JOSÉ: UNA ESQUINA ESPAÑOLA

When people realise you’re a bit more interested in food and restaurants than would be considered normal in polite company the first thing they do is ask you what your favourite restaurant is. To be honest I haven’t really got a favourite restaurant. Honest.

What I do like though, what really floats my boat and pulls my chain is propping up a Spanish bar. It’s probably in Madrid, on a cold day with that incandescent sunlight that you get in one of Europe’s highest capital cities. The barman would be of the grumpy tendency but the caña of Mahou he had just poured would be cold and have a thick, creamy head.

I would wait for my free tapa - a piece of tortilla or maybe a handful of cortezas de cerdo - before ordering un ración de jamón ibérico de bellota. He would cut the ham quickly and expertly, laying the slices in an outwardly radiating spiral, finally dropping some picos into the centre. I would take a sip of the cold, slightly bitter beer then pick up a slice of the jamón, oily from the melting fat, between thumb and forefinger. I would hold it up and briefly examine it against the light before shoving it down my gob.

At this point my interrogator would already be walking away, staring at the floor and shaking their head.

José in Bermondsey street is billed as a Sherry Bar but actually that description undersells it. For starters the wine list, whilst it has a good range of sherries has a lot of other good stuff on it (the list was put together by a couple of Masters of Wine). Also I can't think of many sherry bars that have open kitchens with several top chefs beavering away in them.

Decor is clean and functional and as in most places in Spain you have to find yourself a space at the bar or an upturned barrel to eat at - the idea of sitting at tables to eat any other than a proper is unknown in Spain (although that is changing).

Of course, all this would count for nada if the food wasn’t any good. Happily it is. José is an exemplar of the cliché of the best ingredients cooked simply. This is the stuff that all those Spanish Michelin chefs really want to eat on their day off. There will be a new restaurant opening later in the year where I suspect we may see more evolved dishes but for now José more than fits the bill.

A blackboard shows the daily market specials which is supplemented by a longer list on the menu. They're actually more akin to the Spanish media ración in size than tapas but whatever you want to call them the quality of the ingredients used is the key here.

Croquetas de jamón are sometimes a bit oily and over-fried which usually makes me a bit queasy but these were perfect: light, studded with jewel-like bits of ham, I could have eaten several more plates of these. The most fantastic Prawns cooked with a little chilli and garlic and were so good I did order another plate.

Jamón Ibérico is from Manuel Maldonado who is based not far from Jose’s hometown of Cáceres. With jamón it’s all about the cutting – you should be able to the read the maker’s name on the blade through the meat - and while it may sound xenophobic when you have the good stuff you don’t want a guiri wielding the knife. As well as being of exemplary quality this is the best cut jamón you’re going to get in London.

Razor Clams (from Scotland) come simply cooked on the plancha with a bit of chorizo and mint. Almejas are huge and meaty and you'll definitely want some bread to mop up the sherry broth.

Wonderfully fresh Sardines possibly could have done with a bit more char - they can take it - but were wonderfully fresh. Ditto some Mackerel in an escabeche which can be a bit iffy if the fish isn't up to snuff.

Pluma Ibérica (so named because of its resemblance to a feather) is one of those cuts of Pork like secreto and presa that the Spanish go nuts about but which are seldom seen over here. Well-marbled and with a lovely layer of fat it's cooked quickly so still rare inside and served with piquillo peppers. Combine some of the sweet pepper with the rich, rare pork to see what the fuss is about.

Puds are not really a Spanish forte and in lieu of helado mixta a glass of Victoria Ordoñez Malaga No. 2 and some Strawberries and Cherries more than passed muster.

Service is friendly and clued-up and really adds to the great atmosphere of the place – blimey, even a hard-hearted, old curmudgeon like me had a smile on my face (although that may have been the wine).

Three hours of a Saturday lunchtime had never passed more quickly and in a drunken, post-meal tweet I posited the fact that this was currently the best Spanish cooking in London. In the sober light of day I see no reason to retract that statement.

