So. Tonight, I simply have to complete my ode to foods-of-Barcelona-that-I-will-miss. I just had a 12:30 a.m. dinner of tuna salad and crackers, a not unusual meal for me in any city and I must say it's not half bad, especially when you have a few tiny kosher dills to throw in the mix.

But man... I would kick a nun in the neck to be sitting in front of a plate of salty fried fishlings from the coast of Spain.

The plate pictured above was from my first visit to Taller de Tapas when I was with my mom. As I wrote before, I returned to this spot a number of times but I could never remember which version of salty fried fishlings we originally ordered. I had them tiny and spiny and big and spiny, but never again found this plate. These fish were just right. They were meaty and clean and lightly fried on the outside, white on the inside. No bones to bother with. Just a squeeze of lemon.

You can also see the Pimientos de Padrón in the background of the other photo. Sigh. So good. So good. Also fried but not heavy. Salty and hot with the sweetness that comes from cooked green peppers. And then you get a surprise hot pepper and the spiciness is just enough to wake you up and remind you that you're eating the best fucking snack on the planet (with all due respect to Doritos).

The nuts are raw almonds. Very common in Barcelona. Smooth, skinless, crunchy and perfect with a glass of vino rosado. And salty. Sea salty. Big, white, substantial grains of natural sea salt. I swear, I can't go back to regular shaker salt. It's just not the same.

Man. I'm happy to be home. Really happy. And I don't need to go back to Spain any time soon. (Although I've heard that as far as Spanish food goes, Barcelona is not the place to go and if I had my way, I would do a long and easy eating tour of the villages of southern Spain as soon as possible. For now I have to wait). In any case, it's good to be back in Maine. Back in the good ol' U.S. of A. But this is the stuff that makes me think twice.

And you know what's the best part? None of this stuff can be reproduced in the States. Of course we try. But there is something about food when it's eaten in the place where it originated. It's just... right. It can't be reproduced. You can't transplant the fresh produce, the fire under the pan, the oil, the language in the kitchen. You can come close, but it's never quite the same. Have you ever tasted a Belgian Waffle in Belgium? Or a real tagine in Morocco? Have you ever had enchiladas in Mexico? Nothing like it, I tell you. Nothing like it.

I guess that's what makes it so special. You know you can't have it all the time... and you know it will be there when you go back.

What do I miss most about living in Barcelona? For me, it's a small plate of "Patatas Bravas," golden wedges of potato, fried and salted and served with a sauce that ranges from mayonnaise to spicy red pepper or a combination of the two. At their best, they are soft and fluffy inside, crunchy on the outside and smothered in creamy goodness. Damn! They are good.

The weirdest version of Patatas I saw were at an Irish Bar (why was I at an Irish Bar in Barcelona?) that featured a menu with a drawing of "The Horny Irishman" who was sporting a giant boner through his green overalls. Very strange. Anyway, these potatoes were covered with some kind of sweet chilli sauce and then striped with cold sour cream. Not bad. Just strange. And definitely not Spanish.

Every restaurant in Barcelona will have Patatas Bravas. The ones pictures above were from one of my favorite spots called Taller de Tapas. I would sit at my own outdoor table in the dappled sunlight, next to an ancient church and order a cup of vino rosado, a plate of Patatas and a plate of Pimientos de Padrón (another food love story) and watch as tourists, locals and performers floated around me.

On my last day there, my mom called and said, "Go to Taller de Tapas and eat peppers and potatoes until you puke... I'll pay you back."

That's the spirit, mom.