I feared its reputation might be justified. I have to eat here before I die, or shortly thereafter.
Although I want to be clear: the venison, for example, wasn't amazingly fabulous the way a similar dish was at Andre Soltner's Lutece. It was only really really good.
And eaten underneath a Chagall in the most unpretentious setting you could imagine for such.
Well yes, it’s the history and setting and tradition. I mean the baby pig feet at Botin are not the pinnacle of gastronomy, but they’re good and you’re at Botin.