Pintxo & Tinto: “Buy the ticket. Take the ride.”

I’ve had trouble writing lately…again. I still love writing; words just aren’t flowing like they used to, which leaves me feeling unlike myself. I think I’m broken. If a hundred thousand dollar English degree doesn’t entitle me to unwavering creativity, what the fuck did I pay for? Bestie says I can’t always have creative juices pouring out of my face–but I think they’re wrong. I digress: on Tuesday evening, I went to Bravas for their ticketed Pintxo & Tinto wine tasting. It was a brilliant event and I had the best of times–but I’m struggling to find the words to tell you about it. So, we’re just going to Gonzo this and hope something worthwhile appears on the page. Good luck, reader, as I have entirely no idea what direction this is heading. Godspeed. I hope you still like me by the end of this. 

Lights up on a Tuesday evening: me in fishnet tights, a plaid miniskirt, black combat boots, and a newly acquired forest green beanie from Speciation Cellars plopped atop my head like the careless afterthought of a star on the highest branch of a Christmas tree of someone who no longer believes in the magic of Christmas but keeps going through the motions anyway. It was hovering around seventy outside and pretty sunny, but I had a bulky black sweater on anyway, because I had decided that it’s Autumn even if reality disagrees with me entirely. I won’t be persuaded otherwise: not by heat, or sunshine, or even my own discomfort. It wasn’t so bad: there was a pleasant, crisp evening breeze. I’ve walked to Bravas countless times before, but for some reason on this particular evening I bothered to use my mapping app to determine how long it would take me to walk there–fifteen minutes. It seemed too long an estimate for just a few short blocks: and it was. My phone is a filthy fucking liar, yet we’re attached at the hip and I depend on it for so much. There’s a metaphor somewhere in there, but I don’t have the time or inclination to hash that out right now. You’re here for the yummy stuff anyway, aren’t you? You can’t eat a metaphor: so I’m moving on. 

Oversized sunglasses covered big, dumb blue eyes–an excuse to avoid eye contact with strangers–I trekked the first block past houses that look much like mine; if not in slightly more disrepair. On the corner I waved to my friend’s car parked on the street–as if it might pass the message along to her. Surely it didn’t. Oh well. (Hi, Katie Jo!) I crossed a busy street and continued my trek past houses that I will never afford in this lifetime unless someone decides that these ridiculous words of mine have serious merit and I somehow become a New York Times best-selling author. Even then: these massive, mostly brick, behemoth homes lining streets plucked directly out of Chris Columbus’s masterpiece Home Alone will probably never ever belong to me–and in fishnets, combat boots, and a miniskirt, I felt particularly out of place darting through their towering shadows as the evening sun began its descent. I saw parents eyeing their children playing in the front yard as I passed–gauging whether or not I was a potential threat. (I assure you: I’m only a threat to myself.) But, by then, there weren’t many more steps before I would reach a safe haven where I’d never feel out of place no matter what I’m wearing. A hop, skip, jump, and a few winded asthmatic breaths later and I had reached Bravas–my friendly neighborhood weird Spanish-American restaurant. 

I went in and explained to the person at the counter that I came for the wine tasting, they took my name and directed me to the covered patio. Outside, they’d lined up wooden picnic tables to create one, exceptionally long dining area. There were only twenty-five tickets to this very limited event–super exclusive–and they were sold out. When I arrived, the dining area wasn’t entirely packed, but it was getting close to full. My eyes darted around the table as I approached to find a seat–my friend bought a ticket separately from me and messaged me advising that they’d be late–so in the meantime, I knew nobody. I surveyed and decided that it was all adults–I mean, of course it was adults: we don’t serve wine to children. The problem is, I still very much feel like a child: and so suddenly I felt like a child wearing a trench coat, standing on the shoulders of my invisible friend, fumbling in the presence of ‘real’ adults, as I pretended to be one of them. Social anxiety is hilarious, is it not? 

I sat at the table and waited for my friend, snapping photos for Instagram. (Hiding behind a cool demeanor and a cell phone is one of my favorite things to do around strangers!) I sent a photo of the tablescape to a friend back home to which they responded, “Looks fancy!” I think fancy might have been an overstatement–but it certainly did look thoughtfully curated and elegantly relaxed. At each table setting, two stemless wine glasses, a bright orange menu with the Bravas logo and descriptions of the nibbles to come our way, a tri-folded paper pamphlet housing details about the wines of the evening, plastic water glasses, and along the table carafes of water for all to enjoy–because, when you drink alcohol, it’s always important to hydrate so you don’t die-drate. The evening was sure to be delightful and, in the slowly falling golden sunlight, I became less and less self aware and more and more excited for the adventure that lay before me. My friend, Volchy, arrived and brought with him further comfort–dude is such a warm presence. It’s no freaking wonder everyone who encounters him seems to absolutely adore him. He’s someone who I haven’t known for very long, but he always feels like an old friend–and I love that feeling! I also love being friends with extroverts–they do all the heavy lifting in social situations and I can’t tell you how much I enjoy that. 

