago that I’ve tried. It also did a better job than many of the higher end small plates places of portraying tapas as they are meant to be: small and inexpensive accompaniments to drinks. That said, the food wasn’t amazing. Even when some good ingredients were used, they were often combined with too much not-very-flavorful olive oil or another overly greasy accompaniment. There was little of the freshness and vibrancy that I associate with Spanish ingredients. Once again, the tomatoes, olive oil and proteins lacked that distinctive Spanish flavor that would have really satisfied me. Granted, there were many dishes on the lengthy menu I didn’t try. But after leaving with my ears still ringing from the noise, I realized it was unlikely that I’d be back to order more.

Cafe Iberico
739 N. La Salle Dr.
Chicago, IL 60610
312.573.1510