There are more foreigners at Contramar than locals, but we don’t have two shits to give about that wherever the restaurant, not as long as the food is good — and the food at Contramar is fucking good. We order as much as we think we can eat without crossing over into excess, beer and tostadas and a sopa and sopes and tacos and 750 grams of a pescado, but, when the tostadas come out, we stare at each other, sharing a moment of oh my god, should we have ordered more things?!? even before we’ve taken our first bite.
The tostadas are fresh and crispy and topped with marinated tuna loin, crispy leeks, and avocado, and the sopa de pescado is a simple, clean tomato broth with chunks of fish (I forget which fish), and the sopes are little masa cakes topped with beans and something and something — by this point, I don’t really know exactly what I’m eating because I’ve already forgotten exactly what we’ve ordered, just that we’ve, as usual, made excellent choices because it’s all delicious.
The tacos are stuffed with marinated shrimp that’s juicy and flavorful, and we’re thinking, oh, we might be getting a little full when the fish comes out. It’s half a fish (again, I forget which fish), and half of it is covered with an adobo rub, the other half a parsley rub, and it’s been grilled to perfection. The meat is light and juicy, and there’s a bowl of beans to go with it, along with a basket of freshly-made tortillas, and, at first, we try being proper, using the serving ware to serve ourselves on our individual plates. That turns out to be a step too many, though, so, instead, we take our forks directly to the fish, from the fish to the beans, from the beans to the tortillas, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.
We’re silent as we eat, eventually even abandoning the tortillas just to eat the fish.
When we’ve finished inhaling the fish, leaving behind only skin and bones, we’re full, ready to get up and do some walking to digest before eating more, and you get up to use the bathroom. Our waiter, who’s been so friendly and kind the whole meal, chooses that moment to bring over the dessert tray, and I keep saying, Oh my god, no — no, thank you; we’re so full — but he keeps pointing at the fig tart, says it’s his favorite, it’s really good, we should try it — so I say, Okay then! We’ll get the fig tart.
It’s sitting on our table when you get back from the bathroom. I shrug like I don’t know how it got there.
The tart really is really good.