Piadina on the Pavement, Bologna

Eating piadina on the pavement in Bologna takes the number one spot because it was our first gastronomic venture in Emilia Romagna. It’s a simple concept – a filled flat bread which is like a cross between a wrap and a sandwich. As well as tasting great, the fillings are an introduction to some of the region’s cured meats (salami, mortadella, prosciutto) and cheeses (squacquerone, Parmigiano). Piadinas from La Piadeina on Via Calzolerie on the fringes of the Quadrilatero district cost around €6.

Mortadella and Tigelle, Bologna

Bologna’s Quadrilatero district is Valhalla for foodies, and just as lively as the mythical Norse Hall. Often, a good way to dive into a new food scene is to ask for whatever everyone else is eating. This approach was how we discovered francesinhas in Porto. Outside the Quadrilatero’s bustling bars, punters were picking at mountains of mortadella accompanied by bowls of creamy cheese (squacqerone) and baskets of warm, round bread cakes (tigelle). So, we copied them and re-discovered just how good mortadella is. A combination of the mortadella, squacquerone and tigelle comes in at under €20.

An aperitif in Parma

The first time we were presented with nibbles with our drinks was in Modena, but it’s the aperitifs in Parma that stick most in my memory. The popular place to go for an early evening drink is on Via Farini, but at the end of a long day pounding Parma’s lovely streets, we found ourselves outside Gran Caffé Cavour at the opposite end of Strada Cavour. Initially, I grumbled at the lack of snacks served with the craft beers we’d ordered. A few minutes later I was eating my words, and a whole lot more as a circular slate with nine substantial nibbles appeared.

Horse meat paninis, Parma

Raw horse meat is a thing in Parma. The perfect opportunity to try some arose when local food expert Sara shared a favourite panini joint of hers, Da Pepén. It’s a non-descript place we’d have otherwise walked past, especially given there was a queue of locals outside and the ordering process looked complicated. Basically, you make your way to the till, place your order, get a ticket, and wait until your pesto di cavallo crudo panini (€7) is freshly made. The done thing is to order a glass of malva (malvasia) to sip in the street outside while waiting. Incidentally, there are loads of other tasty paninis; it doesn’t have to be horse meat.

Eating in a deli, Parma

As well as being foodie treasure troves where locals do much of their food shopping, Parma’s delicatessens, called prosciuterrias and salumerias, are fascinating places to sample the best of Emilia Romagna’s produce. I don’t just mean asking for a taste before buying. Some, like Salumeria Garibaldi, have a handful of tables and chairs where you can sit in and enjoy a selection of goodies. We spent a significant chunk of an afternoon picking at platters of cured meats – prosciutto di Parma, salami feline, coppa di Parma – followed by buttery ravioli, all the while nosying at what the locals were buying. We also picked up a kilo of Parmigiano Reggiano (Parmesan cheese) to take home.

Gnocco Frito in Modena

Little fried golden pillows traditionally made from flour and lard regularly put in appearances on the dining tables of Emilia Romagna, irrespective of where you happen to be. In Parma they’re called torta fritta. Further east, they’re known as gnocco frito. I associate them most with Modena because that’s where I first saw them, on the entertaining and informative Netflix food and travel series Somebody Feed Phil, where host Phil Rosenthal dipped them in his morning coffee. You can just eat them on their own, they’re highly addictive, or cut them open and pop cheese and/or ham inside to make a mini sandwich.

Balsamic vinegar tasting in Albinelli Market

We usually have a bottle of balsamic vinegar in our kitchen cupboard. It is nothing like any of the balsamic vinegars we tried beneath the Art Nouveau arches of Modena’s Albinelli Market, an ideal venue for sampling a selection of Modena’s products, from sour cherry tarts to green lasagne. For a start, the balsamic vinegar we pick up at the supermarket is more than likely a condimento, a less intense version used in pasta dishes and on cheese. The real deal, Aceta Balsamico Tradizionale di Modena is thick, almost syrupy with a sweet and sour flavour, and can only be sold in 100ml bottles with a specific design. We tried various vinegars with a selection of tapas-like snacks (€7) and bought a condimento at €7, plus a bottle of the really good stuff for €45, a bargain when you learn some of the prices.

