Iberos, St. Albans
A surprising Spanish standout
Iberos wasn’t even supposed to be my most interesting meal that day.
I was in St. Albans to visit my sister, and knew what dinner would be: takeout from Gracey’s, the acclaimed east coast-style pizzeria that, along with Vincenzo’s in Bushey, has been doing Hertfordshire proud. But I figured I’d mooch around town for the drizzly day, stop into a cafe or two, stroll the market, and find somewhere nice enough for a light lunch.
Iberos proved much more than that. Only opened last November, its tapas-ish menu takes inspiration from across the Iberian peninsula. It’s under the same ownership as next-door Dylan’s — apparently also excellent — and boasts Noble Rot alumni among its staff. All good signs.
It was one of a few options my sister recommended, and by chance our Instagram research made the decision for us: just the day before, the restaurant proudly announced that it had received a shipment of calçots, a Catalan cross between a leek and a spring onion. They’re only available for a scant few weeks a year — hey, I guess I’m not so bad at eating seasonally after all — and somehow across nearly a decade’s worth of trips to Barcelona at the tail-end of calçot season, I’ve never actually spotted them in Spain.
The proper way to eat calçots, as I understand it, is blackened from the grill, peeling the burnt layers back with your hands, plunging what’s left deep into the romesco-esque salsa, and then lowering the whole thing into your mouth from on high. Suffice to say, Iberos’ presentation was just a touch more restrained: a single, thick onion, stripped bare and sliced lengthways, resting on a thick bed of sauce; cutlery was provided. Still, for what they might have lacked in animalism (and perhaps volume and value, though I suspect these things cost a pretty penny to have shipped over), Iberos’ calçots were excellent, smoky and tender and a perfect vehicle for forkfuls of the bright romesco underneath.
More impressive still was what came before it: a slab of Iberico rump cap, served pink as steak and just as forceful in flavour, a piece of pork so good it makes you want to add the farmer to your Christmas card list. It’s accompanied by braised lentils, cooked so soft that you can see them considering falling apart, and a fistful of mustard. And what a mustard: sweet, pungent, mild one moment then capable of catching you off guard the next. Apparently they imported this from Barcelona too; I want the name of their dealer so I can set up a supply line myself.
Not every dish comes out of the kitchen quite so immaculate. Cider-braised chorizo is unduly tough, the sausage itself a one-note hit of paprika, though I enjoy the subtle honeyed sweetness I detect in the cider sauce. The pan con tomate is unexpectedly rich, the flavour as deep as the tomatoes’ dark hue; I enjoy it, but miss the sharp, raw acidity I’m used to when I eat this in Spain. Grilled squid is a fraction too bitter by contrast, whether from its time over heat or the lashings of olive oil on top, though I cannot fault the grilling itself: I’m not sure I’ve ever eaten squid so soft.
To drink, we stick with a couple of glasses each of what proves to be a pretty charming house cava, especially at £6 a pop. There’s a good range of options by the glass, and a fair few under £50 for a bottle, with a spread of sherries on offer for the committed. A short trio of desserts round out the menu; the panna cotta proves exquisite, and substantial enough to share. The sweet cooked cream is scattered with vanilla, but more exciting is the glistening pool of straw-coloured olive oil, salt crystals shimmering on top. Here the kitchen has performed its sweet-savoury dance faultlessly, and we slurp up every quivering spoonful we can.
A final, closing note for Iberos’ unsung hero, the unexpected star of an unexpected meal: the house salad. What could easily have been a jumble of loose lettuce is instead a heaving tower of frisée, radicchio, radishes, and more bitter leaves besides. It’s dressed simply: good olive oil, perhaps a little vinegar, an appropriately heavy hand with the salt. It is simply and quietly excellent, and Iberos is much the same.
