Spanish Pavillion wasn't simply a restaurant to me. For many years, it was the restaurant…read more
I was first introduced to it by Josetxo, my childhood and teenage friend. Back then, Benito, Estrella, and Jalisco were at the helm. Everything ran beautifully, and over the years Spanish Pavillion became one of my favorite places.
I can still remember those camarones al ajillo--the best, as far as I was concerned--the camarones al vino, and that extraordinary lobster stuffed with crab meat. These were dishes worth coming back for, time and again.
Later came even more cherished memories. When my two boys were barely three and four years old, they too fell in love with the camarones al ajillo and the octopus. There was something amusing about watching two little kids sitting at a restaurant table and matter-of-factly asking for octopus. Spanish Pavillion was no longer just part of the memories of my younger years; it had become part of our family history as well.
As the years passed, and understandably because of their advancing age, the original owners eventually stepped away. That was only natural. Even then, for several more years the restaurant managed to preserve much of what had made it special.
But something changed.
The last time I returned, I was there with my wife, and that visit finally shattered the image I had carried with me for so many years.
The moment we walked in, we were greeted by an unpleasant sewer-like odor. The waitstaff was a disaster. Our appetizers had barely sat their asses down on the table when the main courses arrived. There was no time to enjoy the appetizers, have a conversation, or savor one course before moving on to the next. It felt as though they simply wanted to get us fed and out the door.
I had specifically ordered a particular cut of meat. What arrived was a different, lower-quality cut--and tough as a Calabrian's head.
And to add salt to the wound, while we were still trying to enjoy our dinner, the waiters kept circling our table like vultures, making it quite obvious that they wanted to finish their shift and wanted us gone.
The food itself didn't live up to my expectations either. Perhaps that was the greatest disappointment of all: I knew exactly how good Spanish Pavillion had once been. I had known it when Benito, Estrella, and Jalisco took care of the place, when its food kept bringing me back, and when, years later, even my little boys looked forward to sitting at those tables and ordering octopus.
The restaurant still carried the same name.
But the Spanish Pavillion I knew was no longer there.
I walked out, took a few steps, turned around, and from a distance made the sign of the Cross toward the place.
I never went back.
