If that's not a picture of contentment, I'm not sure what is.

It's not a bad way to spend your last weekend of February, basking in the warm sun of the Mediterranean, in a town full of summer memories, vacant of tourists, where everything is carefully orchestrated by some unknown force to cater to your maximum enjoyment.  Even the wind knows just when to blow.

I don't actually know anything about this place, other than what my friend told me about his lifelong vacation home.

A leisurely stroll from his street level apartment is the Maritime Club, the de facto meeting place. Essential Maritime Club activities include eating sandwiches of sobresata, tennis, and reading the newspaper over coffee for at least an hour every morning.

The backdrop couldn't be more different than the one I'm used to. Where I see typical Basque colors, fonts and characters in my daily life, in Altafulla I saw images that were distinctly more Spanish. Or maybe they were Catalán? Since I know embarrasingly little about the country that is Spain, I can't be sure.

This salad, however, was quite Catalán. Xato-bacalao with frisee and anchovy, tossed with a romesco sauce.

Then calçots, perfectly fried by the people who know them the best, then dipped into romesco. Seriously, people, I challenge you to name a more delicious sauce.

Pure, sunshiney happiness.