I Barely Survived a Hands-On Vermut Masterclass in Barcelona – Spills, Secrets & Bars
Okay, confession up front: I stumbled into this vermut masterclass while killing time in Barcelona on a solo trip. The city's got this whole aperitivo ritual thing, and I thought it'd be a breezy way to sip something local before tapas. Nope. Turned into four sweaty, herb-choked hours in a cramped bodega backroom with a bunch of strangers. The locals leading it were no-nonsense types, hands scarred from decades of distilling. I walked out with spills on my shirt, a notebook full of scribbles, and this odd new appreciation for a drink I'd barely noticed before. If you're thinking about diving into something hands-on like this, here's the messy truth from someone who barely held it together.
Starting Rough: The Bodega Backroom and My First Big Spill
We met up at Vermuteria del Barri on Carrer de Vidre, 6, right in the Born – that gritty-cool neighborhood where everything feels a little hidden. It's open daily from noon on, but classes fill fast, so ring ahead. Joan, the owner, looks like he wrestles barrels for fun. No chit-chat. He herds us to this wall stacked with fifty-odd bottles: syrupy sweets from Italy rubbing shoulders with the sharp, dry Catalans. "This has teeth," he grunts. Not your grandma's herb tea.
I dove in too fast, grabbing botanicals for the first mix – wormwood, gentian, some wild local root that smelled like hiking boots after rain. Splash. Half of it hits Joan's boot. My face burns. But he barks a laugh, chucks me a rag: "Slow down, or switch to fizz." Broke the tension right there. We worked white wine bases, mostly xarel·lo from Penedès vineyards nearby, letting roots steep slow. Joan sketched the backstory quick – vermut hour born from lazy Sunday family pours, now the heartbeat of any decent afternoon here.
Blind tasting next. I tanked it hard, calling a bitter quina something fruity. Chuckles all around. Humbled me quick. But it clicked: sniff the base wine alone first, or citrus will throw you off into soap territory. Notes smudged from shaky hands, but I was in by then. Sweaty, sure, but hooked.
Leveling Up in the Distillery Annex – Hands Got Messy
Shuffled next door to the annex with the copper stills. Aprons on. This is where it ramped up. Maria – my station buddy, quiet ex-vineyard hand from Priorat – showed the order: bitter roots down low for grit, citrus peels for spark, spices last or they bully everything. Low-heat vacuum pulls kept the herb oils alive, no scorching the good stuff.
My go? Disaster. Lips curled like I'd chewed peel straight. "Ease the orange," Maria says, all calm. "It forgives newbies, not hogs." We drew warm pulls from barrels – raw, fuzzy drafts tasting like forgotten spice racks. Stories bubbled up: an Aussie owning up to ruining vermut in bad martinis; a local dropping his granddad's Civil War hack, loaded with extra gentian. I scorched mine twice, got lost in Maria's tales of Priorat dirt. Smelled like charred regrets. Pro tip stuck: room temp serve wakes the herbs – fridge kills 'em.
Built classics after: soda fizz, orange twist, olive skewer. Siphon pour till it sang. Mine fizzed over once from rushing. Hours vaporized in laughs and fumes. Pointed out one thing clear: vermut's a group sport, screw-ups shared best.
Post-Class Bar Crawl: Three Spots That Reset Me
Stumbled out lightheaded, straight to the streets. Needed proper pours. Hit Paradiso first, Carrer de Rera Palau, 4 in El Born. Sneak in via fake phone booth – full speakeasy. Velvet nooks, shelves glowing. Marc Álex's crew slings a house Negroni vermut with mezcal smoke and anchovy bites. Bitters sliced my fog. Off-menu barrels yielded floral bergamot kicks. Smoky-briny bliss at €12-18. Paired killer with jamón scraps. Lingered, soaking notes. Drama earned the tab.
El Xampanyet next, Carrer de Montcada, 22 – sardine-can chaos, locals crammed (daily noon-3:30, 7-11:30, cash, no books). Tap vermut, escabeche mussels, spicy bombas. Wedged in for the ritual: pour, sifón, ice, twist. Herbs crisp against the grease. Fisherman beside me spun yarns on coastal origins, swore home brews crush bottled. €3 magic. Cava float if daring. Rowdy reset.
Wrapped at Bodega La Palma, Carrer de la Palma de Sant Just, 7 (since '35, Mon-Fri noon-4/8-midnight, Sat till 1am). Tiled relic, quieter hum. Rosado vermut, nutty from air-kissed age, with bravas that bit back. Pepe the owner grilled herbs – flubbed most, nailed wormwood. Oak depth sang. Toasts all around, feet throbbing, palate alive. These three? Post-class lifelines, each deepening the day's blur.
Pulling It Together: Trends, a Few Health Notes, and the 5 Secrets That Stuck
Back at the Airbnb, head pounding, I decoded my mess of notes. Vermut's surging – not stuck in past. Small makers tweak smokes, wild yeasts, cocktail twists. Poblenou's spring festival pulled crowds for rare pours; more pop-ups brewing. Health nudge: Catalan research from UOC flags wormwood's antioxidants like red wine's, bitters easing meals. Aperitivo perk, no big claims.
Five bits that lodged deep:
- Base Right: Xarel·lo or parellada, Penedès crisp. No acid backbone? Flops.
- Botanicals Light: 20-30 max; wormwood 1-2% leads. Else, cough syrup city.
- Sugar Balance: 100-160g/L dolce-style, drier quinine here. Key.
- Barrel Twist: Anis wood swaps vanilla for star anise zing – local edge.
- Nose First: Swirl deliberate; scents flee. Pros spit tastings.
Looking ahead: collabs, peel scraps reused, maybe sweets. Fortified world's widening.
Two Weeks On: I'd Go Again – You Next?
Liver mended. Notebook rules my counter now. Botched a home try – citrus overload again – but chuckled like Joan'd approve. Wasn't mere class; rewired me from fumbler to pourer with tales. Barcelona vermuts hum in every glass. Curious? Grab a spot. Spill free, taste bold. Who's game? Comments open – swap my flop recipe. Cheers.
