OK, sue me. I ate McDonald’s while in Spain.

If it makes it any better, it was during an airport layover, between Mallorca and Barcelona. And I was eager to see what they had on offer in a different country. AND I had avoided the triumvirate of KFC, Burger King and “Dunkin Coffee” on Las Ramblas.

As we stood in line and tried to make sense of the all-Spanish menu, I spotted the specialty “McIberica” burger: a beef patty with jamon iberico, Manchego cheese, olive oil, lettuce and tomato. I was fascinated, and took out my little point-and-shoot Canon to document the sign. Immediately, a teenage employee in a black visor shut me down. “No. No fotos, por favor.”

As an American journalist, my first thought was “Oh, HELL no.” And I was tempted to take the shot anyway. But I knew I wasn’t dealing with the First Amendment here, so I put the camera away, not wanting them to confiscate the memories of my trip. Not without more than a little bitchface, though.

If you don’t speak Spanish (and I barely do), the video notes that the McIberica special was introduced to celebrate McDonald’s 30th year of business in Spain. Hey, we’re the same age.

I didn’t order the McIberica, since we’d just eaten our weight in jamon while traveling through Barcelona. But now I wish I had. You can get a “cuatro de libra” (Quarter Pounder) stateside.

Barcelona was awesome. We spent four days roaming the city – taking in the culture, the world-renowned architecture and all the tapas, wine and sangria we could possibly consume.

But it was exhausting, both physically and mentally. Walking miles and miles (sometimes aimlessly, often confusedly) to each attraction. Trying to navigate street maps and the Metro. Attempting to string together Spanish sentences and conjure vocabulary words I haven’t spoken in more than a decade. Not to mention the raucous crowds that passed through the alley each night near our hotel off Las Ramblas, noise that lasted until 5 or 6 a.m. (Barcelonians. Know. How. To. Party.)

While the experience was unforgettable, I was ready for the next leg of our vacation – something much more my speed. We’d booked two nights in a waterfront hotel on the island of Mallorca, taking advantage of off-season prices and diminished crowds. After a 30-minute flight from Barcelona and a 20-minute cab ride to Illetas, we were standing on our 9th-floor, full waterview balcony, taking in the majestic views of the Mediterranean Sea. I took that picture from our room.

Beach vacations are so my thing.

Mallorca isn’t really a food paradise – or at least, we weren’t near any phenomenal restaurants. It’s an island that caters to British, Irish, German and Scandinavian tourists, so the cuisine tends to reflect that. But we did wander into town and pick up some handmade empanadas at a small market. And our hotel served up a more-than-decent paella, even if their sangria was clearly premixed and served from what looked like a large tank.

My camera did me proud. The water really is that stunning.

Sunrise over Illetas. A very sleepy Rob captured this shot. I'm framing it.

Our view. We never should have left.

The island was the ultimate antidote to the four crazy days in the city. I wish we’d stayed longer.

It’s going to take me a while to curate our trip to Spain, but here are a few snapshots of the mind-boggling deliciousness that is Barcelona.

It would take me less time to describe what I didn’t eat in Maine during my five-day vacation. (One word: Vegetables.) Here’s a photo roundup of our trip’s most delectable moments. And some scenery for good measure.

Lobster roll at Billy's Chowder House, Wells

Lobster x 2 roll, Black Sushi House, Ogunquit

Lobster roll at Jackie's Too, Perkins Cove, Ogunquit

Tournedo al porcini pizza (shaved steak, truffle oil, porcini mushrooms) at Caffe Prego, Ogunquit

Burger on sourdough with avocado-tomatillo salsa at MC Perkins Cove, Ogunquit

Tuna carpaccio with avocado tempura at MC Perkins Cove

Twin lobster special at Cape Neddick Lobster Pound

Fries at Duckfat, Portland (literally fried in duckfat and served with incredible truffle ketchup)

"BGT" panini at Duckfat (bacon, goat cheese, tomato)

"Baker's Dozen" oysters at J's Oyster Bar, Portland

Manhattan with house-infused vanilla bourbon at Fore Street, Portland

Hanger steak with braised oxtail at Fore Street

Whole roasted black sea bass with tarragon pan sauce at Fore Street

Rob's birthday dessert at Fore Street: dark chocolate torte with bourbon-molasses ice cream

An appropriate Maine-style birthday cake: whoopie pie!