Laura from La Rioja Alta joined us this evening to provide intimate details about the wines we were sampling: an extra treat, considering how far she had to travel to be there. Well fucking done Bravas for orchestrating such a cool wine tasting event. I can assure you, when I moved to Indiana, I never in my wildest dreams anticipated that I would be able to exit the front door of my home and walk to an experience of this caliber. What they do is truly mind blowing and it’s not lost on me how lucky I am to get to experience this. Laura wasn’t the only wine expert at Bravas for the event. In addition, Devon, everyone’s favorite local sommelier (and, frankly, fashion icon) was there pouring wines and being her absolutely brilliant and delightful self. If you live locally, like wine, and don’t know who Devon is–you should.  

The first bite of the evening: skewered olive, white anchovy, piparra pepper, dressed with olive oil. I often think of an amuse-bouche as a little taste to gently welcome diners to their meal and provide a hint of what delights to expect from the rest of the evening. This was not that. This first bite was delicious–but aggressive in flavor. It was not a gentle welcome, but perhaps a kick in the teeth. It didn’t say, “Hello, friend!” it said, “Sup, bitch? Welcome to the wine tasting.” And you know what–I’m not mad about it at all. There were a few extra skewers, so Volchy and I (with minimal arm twisting) each consumed one extra skewer. Briney olive, funky anchovy, and a little heat from the pepper–gigantic flavors for such a small bite. Could, would, and probably will eat this badass bite again. What a way to start an evening! 

For the first plate of the evening, we enjoyed the Txistorra Chip & Gilda: txistorra sausage wrapped in potato, with aioli and cider gastrique. I want to describe this as a sausage wrapped in a potato chip–but I don’t want you to think I’m being reductive. It effectively was a fancy little sausage wrapped in a potato chip and, upon trying it, I honestly thought this was going to be my absolute favorite taste of the evening. Like, I had a nibble and was fully convinced that nothing could ever be better than txistorra sausage, in a fresh potato chip, with that well-known garlicky Bravas aioli, and a drizzle of super-sweet-yummy-yummy cider gastrique. This bite was, in my very humble opinion, flawless. (And I thought it was unsurpassable, until I tried the pork belly later…) The Bravas team really outdid themselves with the dishes for this event. Like, I know that I should probably save my praise until later in this write up–we’ve only reached the first real plate of the evening–but y’all slayed and if I don’t start emphasizing that now, I’m afraid it won’t be entirely clear by the final paragraph. Well fucking done. Seriously. 

The first two bites were meant to be paired with the only white wine of the evening: Albarino. This wine was aromatically intense, holding its own against some very bold bites. With notes of peaches, apples, and quinces–this wine was refreshing and welcoming. A delightful start to the meal. There was a tiny mix up and we got our first glass of red poured with the Txistorra Chip & Gilda. In truth, that pairing also wasn’t bad–so, we got to enjoy nice wines, nice foods, and an extra little pour of the second wine of the evening. I don’t think anyone can be mad about any of that. 

The second plate of the evening was the Confit Chicken: slow cooked chicken, crispy chicken skin, romesco, and fennel agrodolce. These delightful flavors were served up on little slices of crispy, crunchy bread. For the sake of easy explanation: think like a bruschetta but definitely not Italian and instead of tomatoes and whatnot you get divinely delicious chicken. The chicken was cooked to perfection, the crispy skin atop the bite was a welcome added bit of cronch, the romesco sauce was–as always–executed flawlessly, and the fennel agrodolce was delicately weaved throughout the bite to punctuate but never overpower the other flavors. I fucking love fennel–this was a really thoughtful, exquisite, graceful use of what can sometimes be a big licorice-y slap in the face. When I’m eating delicious little bites like this, and sipping tantalizing Spanish wines, I don’t feel broken at all–I feel amazing. It’s just when I have to write about them that, suddenly, I’m back to broken, and lobotomized, and my brain isn’t serving up new, fresh, delicious words. I just want you to know: damnit, this dinner was fun and I had the best time.

