In Portugal, someone warned me about Spanish food: “Delicious,” they said, “but heavy.” They weren’t lying. Madrid isn’t a city for restraint—and I didn’t come for restraint anyway. A few days and a couple of belt notches later, here’s how I devoured Spain’s magnificent, unapologetic capital.
The Classics: Ham, Cheese, and Potatoes
Like most great meals in Spain, it began with something simple, indulgent, and eternal: potatoes, mayo, cheese, and jamón. Somewhere in the Palacio district, where the restaurants blur together in a haze of Iberico ham and Manchego platters, I dove headfirst into this decadent staple.
The name of the place? No idea. Does it matter? This isn’t food you chase down—it’s food that finds you. It’s in Madrid’s DNA. Wherever you stumble upon it, it’s likely to be good.
Dinner at Vinitus: The Power of Simplicity
Vinitus is a name that resonates across Spain, and for good reason. Here, razor clams and head-on shrimp take the stage—grilled simply, kissed with salt, and tasting purely of the ocean.
It’s the kind of meal that makes you rethink culinary theatrics. No bells, no whistles—just pristine ingredients speaking louder than any garnish ever could. A bite of those clams, briny and tender, reminded me that simplicity done perfectly is more profound than any complicated dish.
Mercado de San Miguel: A Glutton’s Playground
Mercado de San Miguel isn’t a market; it’s a temple to excess. We wandered in and never really left. Oysters, scallops, razor clams—wave after wave of oceanic decadence, paired with cold drinks and spicy splashes of Valentina hot sauce.
It’s the kind of place that makes restraint laughable. You graze, sip, and lose yourself to the hum of the crowd. By the time we staggered out, Madrid felt like a sea-soaked fever dream.
Tapas Hopping and the Gospel of Tinto de Verano
Madrid’s tapas scene didn’t quite reach the heights of Seville for me. The dishes, while delicious, often felt more cosmopolitan, less intimate. But Madrid is where I discovered my favorite thing on the planet: tinto de verano.
Red wine and lemon Fanta—simple, unpretentious, unapologetically refreshing. The drink of long, sticky afternoons, it’s a perfect match for Madrid’s electric energy.
And Lemon Fanta? Let me just say this: if anyone wants to send me crates of the stuff, I’ll gladly barter my soul.
For those chasing hidden tapas gems, I’ll point you to The Spanish Radish. Their Madrid guide led me to several stellar spots. It’s a must for any curious eater.
The Highlight: Dinner at Marcelle
Marcelle was the crescendo of our Madrid adventure—a meal that didn’t just fill the plate but reached beyond it. This tucked-away gem, run by a husband-and-wife team, nods to Basque traditions while carving its own path.
Every dish was bold yet precise, rooted in tradition but never shackled by it. By night’s end, the restaurant was ours—a rare intimacy that made each plate feel like a private performance.
Marcelle wasn’t just dinner; it was theater, a love letter to craftsmanship, and a dialogue between passion and precision.
Final Thoughts
Madrid doesn’t whisper; it shouts. It’s a city of indulgence and unrestrained pleasure. You come here to eat, drink, and live with abandon. And you leave a little heavier, sure—but also more alive.
Would I do it again? In a heartbeat. Pass the tinto de verano.