Cheese and wine in Reggio Emilia

Modena doesn’t attract as many tourists as Bologna or Parma. Its neighbour, Reggio Emilia attracts even fewer. Yet, in gastronomic and cultural terms, it can hold its own. It has its own version of balsamic vinegar, and Parmigiano Reggiano, which some locals claim is the best in the region as it is made using milk from vacche rosso, red cows. We got to try both at Antica Salumeria Giorgio Pancaldi, another one of those superb Italian gastro-shrines which are a fusion of deli and restaurant. Were they better? I couldn’t say, but they were just as good. A bonus was they were accompanied by a glass of spergola, a very drinkable sparkling wine that even the wine experts at my local Majestic had never heard of.

Coffee and tagliatelle with a difference, Reggio Emilia

One of the surprising things about gastronomy throughout Emilia Romagna was the number of times what we thought we knew about certain products/dishes was turned on its head. At atmospheric Pasticceria Boni we ate tagliatelle accompanied by a cup of coffee where neither were quite as they sound. The tagliatelle came in cake form, the tagliatelle bit being the cake’s crispy topping. The coffee wasn’t coffee at all but caffé d’orzo which looks like coffee but is made from barley. It’s drunk by Italians to keep their caffeine intake down and is far superior to the chicory-flavoured substitute that used to be popular in Britain.

Eating our own pasta, Bologna

The ultimate gastro experience in Emilia Romagna was eating pasta dishes we made ourselves. Under the guidance of a local cook, and with two other pasta-making novices from the US, we spent three hours learning how to make pasta dough from scratch and then turn that dough into tagliatelle, ravioli, and tortellini. The time whizzed past as everything we knew about making pastas and Bolognese sauce was dismissed and we learnt the proper way, the Italian way. It was entertaining, hugely informative, especially for people who are into cooking, delicious (thanks to the expert guidance), and very filling. Three pasta dishes are a lot to get through. Thankfully, there was plenty of wine to wash them down. It wasn’t cheap, around €120pp, but it was great value for money as it was one of the most enjoyable travel/food experiences we’ve had.

But then I could say that about many of our gastronomic experiences in Emilia Romagna; there is a very good reason why it’s known as Italy’s Food Valley.

Some cities can be standoffish at first, even slightly moody until you get into their groove. Others are like meeting an old friend you haven’t seen for a long time. Bologna falls into the latter. Despite the fact I have body, style, and looks envy the second I step into Via dell’ Independenza, pedestrianised for the weekend, I feel instantly relaxed, like I’m joining a party where everyone is invited. And that’s what Bologna on a Saturday afternoon feels like, a party. An electric buzz from the milling throng puts beams on our faces. Welcome to the pleasure drone.

There is an air of happy hedonism about the city as we set off toward Piazza Maggiore, the feeling aided and abetted by mermaid statues at the base of Fontana del Nettuno who direct jets of sparkling water from their breasts. It’s just after 2pm and we have a food tour arranged at 3.30pm. But we haven’t eaten since early morning, so some sustenance is essential. Where do you start in a city where food is like a religion?

The Quadrilatero, foodie heaven

In one way, the answer is easy in Bologna. Just aim for the Quadrilatero, a network of narrow streets and slim alleys adjacent to Piazza Maggiore where every establishment sells food to D-I-E for. When there is so much choice of delectable dishes, choosing just one is an impossible task. If I was in a musical, I’d start belting out ‘I want it all, and I want it now’ at this point. We dither our way past cool pavement cafes inhabited by beautiful people picking at mortadella mountains; salumerias decorated with hanging hams and towers consisting of chunky wedges of Parmigiano Reggiano; delicatessens displaying artistically painted boxes brimming with tortellini; a pescheria (fishmonger) outside which two men sit on stools tucking into freshly fried fish while a young couple wrap their mouths around beefy burgers bought directly from the butcher next door. It is overwhelming, in a mouth-watering way. I have never been in a place where there is such an obsession with food, and yet Bologna’s residents remain predominantly slim. Tellingly, I haven’t spotted any international junk food chains. There might be fast food outlets, but they serve top quality fare.

