Turull’s Kitchen and Bar feeds the need for Orlando diners with Spain on the brain

I blame Miles Davis. Sketches of Spain warped my teenage brain — fueled a castanet-riddled wanderlust that had me forever looking east. Today, Spain is part-time home. I spend a month a year in Catalonia and have gobbled my way from San Sebastian to Sevilla. They say write what you know, and I know my caracoles from my cabrales.

Be it part-time Spaniard, full-time expat or badly behaved Brit on holiday, the siren song of Spain has long lured. Orwell took a bullet for it. And it was the strum of live Spanish guitar that pulled us into Hiram and Diane Turull’s homage to the Iberian, the logically named Turull’s Kitchen & Bar.

That Turull’s is inspired by Barcelona is no secret; Instagram told me. And the southside strip-maller does vibe like many of the less bloggable, more contemporized tabernas in “Barna,” places where authenticity and quality are not always mutually exclusive. What was unquestionably authentic was its largely empty dining room at 6 p.m., an hour no self-respecting Spaniard would deign to consider dinner.

Turull’s menu features a smattering of larger plates but is anchored in tapas, including the ubiquitous barometer bite tortilla de patatas ($12). Our forecast? Dry and spongy. To resuscitate, pieces of the potato omelet were bathed in the garlicky oil of a neighboring cazuela of gambas al ajillo ($17) — a cazuela of goodness brimming with sweet, springy shrimp. Another barometer bite, pan con tomate ($8), fared better. Tomato bread is simple in concept, less simple to execute. Bread is the non-negotiable, and the bread at Turull’s was sufficiently reminiscent of traditional “glass bread” to impress, crisp-crusted and open-crumbed — a perfect raft for fresh tomato, olive oil and salt. We could have eaten several plates.

I keep three things in my fridge in Spain: enough cheap verdejo to tranquilize a toro, gazpacho and croquetas. Croquetas are the busy little fingers of Catalan cuisine — wiggling their way into every menu and supermarket, where quality, locally-made takes are often found. The crisp exterior and creamy béchamel-and-cod interior of Turull’s croquetas de bacalao ($13) tasted precisely of these choicer store-bought versions. This is a compliment.

Jamón Ibérico ($36) — acorn-fed piggie — arrived like smoke on the water — deep purplish — with ivory-white streaks of fat. Although oily and muted, far from the melty wow of revered brands like Cinco Jotas, it was ham, and it was vanished.

What qualifies as paella makes for lively debate in Spain. We ordered a paella Valenciana that wasn’t paella Valenciana ($65), but was what most Americans consider paella to be: a riot of land-and-sea protein (in this case, chorizo, chicken and mixed seafood) nestled in saffron rice. Although we enjoyed it, there were issues. First, a sacrilege: There was zero socarrat — the prized crispy rice layer at the bottom of the pan. And second, mollusks also played spoiler: Like the fat-pipe sourced versions found in many Orlando restaurants, the mussels were wads of lifeless funk.

Paella negra is also not a thing. Arroz negro is. Semantics aside, paella negra ($41), calamari cooked in black rice, was a clearly defined winner. Although its squiddy ringlets were hoop-earring svelte, the flavor was fat with squid-ink umami and much enjoyed.

We capped the evening with a boozy carajillo, a crema Catalana lacking in the characteristic citrus and cinnamon ($12), and a straight-ahead slice of almond cake ($11). All were adequately tasty and like Turull’s itself, Proust Effective. Turull’s flavors do remind me of Catalonia. And even if many of the finer notes are clumsily played — like covering the “Concierto de Aranjuez” on the kazoo — those with Spain on the brain will still appreciate the tune.

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This article appears in Jul 16-22, 2025.