(Sorbet and agar cube of indeterminate flavours, deep-fried membrillo, olive oil cake and pureed green olive and goat’s cheese sauces)

Two recent events conspired to inspire this review of Barcelona’s avant-garde dessert palace, Espai Sucre.

1. Chez Pim’s scathing review of L’Esguard: “quite possibly the worst meal of [her] life”. (Northern Spain is apparently experimental cuisine hell.)

2. The inclusion of one of my photos in an online guide to Barcelona, to accompany a review written by someone who has so obviously never been to Espai Sucre that I am ashamed to be credited for the picture:

“With a name that literally translates as ‘Sugar Space’, the place is a boon for anyone with a sweet tooth—just stride in and try out the various ice-creams, fruit salads, puddings, caramels and cakes available.”

It’s kind of like reviewing a Seymour Butts movie and calling it a tender exploration of the love between a man and a woman, a heartwarming spectacle for the whole family.

(Pear sorbet, pear “chicharrones”, salty membrillo and fried fennel sprouts)

Where Schmap’s team never bothered to actually visit Espai Sucre, Amanda Hesser clearly did. And in its own way, her review (for the New York Times) is just as misleading. It makes meticulous note of every ingredient, flavour and ribbon of sauce. But it doesn’t mention the pivotal characteristic of Jordi Butrón’s food: it can taste really, really bad.

(Chicory cake and beer foam)

Espai Sucre is a street-level, glass-fronted restaurant that looks like you can just stroll on in. In fact, the front door is locked, and you have to ring a doorbell to be let in. I visited the place with a dear friend of mine who dutifully shuttled me from tapas bar to Gaudí monument to tapas bar during my stay in Barcelona. Between us we ordered both of the available tasting menus (with “wine pairings”), so I can honestly say that I’ve sampled a wide range of the kitchen’s offerings. And they’re “challenging” in the same way that the cafeteria game played by generations of schoolchildren “challenges” one’s palate: I really don’t see a whole lot of difference between the bowls of mustard, chocolate pudding, Salisbury steak remants and ketchup little boys concoct and dare one another to eat, and a single course at Espai Sucre.

For all of L’Esguard’s obsession with Micri, at least the chef there knows how to plate. Here, a plate of caramels and sorbet came to the table looking like a collaboration between an irresponsible dog owner and a raincloud, straight from a sidewalk in Paris.

(Various caramels, salty fried apples and croutons, whiskey sorbet)

It didn’t taste any better than it looked: the outrageously briny caramels and an unsweetened whiskey sorbet were so unpleasant that I actually gagged–I couldn’t finish my plate.

Another dish was just plain sickening: the candied fennel and agar pellets in greyish tea soup felt on my tongue like tadpoles in stagnant water.

(Mint tea agar jelly in tea soup with candied fennel)

Other dishes mocked me with their familiar presentations, concealing bizarre flavour combinations. Even my old friend, green apple sorbet, had a strong herbaceous note I didn’t recognise in place of regular old sugar. Another sorbet teased me with its fuchsia colour: I expected red fruit, but got only the dull, faintly soapy combination of tomato and rosewater.

(Green apple sorbet with cucumber and basil gelatin rolls)

(Red berry and tomato-rosewater sorbets, vanilla granita, hibiscus syrup, sour strawberry meringue straws)

The rare delicious item turned out to be surprisingly uninventive. Passionfruit sorbet with sour cream and cookie crumbs was just an upmarket reworking of a yoghurt, fruit and granola breakfast dish.

(Mango and passionfruit/quince sorbets with sauteed quince, sour cream and cookie crumbs)

Just when we thought we had made it through the eight courses, our hearts sank. The waitress approached with two glasses of a kiwi-fruit dessert “sip” and a mammoth structure supporting a terrifying array of what I should really call grands-fours.

(Joshua, nervously clutching the dessert sip, contemplating the tower of petits-fours with apprehension)

I am in no way opposed, in principle, to curried chocolates or vegetable ices. But they have to work. What is the use of artistry in technique (which Espai Sucre certainly demonstrates) if that most basic requirement of food–tasting good–is not met? Given the breadth of the dishes I sampled, I really doubt that this was an off night or a freak menu. For seven or eight years this restaurant has used the tasting menu format to intimidate diners into accepting cafeteria hodgepodges as haute cuisine. I will not believe that either my palate or my friend’s was at fault; rarely has even an economy-class tray of sodden, reheated fish made me feel quite as unwell as some of Mr Butrón’s flavour combinations did in May 2007.

This is just my opinion. Other bloggers disagree.

Espai Sucre
Calle Princesa 53
Barcelona, Spain
93-268-16-30

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