travelswithalice

One of our most pleasurable restaurant experiences in Andalusia is La Fragua in Cordoba.

It’s a lovely courtyard setting peeking out invitingly through a narrow whitewashed alley. Ivy spills out from under the eaves onto a wrought iron balcony. Little green hanging pots line the alley walls that lead to the half-hidden door.
This bar and restaurant is in a 16^th century structure but a smart blend of minimalist and rustic decor manages to convey an edgy cosmopolitan feel.

The food is very good traditional fare served with panache by a staff of delightful young urban types.

Despite our intrepid traveler pretensions, there are times when our nerve fails us. Like in a suburban market in Seville, where we find the perfect little outdoor restaurant in the wet market- right beside the butchers and the fish vendors.

It's not much more than a canteen; as local as anything can get. No tourist in sight. Except us- unmistakable with cameras and guidebooks and stuff. We've been waiting for this opportunity since we arrived in Spain. This is our chance to mingle with the natives. To sample authentic local cuisine. To try out our ordering skills without the aid of an English menu.

Every table is taken. All eyes are on us. We walk up to the counter mumbling to ourselves the phrases we have carefully learned for just this occasion. The man at the counter awaits our order. Expectantly? Impatiently? We're not sure. And then, panic stations: all the oft-rehearsed Spanish completely erased from our brains. We turn around and walk away, suddenly unsure if we are welcome here.

We take a taxi back towards Barrio Santa Cruz to La Bodeguita d' Santa Justa, a bustling family-run restaurant we discovered the day before.

We are warmly welcomed back and shown to a table surrounded by a happy mixture of locals and tourists. We decline the proffered English menu and proceed to order in Spanish, even managing to discuss slight changes to a seafood dish.

Sometimes, coming back to a tried and tested environment is best. Happy and content, we sip our wine and listen to the lively conversations that fill the packed house. We look forward to another delicious meal.


We consider ourselves able to weed out the tourist traps from our restaurant choices even in places we had never been before. Every now and then we fail miserably.

As in Seville. After hours of careful search we settle on a likely place at the edge of a park, cheerful tables set under lovely trees.

Not a wise choice. Restaurante La Cueva is a sad, sad place.

The waiter opens the bottle and pours the wine. It's white; we ordered red. In an eloquent mix of Spanglish and face and hand gestures, he berates us for not noticing that the bottle he had brought to our table is indeed the wrong color. He storms out to fetch another bottle.

It's all downhill from here. The food is several grades below indifferent, service is surly at best.

Lesson learned, rather late in life:
If service is bad at the start of a meal, get up and walk away.,