MORITO: A LITTLE MORO

Walk into Morito and you might think you're in a nuevo tapas bar in Madrid or Barcelona: a clean, modern space filled with people sitting at the bar and at tables squeezed along the perimeters of the small room; a handwritten list of tapas, on a board; the chef, beavering away at the plancha turning out small plates, a buzzing atmosphere. But, you’re not in either of Spain’s two largest cities, you’re in Morito, a little tapas bar offshoot of parent and neighbour Moro, which stands on the site previously occupied by Spanish food wholesaler Brindisa.

Look closer though and there are plenty of clues that you are in fact in London's trendy Clerkenwell and not Madrid’s trendy Chueca. First off there's the smell or rather the lack of it: that unique mix of fag smoke, deep frying, cured hams and coffee I know and love from Spain’s finest. Then there’s the staff. They're not dressed in ill-fitting dark suits accessorised with wonky bowties and they are not nearly grumpy enough.

I like Moro. I’ve been going there since it first opened and although I don’t think it’s as good as it was (but then, where is?) from time to time I’ll still prop myself up at the large zinc and knock back a chilled half bottle of Manzanilla and a few cazuelas from their short tapas list.

The selection is larger at Morito and is written in an odd sort of Spanglish (and very irritating it is too). And the prices, well, they don’t seem too bad on first viewing but when you see the size of the dishes - and they really are tapa-sized - you might feel, like me, that they’re overpriced. The lack of seafood dishes too is a bit of a giveaway too. But overlook its cod-Hispanic affectations and like its big sister Morito is not a bad place to hang out for a bite and a glass or two.

The cooking is basically Spanish with a bit of Mahgreb thrown in - sumac and za'atar are available to sprinkle over one’s food. There’s plently of pimentón used as well. Sometimes too much, as in a dish of chiccarones (sic). They're advertised as being from Cadiz style although the last time I had them there they were a type of pressed pork rather than the usual cubes of belly pork served here. More importantly, all I could taste in the dish was the paprika.

Tortillitas de Camarones also hail from that ancient City. They’re a thin, crisp pancake made from chickpea batter with some shrimps mixed in, almost as another seasoning. Morito’s version was a bit oily but tasted authentic enough. There weren’t many shrimp but that could have been because the portion was so titchy.

An empanadilla of mussels and chorizo tasted took me back to visit to A Coruña although I found the pastry used here a bit leaden and reminiscent of something you'd find in the local health shop.

Croquetas de Jamón were disappointing. Instead of a creamy béchamel interior there was a tasteless semi-solid grey mush with very taste. The Croquetas de Bacalao, sorry Salt Cod, were much better. I also liked Morito’s preparation of Octopus which came sectioned and grilled in a perky and fresh-tasting salpicon .

The balance in a dish of Butifarra with white Navarran beans was all wrong and with a big splodge of garlic aioli the dish ended up being a bit too greasy and the taste of the Catalan sausage was lost. The beans were beautifully creamy though and cried out for a little bit of bread to mop things up.

Of the Montaditos (stuff on bread) the best was the little riff on brekkie: a couple of quail eggs with Jamón sitting on good Moro bread. Definitely something to be picked up and stuffed into one’s gob (which did what I did). The worst was the Birch Bolete where the taste of the mushroom was killed by the fried bread underneath.

Given that much of the preceding food hadn’t been bland, although oiliness was a general theme of the evening, a plate of seared rump was a bit of a shrug of the shoulders sort of dish. It hadn’t been seared enough, it hadn’t been seasoned enough and it hadn’t been rested enough. And (deep sigh) the beef hadn’t been hung for long enough.

There’s just the two desserts to choose from but for me it’s always going to be a scoop of Moro's Rum 'n' Raisin Ice Cream slathered in PX. It still hits the spot although the lack of any liqueur action meant I had to take a my espresso and Patxaran con hielo next door.