With time dwindling away, stomachs grumbling, and a food tour of the streets we are indecisively meandering through looming ever closer, we turn into Via Calzolerie to see the solution right in front of us, Piadineria la Piadeina. A filled Italian flatbread is prefect for plugging a hole for an hour. Some traditional street food is also a fitting immersion into Bologna’s food scene, the reason for our visit. I order a Nettuno Classiche consisting of mortadella and pecorino dei colli Bolognesi while Andy opts for a mozzarella and tomato cassoni, which is like the toastie version of a piadina. Like many of la Piadeina’s other patrons, we take our seats on the pavement outside and sate our hunger while simultaneously indulging in some serious head-swivelling, admiring fashions that range from the outrageous to the super stylish. It’s a veritable pavement fashion show and the piadina is the best I’ve eaten, not that I’ve eaten a lot. It hits the spot with a satisfying ‘ah.’ Andy gives me a taste of hers, and it is equally delicious, all warm gooey tomatoey cheese wrapped in crisp flatbread. Both are more substantial than we expected, so maybe not the smartest move when we’re about to embark on a food-tasting tour. We’ll just have to smile and swallow. Sacrifices must be made in the line of duty.

At 3.30pm, we meet our guide beside the Fontana del Nettuno. He takes us back into the streets we’ve just emerged from, adding detail, anecdotes, and context to the Quadrilatero’s colourful establishments and characters. We turn a corner, and he stops in front of a place he tells us sells some of the best street food in Bologna. It is Piadineria la Piadeina.

We say nothing, praying the owner doesn’t remember us. At least it confirms we have good judgement when it comes to sniffing out the best places to eat.

Tapas are a mainland Spanish way of eating when socialising, but it is also easy to find tapas in the Canary Islands, and tapas aimed at the palates of a local population more than a visiting one. I rarely met anyone who wasn’t Canario whenever I followed a ruta de tapa (tapas competitions organised within individual municipalities).

We’ve regularly eaten tapas on all of the islands. On some, finding good tapas is easier than on others. The level of quality, generally speaking, is related to the size of the Canario population. Many traditional bars have a small selection, as do a lot of traditional restaurants. But there are specialist restaurants as well. Occasionally, they’re not referred to as tapas bars or restaurants, throwing non-Spanish speakers off the tapas scent, like La Bodeguita de Enfrente on Tenerife, which called itself a picotea – somewhere to pick at small quantities of food.

But a rose by any other name and all that.

Many of the small dishes featured on menus are familiar to anyone who’s eaten tapas in Spain, but some are uniquely Canarian in origin. These ten tapas include a mix of both.

Papas arrugadas

Even visitors to the Canary Islands who never leave their all-inclusive hotels are familiar with papas arrugadas (wrinkled potatoes boiled in salted water till their skins shrivel and their left with a coating of salt) served with mojo verde and mojo rojo (savoury and spicy sauces). Although found just about everywhere, papas arrugadas con mojos aren’t truly authentic if they’re not made using speciality Canarian potatoes such as the tiny papas bonitas.

Ensaladilla rusa

Despite the name, ensaladilla rusa (Russian salad) is one of the essentials of any Spanish tapas menu, and it’s no different in the Canaries. It’s basically a potato salad ramped up with the inclusion of peas, carrots, boiled eggs, and tuna. There’s nothing sophisticated about it, but it is moreish. The more modern Canarian restaurants serve it with a tad more panache than plonking a messy mound of mush on your plate.

Croquetas caseras

Croquetas are another Spanish tapas staple. Usually, these small, fried croquettes are made with bechamel sauce mixed with either ham, chicken, or fish. Spinach croquetas are also fairly common. On the Canary Islands, you can find some quite imaginative variations. We’ve eaten blue cheese, banana, beetroot, mushroom, leek, and chicken curry croquetas. To be sure you’re not being dished up ones picked out of the freezer in the local supermarket, look for croquetas caseras (homemade).

Pinchos morunos

These savoury skewers are a favourite at fiestas. Despite the Moorish reference in the name, they usually consist of cubes of pork marinated in a blend of spices (cumin, black pepper, ginger, paprika, turmeric, saffron) and garlic and coriander; although, exact ingredients can vary. They taste especially good when barbecued, served with a chunk of aniseed bread, and eaten at a busy, ramshackle fiesta stall. If pinchos morunos are unavailable, carne fiesta is a good substitute.

