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An ode to slow-cooked animal parts. ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
First: caracoles at Casa Amadeo – Los Caracoles in Madrid. When the place literally calls itself after snails you pay attention. These snails don’t tiptoe like the French escargot in Paris. There, they were firm, elegant, like they had table manners. Here they were soft, almost silky, bathed in a smoky, spicy broth that you don’t just eat—you chase with bread, fingers, and definitely no regrets for eating a lot of them. No comparisons needed or judgement as to which one is better—just different snails, different souls and equally awesome.
Then came the callos. I’ve side-eyed Filipino callos for years—too oily, too muddled and the fact I hate raisins in dishes. But the Madrileño version? That was a revelation. It was rich but refined, deeply flavored but clean. Tender tripe, smoky chorizo, chickpeas, and jamón all stewed in a sauce so deep and flavorful, I forgot everything I thought I knew about this dish. It wasn’t just edible—it was unforgettable.
And finally, the unexpected star of the meal: rabo de toro. Oxtail so fall-off-the-bone soft it barely held together on the fork. The sauce was dark, glossy, and full of depth—like a reduction of every good decision ever made in a kitchen. It wasn’t flashy, just perfectly done.
And they were all delivered in a no-frills, old-school setting that made it even more magical. Casa Amadeo, like the other places we’ve visited, weren’t fancy restaurants. Just institutions serving food with history, heart, and zero pretension.