Re-reading all these outstanding review that brought me to El Aguajal two days ago is even more

awkward. If before going I was ready to ride happily the wave of enthusiasm this restaurant seemed to
convey, now I'm as much ready to downplay those sincerely risible exaggerations.

I should say I'm sure that a review depends for a great part on luck, meaning that what you order, when
and with what disposition is quite important. Both an amazing restaurant experience and a rip-off could
depend on the particular hic-et-nunc in which your meal was partaken..

Notwithstanding those reasonable self-objections one should always put on the table before
adventuring into a restaurant-dissection, I'm still quite bemused in front of those 8s, 9s and 10s I find
below.

I resolved to go eating Peruvian on Friday night, my mouth watering at the idea of a proper Lomo
coupled by a ruby Argentinian Malbec, slightly afraid of the possible musical selection (call it musical
ethnocentrism or close-minded music taste, I hate Peruvian music you cannot avoid in any city-centre of
the world, this is another story though).

The place is quite small, it has another room on the back, quite depressing though. After long
deliberation on which was the best-positioned table we (me and my girlfriend) sit down and ordered a
Malbec straight away. Maybe I should have suspected the fact that the waiter kept on asking me "the
white one? the white one?" when I had clearly indicated Red Malbec. After a while the guy came back
saying they didn't have Malbec (first blow). "Ok then, give me this ..." "no sir, we don't have red wines
tonight, apart from the home wine" (an horribly crap italian lowest-quality Salento red, which we drank
heroically anyway).

There was no music when we arrived, then music turned on, actually saying music would be quite a
generalisation, as they put on one song, I mean only one sort-of-rap crap, keeping repeating it like a
mantra until it became part of the background.

We asked for the most attractive startes, a beef heart, but they came after 5 minutes telling us there
was no more. Beginning to be quite upset, or maybe just under the chemical effects of the hellish red
wine, we ordered a fried cassava, which was served not pretending to add anything to its 3.5£ value.
Saltado de Cecina e Lomo Saltado de Pobre where the main courses. Meat was a bit tasteless and quite
hard (especially the Lomo). I mean, not a flop, , far from being impressive though, and definitively not
worthy 12£, not at all...

Strolling to the end of the dinner we were a bit tipsy, in that awkward, crap-wine way, as well as quite
stuffed, in that unsatisfying way eating a mouth-empting food leaves you the palate, with no major
disappointments, no good souvenirs. While listening to The Song for about the twentieth time - so
spiralled into its tune I had the clear feeling the beat had slowed down consistently and we were
listening a series of different versions and remixes of the same song (my girlfriend was nodding at me, or
perhaps she was just shaking the head under the The Song's hypnotic effect) - the dinner's sense of
incompleteness drew us into ordering a dessert, just to find out the only dessert available was a rice-
pudding.

The only good note (although I shouldn't use music-related metaphor in this context) was the staff, fairly
friendly, surfing through the various shortages of the night with an admirable stubbornness and an
impressive ability to simulate amazement any time they announced something was missing, as it was
being stolen in that precise moment.

Anyway we ate it, we paid, we left, still singing in our heads that tune, uncertain steps, lighter wallets.
Probably we got the wrong night, that we'll have another go is quite unlikely though.