Gofio amasado

One of the uniquely Canarian tapas offerings is gofio amasado. Gofio (a toasted flour dating back to the Canary Islands’ original inhabitants) features in a couple of tapas dishes (escaldón being another) and both are an acquired taste. In amasado form, the flour is mixed with olive oil, honey, almonds, water, and sometimes cheese until firm and pliable. Then it is sliced into discs and served. It’s not the most flavoursome tapa on the list, but it is an authentic taste of the Canaries.

Chopitos fritos

Some people are turned off by the idea of eating squid. If you’re a fan of squid and cuttlefish and want to convert non-believers to the cause, chopitos are a great introduction. These tasty fried squid are so small it’s not easy to spot they are squid (the batter blurs the tiny tentacles). Picking at a plate of chopitos is just like snacking on savoury crisps. That’s what you can tell doubting friends anyway. When I’ve eaten these on eastern Canary Islands, they’ve turned up on the menu as puntillitas.

Queso asado

Just about every time we went out to eat with one of our neighbours on Tenerife, she would order queso asado. It’s not my favourite tapa, yet it would often end up as one of the dishes on the table whenever we ordered a mix of tapas, with or without neighbour in tow. Queso asado is griddled cheese drizzled with mojos, honey, and/or miel de palma (palm syrup from La Gomera). The cheese used is important. It should be queso palmero, a semi-hard, lightly smoked goat’s milk cheese from La Palma which, when griddled, has a similar texture to halloumi.

Churros de pescado

I think of churros de pescado as the Spanish version of fish and chips, without the chips; although, the absence of papas fritas is easily rectified. Churros de pescado are strips of white fish (usually hake but can be other firm, white fish) coated in herby batter. They are especially addictive when served with alioli (garlic mayonnaise).

Pimientos de Padrón

Another perennial favourite across Spain, many people know these are small green peppers fried in olive oil and generously sprinkled with salt. They’re simple and tasty, but what gives them an added edge is that every so often one is blow-the-top-of-your-head-off hot. You can eat plates and plates of them and never get a spicy one. I’ve known of people in Spain who have never ever had a hot pimiento de Padrón. Subsequently, there’s always a Russian roulette element to eating them. I was told that, in the Canaries, only La Palma produces hot pimientos.

Lapas

By sticking to only ten tapas, I’ve shackled my choices. It means the likes of boquerones, patatas bravas, ropa vieja, gambas al ajillo, berenjenas con miel, emapandas, jamón Serrano, tortilla, and many more are left out, making my pick for the tenth spot a difficult one. I’ve opted for lapas because a) they’re found more on the Canary Islands than elsewhere (Madeira and the Azores also have them), and b) they’re delicious (when prepared properly). Lapas are grilled limpets drizzled with mojo verde. It is the addition of the mojo which makes them superior to their Portuguese cousins.

If you can, you’re doing better than most people who commented on an Adrian Chiles’ Guardian article. To be fair, the title of the piece didn’t help Adrian’s cause. It was called After three weeks travelling in Europe, I’m calling it – British food is the best.

The article itself didn’t reflect a title chosen for its clickbait potential, no doubt by a savvy editor who knew people on social media often comment on headlines rather than content. Adrian didn’t claim British food was the best in Europe. His article concerned the range of different foods available in Britain. He claimed, ‘where we win hands down is on variety.’

Comment after comment gushed about the merits of Italian, French, Spanish gastronomy etc. accompanied by outrage that he could suggest British food was better … even though he didn’t. Many people used their gastronomic experiences as evidence of just how good food in other countries was. The thing is, nobody was questioning how good the food was around Europe.

I’ve lived in Spain and in Portugal and have spent a lot of time in off the beaten track areas of various European countries. I love to try regional specialities wherever I go, so reckon I’ve got some experience in this area. And I agree with what Adria Chiles was trying to get across.