The Confit Chicken was served along with the Ribera Del Duero Crianza: the boldest red of the evening. Tannic, but with higher acid, it’s not dissimilar to a Cabernet Sauvignon. The wine was aged for 22 months in half-French and half-American oak, lending to its delicious palate of mocha, blackberry, and tobacco. While I tend to enjoy big tannic reds, and I did enjoy this wine very much, it was very mouth coating–which is not a sensation that I love. But, the evening was so well-organized and expertly executed: there were carafes of water along the table and, even if we drained them, they never stayed empty for long. 

Crispy Pork Belly: pork belly, calabrian chile glaze, herb aioli, pickled chiles, marinated apple. This was the absolute best plate of the evening. Chef Zach’s mother, who was seated near me, suggested that this dish should be on their regular menu–and everyone within earshot agreed. The pork belly was cooked so perfectly: creating a delightfully crispy exterior encompassing an entirely soft, luscious, flavorful interior. The herb aioli, pickled chiles, and marinated apple all played beautifully together to support the perfect little bite of pork belly. After the event had ended and we were still finishing up our extra-curricular glasses of wine, a gentleman stopped by to chat with my dining companions and said, “I wish the pork belly was the size of the picnic table so we could all dive in.” So, safe to say, this was the best loved dish of the evening. The quality was unmatched, the flavors unparalleled, the enjoyment unsurpassed. Like I said earlier, well fucking done.

To pair with the best dish of the evening we had the Vina Alberdi Rioja Reserva. With baking spices on the nose, this red played nicely with the pork belly. According to Devon, our local sommelier facilitating this event, this is the Rioja she believes was used for her sommelier exam. On the palate, red fruit like cherries, and a little leather. I had a second glass of this after the event had ended and I’ll very likely purchase a bottle to enjoy in my own time. Perhaps of the wines of the evening this one was a little more basic (or should I say classic) but, it’s probably the simplicity of this Rioja that made it such an enjoyable sip for me. 

The final plate of the evening was Chorizo Dates: medjool dates stuffed with chorizo, wrapped in bacon, on a bed of roasted red pepper sauce. As someone who is a chorizo lover and date fanatic, I expected this to be my absolute favorite bite of the evening. It was good–but it didn’t stop me from thinking about that pork belly. The absolute best part of this little plate was actually the roasted red pepper sauce. Honestly, the sauce was drinkable. Volchy described it as, “The sauce is Spain: the rest is delicious words that you associate with Spain.” 

The final wine of the evening was the Vina Ardanza Rioja Reserva: on the palate, strawberry, cigar, and balsamic. There was no “bad” wine. If someone didn’t like something, it would all come down to personal preference. If my pockets were unlimitedly deep, I’d buy a bottle of every wine we sampled–truly, I enjoyed them all. I’m a broke bitch, so I shouldn’t buy any wine–but I’ll probably buy at least two bottles. (Probably? I’ve already got a wish list made up and plans in motion. Now sit back while I belt out “Maybe This Time” from Cabaret like I’m Liza Minnelli; just know I’m singing about Spanish wine.)

After the wine tasting had officially ended, they still had some glasses available. Volchy and I each got one and enjoyed a little nibble from Bravas’ regular tapas menu: croquetas are life. We paid our bills and said our goodbyes. Delightfully tipsy, we stumbled just a building or two down to an art gallery where Volchy has a series of egg paintings on display. I’m planning to buy some–but by the time we were finished with the event, the gallery was closed. If the food and wine of the evening had been less scrumptious, this could have been a bummer of a way to end a night. But the event was so entirely fabulous that, even though I went home without any new art, I went home happy. I can only hope that Bravas does another event like this soon: I can think of nothing that I would look forward to more. As I typed this up, I was trying to suss out with my bestie how many dining events I’ve attended at Bravas–it feels like a million, but I think it’s technically only two special events. This is to say: every dining experience at Bravas feels like an “event.” Whether it’s just lunch, dinner, some smashburgers off the truck, or an evening of Tacos with Friends–y’all seem to bring the same quality no matter the occasion–and it’s always, without exception, delicious and exciting. I can think of nowhere else in the world that I’m always so eternally excited about the food. What you’re doing is special. I hope you know that. I hope everyone knows that. It’s Hunter S. Thompson who said, “Buy the ticket. Take the ride.” The next time Bravas offers any sort of ticketed event, we should all do our best Gonzo impression: buy the ticket and take the delicious fucking ride. Don’t think twice.