Musings on paella

I love the idea of paella, but the reality leaves me cold. How can something that involves several of my favorite things (rice! saffron! seafood!) be so blah and uninteresting, kind of a Seafood Helper? It seems like the seafood is usually overcooked, the rice somewhat undercooked and the whole dish rather bland and underspiced.

Maybe I never had well-executed paella. Maybe I had to eat it in its native land, where it's practically the national dish. With my hopes high, I had paella three times in Spain.

The first was part of the menu del dia at a little cafe near the Plaza Mayor, run by a guy named Alberto. Rating: eh. Our friend the Bill-der finished it for me. Overall, the meal was ok, but the most exciting part of dining at Alberto's was when the light in the basement bathroom went out -- it was really, really dark, visions of horror movies danced through my head. I made my way upstairs safely, before a crazed, cleaver-wielding cook punished me for not cleaning my plate.

The second time was at Barajas Airport while waiting for our flight to Bilbao. It was an act of sheer optimism to even consider getting paella at an airport cafeteria. I'd mentally nixed the idea, then said "paella," when I meant to say "albondigas." It was a huge portion and better than in the cafe, but more expensive. It was one of our most expensive meals in Spain, more than Casa Mingo or Cafe Gijon, which ranked way higher in every way. Bill-der finished that paella, too.

Luis, from whom we rented our cozy apartment in Barcelona, recommended eating at Barceloneta, which he credits with serving some of the best paella in the area. We headed over there on our last day in town and had a luxurious, leisurely lunch, with a view of the marina, the steeples of la Sagrada Familia, and most of Barcelona.

We started with tomato bread and a well-prepared calamari appetizer with aioli, accompanied by cava and agua minerale. The Grumpy Diner had grilled butifarra with two kinds of roasted peppers for his main course. This sausage is a mainstay of Catalan cooking, and it's easy to understand why. As soon as you taste it, you can imagine a lot of ways to prepare it.

And I ordered seafood paella with shrimp, clams, scungilli, langoustines and scallops. It was rich, redolent of saffron, but still not an earth-shaking experience. It was probably the best paella I've ever had. Bill-der wasn't there. I cleaned my plate.

But in spite of the luxe ingredients, even this paella felt like a cozy, down-home rice dish, not an elegant special-occasion meal. It's good, but what's the fuss? I feel like a heretic.

Dessert was the showstopper at Barceloneta: in my case, plum ice cream drizzled with armagnac, unbelievably luscious, sweet and smoky, hot and cold, a world of contrasts in every bite. The GD made a divine choice, crispy layers of pastry filled with a rich custard, topped with tiny, sweet, perfect strawberries sprinkled with powdered sugar, in a pool of creamy, delicate sauce.

But back to paella: Chef Jose Andres believes that paella should be cooking on every barbecue grill in America. Maybe it really is an at-home experience. Maybe this summer I can enlist the GD to join my quest to try cooking paella that will make the earth move, or at least do more than shrug.