Parrilla Peña

It rained the whole afternoon I spent at Parrilla Peña, and I cannot now imagine eating there in any other weather.

The room is exactly what you want it to be: 1940s tiles, paper tablecloths, men in white aprons. We were seated near the back, given menus we hardly needed, and brought a small bowl of olives without being asked.

We started with country pâté with cornichons, which set the tone — generous, unfussy, and confident enough not to crowd what was coming. With it we ordered Rioja gran reserva, decanted at the table, and were glad of both.

Then the main event: vacío, the dish that puts Parrilla Peña on every short list. It arrived faintly hissing on a heated plate, the kind of small detail that tells you the kitchen still cares about the last twenty seconds before service. The signature touch — the asado de tira, slow and smoky — is not a gimmick; it is the reason to come.

For sides we asked for potato gratin with a dark crust and wild mushrooms in butter. Both arrived hot, both arrived early, both were exactly large enough to overdo it. We overdid it.

Dessert was key lime pie, mostly because the waiter raised an eyebrow when we hesitated. He was right to.

A perfect Sunday lunch, which is what I came for.