I am sitting at My Fucking Restaurant. Now, let me be clear about one thing. I don’t cuss. The times I do are when I’m quoting someone. And, at some point in the universe’ history, an aspiring restaurant owner in Barcelona, Spain said what can I name my restaurant that would be unforgettable? Well, he chose the granddaddy of cuss words. The one word which at least one British historian has said is all that the English have contributed to history: the F word. (I might differ with him. I can think of a lot of things like the industrial revolution, the spread of democracy, globalization, rule of law, etc etc etc. But that’s a post for another day.)

That said, I came here because I’m gluten free! This restaurant is 100% gluten free and I can’t say what a relief it is to not have to think and, if I may add, to not feel excluded. Unfortunately, history is unkind. Five years ago it decided “you shall be dairy free also!”. So, I still had to think a little. But not much.

There is a reason, Diego, the front line person asked, when I walked in, do you have a reservation? There was no room left! (I didn’t know this place was a gem.) There never is. I asked. People aren’t here for the profanity. This restaurant is easily in the top three restaurants I’ve ever eaten at. If you come to Barcelona, come here, but first, make a reservation. I simply sat at the bar (although others got turned away from the bar later!) and enjoyed conversation with three Canadian ladies who also found out the hard way that you should make a reservation.

One aperol (with a smokey, fruity flavor), a bread (with smokey butter and intense large salt pieces), one steak plus garlic aioli (amazingly, the least flavorful/memorable dish of them all), one Zucchini Cannelloni with Indian Chicken Curry (tremendous lime aftertaste, or something, I’m no food critic), and one “Bravas” Surprise later (chickpea replacement of potato – this was the most impressive dish), and yet another cocktail, and the meal was complete. They’re letting me sit here, typing away, while I recover from the happiness.

The three Canadian ladies are from BC, British Columbia, and just finished walking across Spain for two weeks, ending up in Barcelona. I forget how many miles a day… I did have two drinks. They’re in their 50s and 60s. Delightful.

Traveling solo is a bit like freshman year of college. If you meet others like yourself, everyone thinks you’re best buds right away! Not because you are, but because novelty is a large force and so is desperation. It’s a lovely adventure overall. Can’t be compared to any other adventure, not even that freshman year in college because that year involves homework while traveling involves huge visual sensation (typically put as “the sights”) with no other responsibilities whatsoever.

Gotta walk home now! Do you think of home the way I do? It’s wherever I slept last night. El Born. I don’t even know what that means. I should look that up…

Oh, I’m barefoot. It was too hot to leave socks and tennis shoes on. I’m the American making sure to violate social customs while I’m here. Leaving a good impression on the world! Diego likes me.