Although the evening may have seemed like more like a sequence of misses than hits the quality of the ingredients were decent and nothing left a bad taste in my mouth… well, maybe the prices did a little bit but to be honest that’s also the case at Moro and I still go back there quite happily. I can’t really explain it. I’ll probably return to Morito as well.

PINCHITO & BARRICA: TAPAS TWO TIMES IN THE WEST END

The next couple of weeks are shaping up to be some of the best of the year and unsurprisingly they involve eating copious amounts of Jamon Iberico.

On Monday, I join my good chums at Brindisa for the launch of the new Dehesa, the latest release of Jamon Iberico de Bellota from the incomparable Joselito. A few days later, I fly to Seville and from there make my way to Badajoz, one of the spiritual homes of Jamon to spend some time with a producer discovering the secrets of creating the world’s single greatest item of food. By way of preparation and inspired by HP’s recent trips to Spain, I decided to make my own mini tapas crawl with visits to the two most recent additions to London’s seemingly endless production line of Spanish restaurants and tapas bars.

The new branch of Pinchito is located on the corner of Bedford Square, just off Tottenham Court Road. It’s décor and approach will be instantly familiar to anyone who has visited their first branch near Old Street or the now defunct PinXto People in Brighton. The offering is as much about the impressive cocktails created by co-owner Toby Garcia, as it is about the food and Pinchito shies away from the traditional approach to tapas bars in favour the nuevo take of Cal Pep in Barcelona from which it draws its inspiration.

A quick sampling of two staples shows that there is still work to be done in the kitchen. Rabas, that Cantabrian weekend favourite of squid, sliced thinly to look like tails (hence the name) and deep-fried was greasy, chewy and burdened with too fierce hit of paprika. Croquettes of “mixed meat” were better, well fried and with a dense filling, which would have gone perfectly with a glass of fino or a cocktail. The restaurant takes reservations and offers a wider menu of daily specials, but as with the branch in Old Street, I still think of Pinchito as an excellent bar that serves food rather than a restaurant, which does decent drinks. As the former, it is definitely worth a visit, as the latter it will need to up its game if it is to persuade people to linger.

Barrica, on the other hand has set its stall out to compete full on with the West End’s other Spanish restaurants. Located on Goodge St. a few doors down from Salt Yard, and in the space once inhabited by ill fated and appallingly names, Ooze, Barrica is an independent operation (not as reported owned by Spanish group Vino Tinto) and traditional in its approach down to the three jamons swinging from the ceiling.

There is an extensive wine list and a wide selection of pretty standard tapas. I chose two more dishes by which the intentions and abilities of any Spanish restaurant can be discerned. More croquetta of Jamon were tiny and had been cooked for too long on the outside turning from the pre-requisite golden to the point where they were just at the point of being burnt. The insides, however, were good, creamy and flecked with decent amounts of jamon, but far below what HP dubbed "The Croquetta D'oro" to be found at the three branches of Brindisa.

Which brings us to the Jamon Iberico Bellota. The ham at Barrica had been cut by machine. Although the fat began to melt to a lovely sheen, as it should, it was not enough to disguise the fact that the meat had begun to dry out and lose the delicate flavour of acorns for which it is so famous. At £12 a plate, one probably could not have expected much more of a serving of this perniciously expensive product. However, one could and should expect better quality of storage and preparation for what is the benchmark of any Spanish restaurant with serious ambition.

Some places to their credit (Vinoteca for example) have taken Jamon Iberico off the menu because they cannot sell enough at the price they need to charge to keep the product in peak condition. I suspect Barrica may come to the same conclusion not too far into their existence. It would be a good decision given the poor quality of the plate with which I was presented.

Both Pinchito and Barrica have opened recently. However, both were charging full whack, so must feel that they were offering full value for money. I only sampled two dishes in each place, as much as I could manage and the very nature of a tapas crawl. I will probably head back to both to try more, but on this showing, Pinchito is looking the more likely prospect of the two, if mainly for the fact that Toby Garcia makes some of the best drinks in town.

What both places really achieve however, is just making me long to be back in Spain. Soon come.