Tapas & Terroir

A gastronomic exploration of the Iberian Peninsula’s coveted wine regions brings a trifecta of adventures across quiet countrysides, bustling city centers, and crystal-blue beaches

Our bodies sway as we descend into the valley, grape vines cascading down the hilltops while the orange glow of the sun illuminates the tree canopies. A calm overtakes me, the countryside’s silence offering a humbling solitude, the landscape dotted with Spanish stone houses adorned with clothing lines and barrels. Our car soon climbs in elevation, a perfect display of the Serra de Montsant National Park ahead, the hot air permeating our surroundings as the distinct visual of a bright red estate comes into view. A stone driveway leads us to a hidden gem in the midst of Catalonia’s most distinguished wine region, tucked away at the Gran Hotel Mas d’en Bruno.

The birds sing a sunset hymn in harmony with the soothing splash of lap swimming in the infinity pool, the evening christened with a tinto de verano (red wine and lemon soda) at the Tarragona outdoor bar. The property boasts 24 guest suites in the heart of Priorat, enveloped by steep terraced hillsides and gaping valleys. Our aperitif is followed by a quick jaunt through the vineyards before we ascend to our suite, the pink skyline falling nothing short of an oil painting. I splay myself on the crisp white sheets, my reflection in the mirrored ceiling winking back at me as if to say, “You’ve arrived.” Every inch of the space is immaculately detailed, from avant-garde coffee table books and fluffed robes to a stone-clad rain shower and private bar.

A wardrobe change readies us for bites at Bruno’s Bar, the property’s stunning lounge adjacent to Vinum Restaurant, home to a premier beverage program. Minutes after arrival, we kick back over a crisp glass of Cava, a plate of truffle croquettes and charcuterie quickly following. Our bites pair with an open-faced Spanish omelette with Sobrasada Mallorquina, hazelnut, Priorat honey, and a chive emulsion. My chocolate modus operandi is as follows: if it’s a dessert on the menu, I order it. Particularly one so simply called, “cup of chocolate.” No explanation required. A jet-lag and mousse-induced haze lulls us to our room, where we sip a cup of nighttime tea at the fireplace.

As quickly as we fall asleep, we rise for a breakfast spread overlooking the vineyard. I load my plate with jamón ibérico, manchego, tortilla de patatas, and pan con tomate—part of my resolution to maintain a meat and cheese diet until further notice. I wash it down with an espresso and take the wheel of the property’s guest car to embark on our day’s journey, our first pit stop being Cartoixa d’Escaladei. The Carthusian monastery stands as one of the oldest in Spain, founded by French monks who planted some of the first vineyards, giving the region its name. A drive through the valley brings us to the mountaintop town of Siurana, a historical neighboring village famous for its breathtaking views of the Prades Mountains. We seat ourselves at a quaint restaurant perched on a cliff overhang, the valley sprawling below. It’s the kind of drop where even sipping a beer feels like a dare.

After a round of anchovy-stuffed olives and crispy patatas bravas, we return to the hotel for an afternoon cellar tasting. Francesc, the resident wine savant and property manager, guides us through five regional wines, a curated selection from over 1,000 varietals aging in the cellars. We compare Montsant and Priorat terroirs, getting a feel for how the rugged topography shapes the grapes, then stroll through the vineyards to pluck cabernet sauvignon and grenache straight off the vine. The hours between tasting and dinner are happily filled with cabana lounging, a dip in the pool, and the promise of a proper siesta.

Dinner takes us to Vinum, the property’s Michelin-recognized restaurant, where year-round tasting menus draw inspiration from the medieval Llibre del Sent Soví (the earliest surviving Catalan cookbook). The service is polished, the plating almost architectural, yet the flavors feel playful in their pairings. The star course: fresh bonito tartare tucked into a garden tomato with local cheese, finished with a foamed celery liqueur––a cheeky nod to a Bloody Mary. A much-anticipated soak in the free-standing tub closes the night, only for us to rise again to fruit and croissants. A late-morning sauna and indoor soak at the spa ease us into the next leg of our journey: a flight to Porto, our cityscape iteration of “wine country.”

Portugal’s culinary scene is one I’ve long dreamt of tasting; sardines, bacalhau, Port, and an indecent amount of pastéis de nata. A quick flight brings us before the Wes Anderson–esque pink façade of the Hospes Infante Sagres, affectionately coined the “heritage jewel” of Porto. Since 1951, the city’s first five-star hotel has balanced old-world charm with elevated sophistication. Each suite takes inspiration from The Lusiads, the country’s epic poem, its verses woven into eclectic embroidery and art.

We descend the grand circular staircase adorned with carved wood and ironwork, bathed in the refracted light of floor-to-ceiling stained glass panels. After dropping our bags in the suite and enjoying a welcome glass of Port, we head seaside, crossing the Luís I Bridge for a chilled glass of Douro Valley rosé, people-watching beneath Porto’s sea of cathedrals. We wind through cobblestone alleys, stroll the Crystal Palace Gardens, and return just in time for our dinner reservation at Scarlett Wine & Food. We graze on codfish croquettes, fresh Algarve oysters with red wine mignonette pearls, and seabass ceviche in spicy pineapple aguachile. Dinner continues with the crispiest duck leg confit I’ve ever noshed on, finished with chocolate cake draped in Madagascar vanilla bean sauce––the perfect nightcap. 

