The Spanish Inquisition at Ikon
Cafe Ikon ***
1 Oozells Square, Brindleyplace, Birmingham. Tel: 0121 248 3226
I have been having a spot of trouble with the Falangists, but they’re not the half of it.
As well as the fascists there’s the Alfonsine monarchists, the Carlists, the communists, the Workers’ Party for Marxist Unification, the anarcho-syndicalists, the Basque Nationalist Party and more acronyms than you can shake a stick at.
If this makes no sense then do not worry, you are not alone. I am behind you – all the way.
For several nights now I have been wrestling with the causes of the Spanish Civil War. For this I have my wife to thank. She is concerned by my worsening mid-life addiction to the literary works of Mr Stephen King. I studied literature at university and sadly King did not feature. But then neither did Dickens, which may tell you something about red brick academia during the 1980s. We did, however, watch cowboy films.
My wife thinks I should be challenging myself rather than relying on sci-fi/horror for my textual kicks and so she bought me Antony Beevor’s The Battle for Spain, The Spanish Civil War 1936-1939. It’s good, “the international bestseller,” and I’ve not got a clue what is going on.
I tried Beevor’s Stalingrad several years ago, but gave up. I couldn’t zone in. (All right, it was too hard and I’m feckless.) But compared with 1930s Spain, Stalingrad was a picnic.
“Isn’t there an easier way to do this?” I asked my wife. “Isn’t there a ‘Spanish Civil War in 30 seconds’ prompt card? Or an iTunes download sung by Ruth Lorenzo, the sultry Spanish songstress off the X-Factor? Couldn’t we just eat Spanish food instead?”
I know: it’s pathetic, absolutely pathetic.
And so we ended up at the Café Ikon for a Spanish lunch and we didn’t mention the war. Bye, bye Beevor. Buenos dias butifarra (that’s white sausage and beans, of which more to come).
I’ve never understood why there are so many Italian restaurants and so few Spanish ones in England. Spanish food is good and gutsy and tapas-style eating is tailored made for our financially challenged times. You can eat as little as you like – perhaps a few olives with an anchovy thrown in – glug sherry all night and the restaurant manager will be chuffed to bits. He’ll probably throw in a pine nut.
Unsurprisingly, the Ikon outpost is a popular haunt for the city’s arty types. This makes for good viewing. There was a chap with madder hair than Simon Rattle and a girl with such a short skirt that it became lodged in the top of her tights when she left. Both of them may have been art installations.
To kick off, we split a fairly bland Spanish omelette and some exceedingly good olives in garlic and lemon. Olives are usually crap in English restaurants. These weren’t. The patatas bravas, fried in olive oil, came with a decent garlic mayonnaise. The butifarra may have looked like earlobes in pond water but tasted terrific. Every drop of green juice was happily slurped up with a spoon.
Paella is one of the world’s great dishes, as moreish in the depths of winter as it is at a summer beach bar on the Costa Brava. Whether you are wearing moleskin or a mankini, paella just tastes right.
The Ikon needs up to 50 minutes’ notice for paella, so you knows it’s fresh, and cunningly I pre-ordered the day before. There is a choice of Marisco (fish), Carne (meat) or Mixta (el surfo turfo). There’s also a veggie paella, which makes no sense, because Spain has banned vegetarianism and is thus one of the most civilised places on earth, give or take the occasional internal war.
We had a big, steaming dish of la mixta, which was itself a bit of a mixta bag. The rice was good and the big prawns and sausage worked well. Less successful was the squid, which was tasteless, and the chicken. Bowing to priggish English sensibilities, skinned breast was used rather than skin-covered joints with the effect that the meat was dried out and lacked fat and chickeniness. And a life without fat is sad one indeed.
One of our group had Pinchos Morunos, or brochetta of lamb with garlic and spices. This was a great sized portion of succulent, grilled meat, all for £5.45, a third of a price of the paella. Good flavour and great value.
The Ikon has a great selection of sherries, available by the glass or bottle. I had a snifter of a decent dry fino and for wine had a large glass of Candidato Tinto, which spoke of delicious warm fruit and dusty donkey tracks.
Then there is arguably one of the great finds of Birmingham’s bar scene – the brandies. I had something named after a cardinal (which I know isn’t a good enough description, but it’s as good as I get). It was truly fantastic, light toffees and hints of apricots. It cost a certain amount of money, which may have been £4.35.
Our puddings comprised baked custard and a chocolate ganache with vanilla ice cream.
The bill for two was in the £50 territory, upon which I really don’t have a view.