Living in Portugal

In my book Camel Spit & Cork Trees I devote a chapter to gastronomy in rural Alentejano, starting off enthusiastically about regional dishes such as sarapatel, sopa de tomate alentajana, migas, porco preto. A few paragraphs later, I write this, ‘by the time we notch up our third Portagem eatery we are starting to become a tad jaded with menu choices’ and this, ‘over the course of a week or two there might be sufficient culinary interest to be explored in menus which vary little from restaurant to restaurant. However, over the long haul it’s a different kettle of fish, especially when there’s a noticeable lack of said fish.’

And that’s what the outraged brigade failed to grasp. Trying ‘local food’ for a brief period can be a treat for the tastebuds, but when you spend any time in an area where the choice of what’s on offer is limited, it can become gastronomically tedious.

Living on Tenerife

Tenerife has more interesting gastronomy than many people give it credit for. Even so, in traditional parts, where there’s a healthy culture of eating out, many menus feature the same dishes. However, the gastronomic scene is lifted by young chefs updating old favourites and fusing them with the cuisine of other countries, which gives it a boost and adds more variety.

But folk have blinkered ideas about how you should eat when in other countries. Years ago, I mentioned yearning for pizza every now and again and was chastised by someone for not eating the local food. It was just as well we had cyberspace separating us. Instead of going all Incredible Hulk, I patiently pointed out that most of what I ate was local food, which was why I fancied something different for a change. Their take was akin to saying anyone who lives in Britain should only eat British food. It’s complete nonsense. There’s a difference between brief visits and staying somewhere for a longer period.

Gastronomic preferences

Generally speaking, people prefer their own food irrespective of what country they hail from. I recently read a survey about Chinese dining habits which concluded Chinese people liked to eat Chinese food whenever they travelled outside of China. About a decade ago, a Canarian guide on La Palma bemoaned the culinary limitations of his fellow islanders, saying they wanted the same food over and over again, making it difficult for any innovation in the restaurant scene. That’s improved now, but it’s taken some time. People are creatures of habit. As Adrian points out in his article, ‘in France you eat French, Italy Italian, Greece Greek, Spain Spanish, and so on.’

Italy gets away with it though because the food there is so good and incredibly diverse.

Gastronomy in European cities

If people base their experiences on eating in European cities, then it’s going to be skewed. There’s always a greater choice in cities. Take Lisbon. The food is influenced by former colonies. Head to more traditional northern parts of Portugal and that same choice doesn’t exist. The gastro scene in Ljubljana in Slovenia is exciting, yet in a more rural area of the country I watched a couple of locals double up at the mention of Slovenia being awarded the title of European Region of Gastronomy 2021.

Restaurant comparisons around Europe

For reasons of casual illustration, here’s a list of the gastronomy served in the top ten restaurants on TripAdvisor for each of seven sizeable European towns I’ve visited.

Arles, France: French, French, French, French, French, Asian, French, French, French, French.

Setúbal, Portugal: Portuguese, Italian, Portuguese, Portuguese, Portuguese, Portuguese, Portuguese, Portuguese, Portuguese, Italian.

Freiburg, Germany: German, German, Mexican, Spanish, Middle Eastern, Indian, German, German, German, German.

Pontevedra, Spain: Spanish, Moroccan, Spanish, Spanish, Italian, Spanish, Spanish, Spanish, Spanish, Spanish.

Bergamo, Italy: Mexican, Chinese, Italian, Italian, Italian, Italian, Italian, Italian, Ethiopian, Italian.

Chania, Greece: Greek, Greek, Greek, Greek, Greek, Greek, Greek, Greek, Greek, Greek.

Exeter, Britain: Mexican, Mediterranean, British, Jamaican, Asian, British seafood, British, British, Portuguese, Moroccan.

The culinary diversity in Britain is also reflected in the home. As Italian chef Giorgio Locatelli commented when judging the UK’s Big Family Cooking Showdown programme – you won’t find the variety of cooking found in British kitchens in any other European country.

And that’s what Adrian Chiles was talking about, not which country’s food was best.

We’ve approached Santiago del Compostela from two different caminos, the Camino Francés and the Camino Portugues. On the first we were surprised by the extent of the ‘industry’ that had grown up around the Camino de Santiago. Budget pilgrim’s menus are commonplace, but are they any good? I know the pilgrim’s food we had on the final stages of the Camino Francés was very ordinary. I also know some specialist Camino websites agree that many pilgrim’s menus might be cheap but they also lack quality and variety.

