Santa Marianna lives amongst the trees. A timber deck is built around the trunks; bulbs hang low and warm. White cloths, wire chairs and a small speaker playing soft jazz and keeping its distance. We were there almost four hours and nobody checked a watch. The room breathed with us.
The menu reads like a little book: El Renacer, Donde el sabor se hace consciencia, El despertar del alma, El susurro final del corazón. It sounds lofty, but the plates land honestly.
Gilda Santa Mariana starts it; Anchovy, guindilla, olive on a skewer. Brine, heat, good oil. One bite and the mouth sits up.
Then the vichyssoise from Armonía: cold, satin-smooth, a ring of dark drops on top like ink. First spoonful and the table goes quiet.
Their croqueta arrives hot, shell whisper-thin, centre molten and properly seasoned. Bread is warm; the house oil tastes green and alive.
From El despertar del alma the kitchen stretches out.
Canelón de butifarras is comfort with edges: sausage rolled in pasta, browned at the seams so the juices catch.
A cool slice of foie sits in a constellation of beet-red dots (you can see it on the white leaf-embossed plate). Sweet, sharp, rich, balanced.
Pescado de lonja shows up as a neat cylinder with a light sauce. Clean fish flavour first, sauce in second place where it belongs.
The dish that stuck: lechona confitada. A roulade of confit suckling pig set in glossy jus, fig split open beside it, a spoon of bright carrot purée holding the plate. The sauce clings. You chase the last of it with bread and go a little quiet again.
Dessert from El susurro final del corazón: the jardín de sorbetes comes in a porcelain leaf. Three quenelles, citrus, herb, berry, rest on chocolate “soil”. It resets your tongue without feeling thin.
Service moves at the pace of conversation. Water appears before you ask. Wine lands when there’s room for it. Plates arrive with steady hands, no theatre, and a knowledgable service. The staff talk about the olive oil like it’s family; you taste it throughout the night.
We walked off the deck slow, jazz still in our shoulders, lights blinking through the branches. A long dinner that holds you, feeds you, and never hurries...
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