Baggage Claim P.
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Ah yes, Simply Spanish, a place that doesn’t so much serve food as stage an intervention for anyone who thinks Spanish cooking is all paella cosplay and bad sangria.
I studied my order afterward like a police report, and every line checks out as evidence of good judgment. Prawns Madrid Garlic arrived sizzling like they were arguing with the pan moments earlier, plump, assertive, unapologetically soaked in garlic and olive oil, the sort of dish that makes vampires cross the street. Pork belly was rich, obedient, and clearly raised with discipline. Braised beef cheek collapsed on contact, which is exactly how beef cheek should behave if it respects you. The meatballs? Round, confident, and smug, the kind that know they’ll be remembered.
Then there’s the drinks. An Espresso Martini priced like it knows its own worth and tastes like it does too. Albariño doing what Albariño does best: crisp, coastal, quietly superior. San Pellegrino behaving like bottled diplomacy. Coke present for moral balance.
The bill? Painful only in the way excellence always is. You don’t complain about the price of honesty, and you don’t haggle with food this good. Simply Spanish is loud without shouting, confident without showing off, and runs its kitchen like it’s been doing this longer than most of us have been making mistakes.
In short: exceptional. If you leave hungry, confused, or unimpressed, the problem isn’t the restaurant, it’s you.