On the second route, from Portugal, we avoided pilgrim’s menus and simply ate in restaurants along the way that took our fancy, ordering specialities from whichever area we passed through. As a result, our gastronomic experience was a far more satisfactory one.

Tortillas

It’s Spain, there are tapas bars (taperías) serving the sort of tapas you’ll find across the country – croquetas, ensaladilla rusa, jamóns etc. However, tortillas are a bit of a thing in Galicia. What constitutes an authentic tortilla is a hotly debated topic all over Spain, but in A Coruña the council felt so strongly about it they banned the use of onion as an ingredient in the city’s famous annual tortilla contest.

Zamburiñas

For me, zamburiñas represent one of the dominant flavours of the food found along the Camino de Santiago. We enjoyed these small, smoky scallops at a restaurant near the border with Portugal and also in Santiago de Compostela itself. Scallops are obviously THE symbol of the Camino de Santiago, so a bit of a must for pilgrims.

Pulpo a la gallega

Another one of the ever-present dishes along the Camino is pulpo a la gallega (polbo a feira), slices of octopus sprinkled with paprika and served on a wooden platter or terracotta bowl. The best I’ve had was served with mashed potato, a dream of a pairing. We enjoyed pulpo a la gallega at various places along the route, including in an unassuming pulpería in Padrón where it was accompanied by red wine served the Galician way in a cunca, a porcelain cup without a handle.

Pimientos de Padrón

Talking of Padrón, I was excited at the idea of having a plate of pimientos de Padrón in the area where they originated. They’re so common in Spain, and tapas restaurants outside of Spain, just about everyone knows by now that these are moreish green peppers which are fried in olive oil and sprinkled generously with coarse sea salt. It’s also well known that around one in ten are YOWZA hot (although I haven’t had a hot one in years). What I didn’t know was there was a season for them (May-October) and while, ironically, I can get them year-round in most places, in Padrón I was a couple of weeks too early. I didn’t get to actually eat any pimientos de Padrón in Padrón.

Empanadas

Empanadas are another dish found across Spain whose origins are in Galicia. Basically, empanadas are savoury pies which, when you’re on the Camino, make for really good street food. They can be filled with meat or fish & seafood (including octopus of course). The best I had was a pasty-shaped affair from a tiny grocer in a nondescript village called Escravitude. Maybe it tasted so good because I ate it on the final leg into Santiago.

Mussels and Oysters

Fish and seafood feature heavily on Galician menus. Our Portuguese route veered from the main pilgrims’ path, taking us along the more picturesque Variante Espiritual. This involves a section sailing up the Ría de Arousa between Vilanova de Arousa and Pontecesures, passing floating platforms on which mussels are grown. Earlier on the route, we crossed a lovely historic bridge at Arcade, a pretty, small town at the mouth of the Ría Verdugo which is known for its oysters. In Combarro in Rías Baixas, the smell of freshly grilled fish from restaurants overlooking the Ría de Pontevedra can drive you insane. If you’re a fish and seafood fan, Galicia holds many gastronomic delights to try.

Filloas gallegas

You could easy pass by a Galician speciality in Santiago de Compostela without even registering it as being one. I did. Filloas gallegas look like French crêpes, but they aren’t the same. I didn’t know they were different until researching gastronomy for a Slow Travel guide we were writing about the Camino. Whereas French crêpes are made with eggs, milk, and flour, filloas gallegas can be made with stock, water and, this is for anyone wanting to try a truly authentic version, the blood from slaughtered livestock.

Albariño wine

Finally, as there’s so much excellent seafood to enjoy, the wine to drink with it has to be Albariño. Having spent four years in Portugal, we’d developed a taste for the light and fizzy vinho verde, much of which is made from the same grape. Albariño doesn’t have quite the same fizz but is equally drinkable. Like its Portuguese counterpart, you can get red and white varieties. But white is more popular. It’s a light, dry, citrusy wine that goes down a treat at the end of a long day walking on the Camino de Santiago.

For me, there’s a difference the width of the Persian Gulf between an inn and the average hotel bar/lounge.

