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Description: "Tapas the way they should be" -- "as good as Barcelona" -- have instantly made the Hart brothers' "slick and cool" new 27-seater, in the heart of Soho, a raging success (even if it is "a tad pricey"); "arrive early, or you'll have to queue".
Food: 
Service:
Ambience: 
Phone: 020 7813 8016
Website: http://www.barrafina.co.uk
Open: Mon-Sat, noon-midnight.
Dress code: Smart / Casual
Good for: Good food, Ambience.
Payment options: All major cards accepted
Recommendation: Valladolid-born waiter Jose Etura says Santiago tart with amaretto and almonds is a favourite at Barrafina
I once spent a glorious, golden autumn in Madrid. It's Europe's highest capital - which is why the air is so pure and clear and it's fixed in my memory like crystal. The skies always seemed to be ice blue and the leaves crunched underfoot like fragile bronze as I walked the city's many parks.
But it was the Spanish way of life that so tantalised me. Lunch was a feast eaten between two and four, followed by a siesta (necessary during the high heat of summer but a decadent pleasure in cooler weather).
I would sometimes spend mine dozing in the Cine Ideal, with its amazing Art Nouveau windows and quirky art-house films. And in the evenings I would stroll southwards to the edgy district of La Latina, with its cobbled alleys and undiscovered squares to sample the most delicious tapas I've ever eaten.
Tapas are rapidly gaining popularity in London: currently, there are Spanish restaurants springing up faster than high-rise hotels in Benidorm. Barrafina is located in gorgeous, bustling Soho, and so I took a trip there to see whether the idea works.
It certainly looks like an authentic tapas bar, with its semicircular high bar directly overlooking the food being cooked. I was told by phone that they don't take bookings and that if I arrived after six I would have to queue.
This is usually a PR ruse to get the punters packed in early, but for once it was true. From six o'clock onwards, people begin to line the back of the tiny room and this is the first glaring difference with tapas English-style - in Spain you're still in the shower at six. There, you go out to eat at eleven, which is exactly when this place shuts.
There are a lot of staff crowded behind the counter and everyone was being very theatrical. It was fun to watch. Giant prawns were being hurled onto flames. Olive oil was swirled over just about everything by a chef with the dexterity of a cocktail worker.
An expressionless girl with a mop stood circling the same small space of floor, looking like she should be starring in an avant-garde film. The two most attractive waiters were flirting. And a lovely person kept watch over the entire performance, bringing order from chaos.
We started with gambas al ajillo (garlic prawns) and chips. The prawns were OK - though not garlicky enough for my taste. The chips were good (though not as rustically cut as they should be) and flavoured with sea salt and thyme. They came with a piquant brava sauce that was very dippable.
The menu is written in an odd combination of both languages - pisto with duck egg (though there were no duck eggs when I was there, only hen); coca with spinach, pine nuts and sultanas (this looked better than it tasted).
The hot food is excellent and the specials change every day. Whole sole gleamed freshly on the ice - not really tapas, but perfect for pre-theatre English palates.
Some might like not like the noise, but this is Soho, so if it offends you then it's probably time to retire to the country.
And sitting side by side at the bar with the food being prepared in front of you combine to bring a great immediacy to the atmosphere. Several couples there were clearly on a first date - and perhaps this is a perfect place to bring someone you're not sure about.
There would be no awkward silences (it's too loud), and you could order a couple of small dishes and then go if the chemistry wasn't right. It would also be the ideal place to come on your own to be fed and entertained.
I made a second visit at lunchtime, which I almost preferred, and ate cheek and also cuttlefish, both of which were truly brilliant.
Puddings (which you'd never find in the Spanish equivalent) were ambrosial. Chocolate tart was a rich, melting fantasy of a dessert, but the Santiago tart was a revelation and the classic Crema Catalana would have excelled in any master class.
The main thing missing was the smoking and the mess; toothpicks and scrunched-up waxy serviettes on the floor amid the gambas shells. If Barrafina were transplanted to the centre of Madrid, the pashminas and laptops would have been trashed.
Mostly, it reminded me of the Central Perk café in Friends, which looks like a café, where they serve coffee and cake, but you know that none of it is real.
Barrafina's a bit like that. It's brash and it's fun and it's different; and set in Soho, it can't fail. But authentic? Not really. But who cares? It works.
Details are correct at the time of publication - please check with venue before booking.
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