Those who know about croissants say that the best ones fall apart into crams at the first bite. Crunchy in the outside, buttery smells in the inside, and this is very important: very oily on the fingers.
A girl twice my height takes out a fairy pearl-grey coat, showing white braces on her shoulders, and keeps walking towards La Ciutadella. I instead, cross the door of “La Xocolateria” by Oriol Balaguer and get into an oasis of golden and steel where a jazz version of Gingle Bells is playing. I drag my eyes on the display window through glass pots that keep cookies, ‘rosegons’ and pop-corn pastries. I have the feeling that it is not the first time I see all of this; that I’ve been there before, but away from Barcelona, maybe in London or in New York. The ambiance brings me old, fake memories of London jeweleries with warm, round lights, and giant, glassed display windows. The mapamundi of the other room takes me to an Anthropology professor office, at Oxford, with green velvet armchairs, and triangular lights made of pipe smoke. In the same room, at the immediate wall, there is a cascade of wooden drawers perfectly positioned that take me to Harry Potter’s magic wands shop.
– Is is true that this is the best croissant in Spain? – Asks the only man in the shop, with his eyes painfully opened, trying to stop looking at the milk chocolate fountain.
– It is – Answers the young lady, with a mop in her hand, about to move.
They say it is, as the posters that guide you towards the register mashine tell you. A mashine where you pay through a whole and gives you the change back through another whole. And if it’s not the best one, I have my jersey full of crams and the top of my fingers shining with buttery aromas.