Here’s what I see in my head when I hear the term hotel bar lounge:

1. An atmosphere-lacking, ballroom-sized affair packed with package holidaymakers listening to a third-rate band belting out Abba songs, or being force fed their dose of faux local culture without actually having to venture anywhere remotely authentic.
2. A stuffy lounge with as much life as a graveyard after dark where a handful of dusty guests glare at you over the tops of their horn-rimmed spectacles if you rustle the pages of your Agatha Christie novel (there’s only the choice of that or Danielle Steele on the lounge’s bookshelf) too loudly.

These are extremes, but many hotel bar lounges fall into a version of one of those two categories.

Over much of the last decade we’ve stayed in between 30 and 50 hotels a year, and I can count on the fingers of both hands how many have had what I’d call a ‘proper’ bar.

One of these was the lovely curves of the walnut bar at the Hotel Grand Mencey in Santa Cruz on Tenerife; a place frequented by Santa Cruceros, local politicians, and guests. They serve a mean G&T at the Mencey; a bit too mean. We were introduced to Michelin star chef Yolanda Leon there and when she said, “I believe you write about gastronomy?” I misheard and answered “Astronomy? No, not really.” I blame it on the generous gin, not helped by the conversation being in Spanish.

The tavern at the Berghotel Rehlegg at Ramsau in Bavaria stands out because it felt like a Bavarian pub with its pine furnishings and roaring fire where we could warm the toes while sipping Bavarian ale after a climb to the blue glacier at Blaueishütte or an explore of the Wimbach Gorge.

City hotels tend to be better places for finding ‘proper’ hotel bars. In a bustling hotel pub in Beijing, we were accosted by a flustered businessman who asked us read out an important document in English he’d just received but couldn’t actually read, even though he could speak some English. In our hotel in Singapore’s Chinatown, many of the punters in the dark and packed bar drank from bottles with their names written on them. At the end of the evening, the bottles were locked away until the next time its owner frequented the bar.

Smaller hotels in rural areas can have equally congenial bars. At Hotel Els Caçadors in the Spanish Pyrenees, the owner reintroduced us to the diversity of gin on its rooftop bar at midnight, when we had a long walk ahead of us the next day. At Hame on Skye, the bar lounge looked like a big sitting room, but the feel and banter were more in line with a friendly inn where locals popped in for a wee dram, including a fascinating whisky-maker who preferred to drink gin – maybe a whisky after work was too much like a busman’s holiday.

So, was the inn mentioned at the start a proper bar or a hotel lounge? Here’s how the owners describe the people who frequent it:

“Mountaineers and personalities, philosophers and South Tyrolean freedom fighters, unconventional thinkers and fruitcakes, farmers and businessmen, tourists and locals…”

Definitely not the average hotel lounge affair then.

Using the non-English spelling not only helps make food sound interesting and different. It also sounds more appealing than writing about bits of pigs’ ears or yet another dull egg and almond pudding, even if it does have an intriguing name like rancid lard.

Other country’s dishes, irrespective of what they involve, are invariably presented in travel articles as though they’re all exceptionally tasty just because they are authentic. The reality is this isn’t always the case.

Whenever we visit anywhere new, we’re keen to try whatever local specialities we find on menus; however bizarre they may seem. In the last decade or so, we’ve worked our way through scores of regional dishes in the likes of France, Spain, Portugal, Greece, Croatia, Italy, Slovenia, Germany, and Austria. When food is referenced in travel pieces, we often know what it is from first-hand experience. We don’t always agree with how it’s presented, often that’s because too many travel articles are compiled from desk-based research.

This happened last week when I saw bacalhau á bras described as elegant in a newspaper article. Admittedly, I’m not the biggest fan of salt cod (bacalhau in Portugal, bacalao in Spain). I like it when it’s done well, but too often it can be hit and miss – I had a rank bacalao dish in Galicia earlier in the year. Bacalhau á bras I generally like; however, being a mish mash of shredded salt cod, matchstick potatoes, egg, olives, and onion, it’s not a pretty-looking dish and it’s certainly not elegant.

Why ‘big-up’ a dish? Why not admit it’s messy, but tasty? It’s that element which is too often missing for me in travel writing. There are many dishes out there which fall into that category. Saying so adds authenticity. Not saying so makes me wonder if the person who wrote about it has actually tried it.