The gastronomic tour continues upon waking, leading us to Mercado do Bolhão to explore Porto’s regional food scene. We weave through bustling corridors, each corner revealing a new temptation, from grilled sardines and cured Alentejo ham to sheep’s milk cheese from the Serra da Estrela mountains. Our first stop, naturally, is the charcuteria, where the purveyor insists we taste what feels like every meat known to man. Only a few steps later, I’m transfixed by a pastry case glowing gold, my eyes locking onto a custard-filled donut (the beloved Bola de Berlim). I inhale my dessert-for-breakfast in seconds before we dash to the nearby train station, bound for the heart of the Vinho Verde wine region.

We follow a winding cobblestone path at Quinta da Aveleda, ivy spilling down façades as free-roaming geese honk from a nearby pond. Seated in the gardens, we’re joined by an animated peacock circling for scraps of bread, the whole scene straight from a fairytale book. Our “Journey Through Portugal” tasting showcases grapes like Alvarinho and Touriga Nacional, though it’s the Moscatel Galego Roxo, with its crisp mineral notes, that wins us over. As if the generous pours haven’t already softened the edges of the afternoon, a post-train glass of rosé sangria tips us into bliss. The evening’s mission becomes obvious: hunt down Porto’s coveted guilty pleasure: the francesinha. This towering sandwich––stacked with steak, ham, sausages, a fried egg, melted cheese, and drowned in beer-based tomato sauce—serves as our perfect, over-the-top send-off.

Every good trip requires delicate balance, which drives our philosophy in the final stop of our topographical trifecta: Ibiza. Beyond its disco-fueled reputation, the white isle holds quieter luxuries. At Ibiza Gran Hotel, our bags vanish in exchange for a chilled grapefruit tonic, enjoyed as we wander the grounds. The scale of everything feels cinematic––high ceilings hung with contemporary art, mid-century reading nooks stacked with books, and a vast zero-edge pool anchoring the outdoor enclave. Our suite continues the grandeur, evoking a modern oceanside chalet: an indoor soaking tub set opposite a California King, and beyond glass doors, a private patio with its own pool and loungers facing the old walled town of Dalt Vila.

The afternoon’s agenda writes itself: bikinis, pool dips, and ample bronzing before dinner. The evening calls us to Musa, the hotel’s newest gastronomic gem, already lauded for its inventive cocktail program. I start with the “Sora”––a mix of lychee, lemongrass, and pomelo capped with a satisfyingly thick foam––while we share plates of steak tartare, fried baby shrimp, and a mango seabass ceviche almost too pretty to touch. By the time midnight rolls around, and after making a respectable dent in the cocktail list, we’re lacing up for the second act of our evening: “Solomun Sunday” at the legendary Pacha nightclub. When in Rome, do as the Romans do, no? 

A less-than-favorable bedtime is met with the softest cotton sheets, only to rise again for a hydrotherapy circuit at the Open Spa’s “Aqua Spa.” The marble-laden sanctuary looks plucked from heaven itself: white, hushed, and impossibly serene, a glass wall casting light across the still thermal pools. I rotate between cold plunges, tropical showers, saunas, and ice rooms before heading to the hotel’s Grand Breakfast. As if entering a culinary bazaar, we’re met with a sensational gourmet spread: custom omelette and crêpe stations, heaps of pastries, meats, and breads, an oyster bar with ice-cold bubbly and chocolate fountains for dipping just about anything, from confections to tropical fruit. We savor what might be the most memorable breakfast “buffet” I’ve ever encountered, before hopping in a taxi for a tasting and vineyard tour at Can Rich.

Our host, Alvaro, greets us and leads a tour of the vineyards and cellar rooms, sharing the family estate’s ethos of natural, sustainable production, most notably their use of amphora clay pots for aging. The walkthrough proves one of the most informative viticulture experiences I’ve had, made all the better by tasting an array of refreshing, award-winning varietals. Cured meats, cheeses, and the property’s own olive oil round out the spread, capped with Hierbas Ibicencas: a traditional liqueur infused with herbs from Ibiza and Formentera, a true emblem of local passion and heritage. We share an extra glass with a lively group of Belgian travelers, their camaraderie leaving an impression that only travel brings.

The sun beckons us off the beaten path to the entrance of a nearby beach alcove at Cala Alto de Porta. We tan like Europeans and snack on beachside serrano ham, dipping into the rippling crystal waters, a primal, rejuvenating afternoon spent enveloped by the island’s limestone caves. We return to our room, sunkissed and giddy, a long nap and a room-service bottle of champagne soon reviving us for our last evening under the disco ball. In the midst of smoke and chaos, we collide with pure serendipity—our Belgian friends from the afternoon reappearing, our spirits collectively rejoicing in the chance encounter. Hours of dance and laughter blur into an unspoken communion, echoing beyond the walls themselves. The bass thrums, the sun breaks, our arms around one another. Strangers become friends. Fun, after all, is rarely shallow.