And now for the actual scenery:

The view from Marginal Way

Ogunquit Beach on a 90-degree day

Rob waiting for his lobster roll at Jackie's Too

You don't get much nicer lunch views (Perkins Cove)

Leeanne and Rob, Footbridge Beach, sunset

In-n-Out Burger made its first foray into Texas this week. If you’re a fan of the cult-favorite West Coast burger chain, and you’re nowhere near Texas, California, Arizona, Nevada or Utah, I’m guessing like me, you’re seething with jealousy.

In the clip posted above, one young woman breaks down in actual tears while tasting the burger – her first outside of California, where she used to live. “It’s nostalgia,” she says.

I’m sure plenty will scoff at her reaction. But I’m assuming they’ve never tasted In-n-Out’s food. You have to get it to understand it.

My first experience with In-n-Out came in 2004, when I visited a good friend in San Diego. After a gorgeous day hiking at Cabrillo National Monument, we sat outside and enjoyed Double-Doubles. Since then, I’ve eaten In-n-Out burgers in San Francisco, Orange County and Sonoma County. I’ve introduced this restaurant to friends, family and my now-husband. And I’m an East Coaster!

In December, we got on a flight to San Francisco at 6 a.m. EST and, after mechanical issues, flight delays and several mishaps, didn’t arrive until 5 p.m. PST. At that point, we picked up a rental car and drove two-plus hours north to Sonoma County – in rush hour. By the time we arrived at In-n-Out in Rohnert Park at 7:30 p.m. PST, we’d been traveling for nearly 17 hours. We were exhausted, edgy and starving. But that first bite of burger very nearly brought me to tears, too.

I don’t know what it is, but I’m not going to try to quantify it. It’s just incredible.

Proving that I have some of the best amigos on the planet, I came home yesterday to find a big Amazon box in my mail. When I tore it open, I found my very own copy of Thomas Keller’s Ad Hoc At Home cookbook, courtesy of one of my very best buddies, Kate.

Perhaps even better was the gift message she sent along, “This way no one can snatch any food off your table!”

I was thrilled about this gift, as it had been on my wishlist even before our visit to the restaurant a few weeks ago. And it’s absolutely beautiful – almost more of a coffee table showpiece than a functional cookbook meant to absorb kitchen splatters and spills. But you know I’m making that fried chicken recipe this winter.

I’m afraid I left the impression that our Ad Hoc visit was full of intrusive, drunken mussel stealers. It was not. To prove it, here are some photos of our delicious five-course dinner:

Baby beet and citrus salad: roasted chioggia, golden beets, blood orange, pomelo, ruby grapefruit, marcona almonds, living watercress, belgian endive, citrus yogurt dressing

Mussels in a saffron-mustard cream sauce with leek coins

Grilled flatiron steak with cauliflower whipped potatoes, braised kohlrabi, black eyed peas, shiitake mushrooms, savoy cabbage, sweet pepper vinaigrette

Central Coast Creamery's Seascape cheese with Hobbs' pork belly, oven dried tomatoes, little gem lettuce (a take on a BLT, they explained)

And the finale: monkey bread with vanilla ice cream

As you can see, fun comfort food with a fresh and upscale twist. Rob, who proclaimed himself “full” three bites into the entree (the bread preceding the meal was pretty fabulous), ate his entire dessert. And of course I lost my mind over the cheese course with crispy pork belly.

Part of Ad Hoc’s fun is the daily menu announcement – each morning, the staff posts that evening’s four-course offering online and sends an email blast to subscribers. We were at Grgich Hills when the email arrived in my inbox. I excitedly showed it to Rob, and the tasting consultant overheard me and asked, “Oh! What are they serving tonight?” The next morning, we arrived for our first tasting at Goosecross Cellars and when the consultants asked where we’d had dinner Saturday, they had the same reaction.

Very much looking forward to using my cookbook – I think I might get the most mileage out of it in the summertime, when the produce is at its freshest.

Sparkling wine is one of my greatest pleasures in life. I love Champagne. I love prosecco. I love cava. I love (almost) anything that comes in a bottle with an explosive cork and shimmers away in a flute. With a few exceptions – I can’t drink the really cheap stuff, and I don’t care for Dom Perignon. I know, that’s a serious range.