And some dishes are just not great. Sometimes they are necessary by-products of people not having a lot of money, and taste like it. I forced myself through a bowl of buckwheat mush and sour milk in Slovenia. It wasn’t as bad as it sounds, bit I wouldn’t be rushing to order it again. Pigs ears I ate in Portugal were chewy and still had bits of hair attached – not the best dining experience I’ve had. On the other hand, a bowl of spicy offal, sarapatel, is one of my favourite Portuguese dishes. But it’s not going to suit every palate.

And that’s what I’d like to see more of in travel articles. Honesty. I’d love to read something like: “I settled into a stool at the crowded bar, squeezing in between an inebriated caballero with bloodshot eyes and a woman who’d tried to drown herself in a bottle of cheap perfume, and asked the barman for the house special. He placed a bowl of what looked like cat vomit in front of me, explaining it was something called escaldón de gofio. I had my doubts, but when I finally persuaded my mouth to open and accept a spoonful it was, well, okay.”

But, for a variety of reasons, that simply isn’t going to happen.

Some people agreed, others, mainly Spanish speakers, didn’t and reeled off a list of Spanish desserts to show how incorrect the statement was. When I saw what was on these lists I was tempted to add “is this list meant to shore up the defence’s argument or strengthen the prosecution’s?”

The list included these – quesadillas de El Hierro, truchas de cabello de ángel o batata, pella de gofio (dulce), frangollo, leche asada, ensaimada mallorquina, torrijas, tortitas de calabaza, yemas, fartons, buñuelos, bollos de anis, arroz con leche, frangollo, mus de gofio, milojas, bienmesabe, polvito Uruguyo, crema Catalana.

I’ve eaten nearly all of these at one time or another. Most aren’t bad, they’re just not particularly interesting or inventive. Because the ‘debate’ was Canary Island based, there are quite a few Canary Island desserts in the list. Take the first, quesadillas. I don’t have to say anything, just look at the picture. If that turns up on your plate for dessert are you really going to get excited about it?

Arroz con leche is basically rice pudding; leche asada is fried milk; pella de gofio is an acquired taste; buñuelos are a bit like doughnuts; polvitos are pulverised biscuits; crema Catalana is the Catalan version of crème brûlée. Like the others mentioned, there’s nothing wrong with it, but it’s not a dessert which has me doing cartwheels when it’s the only option on the menu. But I’ll happily eat all of them… in the absence of desserts from other countries.

The issue is not one of whether these Spanish desserts are good or bad in their own right. It’s only by comparison with the desserts of other nationalities that you can really judge just how good a dish is. i.e. frangollo might be the best-tasting dessert some of the folk commenting have tasted, but it’s not the best-tasting dessert I’ve tasted, not by a long shot.

Take ten popular British puddings as an example – jam roly poly; Eton mess; sticky toffee pudding; knickerbocker glory; bread and butter pudding; summer pudding; spotted dick; apple/rhubarb crumble; banoffee pie; and syrup sponge pudding. I have to stop at ten as I’m making myself ravenous, nostalgic hunger welling up like a sweet tsunami. In a face-off between the Spanish desserts and the British puds, the UK puds are going to win every time.

“Of course they are,” you cry. “You’re British and therefore biased.” It’s a fair point, but swap the UK puds for desserts from other countries with a reputation for making tasty puddings (Germany, France, Italy) – lemon meringue pie, cheesecakes, appel strudel, black forest gateau, profiteroles, tiramisu etc. – and the result will still be the same. There is one which would give the non-Spanish desserts a run for their money though, torrijas (similar to French toast). The best torrijas I’ve eaten have been exceptionally good.

I love Spanish cuisine; the top Spanish chefs are the best chefs in the world. I prefer the Spanish approach to eating; give me a lively Spanish restaurant over a stuffy French or British one any day of the week. But when it comes to traditional desserts, they’re simply not the strong point of the country’s cuisine. However, if anyone who has actually tried most of the dishes mentioned still insists they would choose bienmesabe over cheesecake, or crema Catalana over sticky toffee pudding, then fair play.

Who am I kidding? Or, more to the point, who would they be trying to kid? Nobody in their right mind would ever turn down a sticky toffee pudding in favour of a crema Catalana.