The Road to El Bulli

Roses is a pretty little town. Especially now in April with the spring light clear and lucid on the beach and surrounding mountains. The harbor hangs in a half circle, fronted by a clutter of bars, cafes and small hotels, not yet in high summer dress. The only hint of things to come is the occasional white-shirted, black-aproned waiter on the sidewalk, directing a battalion of mostly empty tables or staring at the sea, as if customers might come walking across the water at any moment.

Roses has been a destination for Costa Brava tourists for several decades but in the past few years, another sort of pilgrim can be seen. These pilgrims barely see the Mediterranean. The guide books they carry have little in them of hidden beaches or best views; rather the panorama of dining room and kitchen. They are bound for El Bulli, or as it is now called elBulli.

It is, most likely, the only three star restaurant on the planet named after a dog. The original founders, Dr. Hans Schilling and his wife named the restaurant, which they opened in 1964, after the French bulldogs they owned. The present owner, Ferran Adrià, came to elbulli in 1984 when the restaurant already had one star. But never mind. If you are a proper pilgrim, you already know all this history.

We had spent the night L’Escala and were thinking of having a look at Cadaces. It turned out that Roses is on the way to Cadaces and the chef, who was driving the car, said, “Let’s have a look at elBulli.”

However, there are no signs (at least that we spotted) anywhere in Roses indicating that El Bulli is nearby. We remembered, however that elBulli wasn’t in Roses, but in Montjol, a small town a few kilometers away, so when we spotted a sign to Montjol, we knew we were on the Road to El Bulli. (Fans of old Hollywood musicals should be warned that neither Bob Hope, nor Bing Crosby nor Hedy Lamar appear in this narrative.)

It turns out that the road to El Bulli is a narrow mountain road with incredible views of the Mediterranean which could distract the most careful driver. Every hundred meters or so, Ann would say: “There has to be another road to El Bulli. Can you imagine driving this after a two hour dinner and a bottle or two of wine.”

No, I can’t, and no, there is not another road to El Bulli. Not quite true. If you are a yachting type, you can arrive by sea, which the old Norse used to call the ‘whale road.’

As veteran California drivers---we commuted for years on routinely spectacular Highway One north of San Francisco---the drive didn’t really present any problems, but the idea that there was a three-star restaurant, often named the Best Restaurant in the World (!) at the end of this road, did leave one thinking ‘location, location, location.’. After all, the small village we had lived in for 20 years in California didn’t have a three star restaurant, hardly even at 60-watt restaurant.

The road didn’t get any better and the only sign we saw of culinary interest was a couple picnicking on a blanket beside their car with the car blocking the view of the sea. There was not even a sheep in sight and if you drive more than a few kilometers in Spain without a sheep sighting you begin to think of famine and maybe missing lunch.

Finally, the road turned toward the sea and in a few minutes we arrived at Montjol and El Bulli. (Their signage does not reflect the new iconography.) There it was, the Mecca of the Foam Brigade, on a hillside with views over the serene Bay of Montjol, surrounded by pine trees and little else. It was closed, but we knew that. It is only open from June until December.

We got out of the car and peered through the trees. “Is that it?” Ann was expecting something a bit more grand, perhaps.

I took a snap of her standing beside the El Bulli sign and we returned to Roses and lunched at a tapas bar well away from the beach on clams, mussels and a decent bottle of rosé.

--Larry Walker