There were several highlights of our California wine country trip, and two of them involved bubbles. If I had it to do all over again, I’d visit more sparkling wine houses – we missed many of the big ones (Chandon, Carneros, Gloria Ferrer, Schramsberg.) Oh well. We’ll be back.

On our first day in Sonoma, we visited Rodney Strong, home of big, bold reds. (Rockaway. Oh, my GOD, the Rockaway.) After tasting their entire repertoire between us, our taste buds were a little fatigued. We wanted bubbles to reinvigorate our palates.

Driving through downtown Healdsburg, we found Boisset Taste of Terroir. Now, we very nearly didn’t stop in, because I’d read what fellow blogger Meghan had written on Travel, Wine and Dine. I can’t stand bad service.

But luckily for us, we were greeted very warmly by a young male tasting consultant, who poured us a gratis taste of Louis Bouillot sparkling rose. I went on to sample the “Sparkling Pearls” flight, featuring three kinds of Louis Bouillot Cremant de Bourgogne. Rob chose the Tête à Tête flight,  a side-by-side comparison of two DeLoach Russian River Pinot Noirs and two French Burgundies.

I loved the sparkling wine so much, I shipped home three bottles. It wasn’t cheap – the shipping cost was almost as much as the wine.

When we arrived at Boisset Taste of Terroir, I wasn’t sure we were in the right place. But one peek inside at its spectacular chandelier, and I knew we’d made it. Beautiful, beautiful room.

On Sunday, during our second day in the Napa region, we made a point to visit Mumm Napa for another sparkling wine tasting. Last year, we tried Mumm Napa sparklers at the Table & Vine Champagne Extravaganza, and I clearly remember one of the reps pairing the Cuvee M with Thai-spiced potato chips. Certainly a pairing I’d never to think try, but a fascinating explosion of flavor. (We were sad to miss the Extravaganza this year, but it was held just four days before our trip.)

Mumm Napa wasn’t doing a traditional multi-offering tasting like the other wineries, but this allowed us to sit, take a breather and order a full glass of something. Yelp posters urged readers to try the DVX, Mumm’s highly regarded flagship sparkler. Tasting notes read, “Apple, berry, cranberry and fresh-baked brioche.” My Brut Rose Magnum: “Creamy berry notes, aged 6 years.”

Mumm Napa has a sought-after wine club, said to be one of the more popular in the region. And we very nearly joined. But then thought better of it, promising to revisit the option in the future. In the meantime, they have it at Table & Vine.

But let’s put it this way. I’m willing to spend money on good food and wine, but I’ll consistently balk at by-the-glass prices of higher than $9. The DVX was $15 a glass – and worth every penny.

Want more sparkling wine recommendations? Check out CTBites’ buying guide to bubbles for 2011.

Thursday, Dec. 9

Alarm clock goes off: 3 a.m.
We leave for Bradley International Airport: 4 a.m.
We board plane to Washington/Dulles: 5:30 a.m.
Still on the runway: 6:30 a.m.
Pilot tells us plane has an electrical issue: 6:45 a.m.
Pilot tells us we have to go back to the gate: 7:15 a.m.
Plane finally takes off after 2 hours of maintenance work: 8 a.m.
Connector at Dulles takes off for San Francisco: 8:30 a.m.
We arrive at Dulles: 9 a.m.
We’re rebooked onto a 12:20 p.m. flight: 9:05 a.m.
We sit, people-watch and eat tacos: 9:05 a.m. to 11:30 a.m.
Board: 11:50 a.m.
Plane actually takes off: 1 p.m.
We touch down in San Francisco: 4 p.m. PST
We take a tram to the rental car area: 4:30 p.m.
We finally get our car: 5 p.m.
We merge onto 101 north at the precise point of San Francisco rush hour: 5:05 p.m.
We arrive in Sonoma County: approximately 7:15 p.m. PST
We pull into In-n-Out Burger in Rohnert Park, one mile from our hotel: 7:30 p.m.
I take my first bite of an In-n-Out Double-Double (animal style) in nearly five years: 7:45 p.m.
Day of nightmarish travel forgotten: 7:45:05 p.m.
We order two more for the road: 8:15 p.m.

They look so innocent, but they start culture wars.

I’m assuming most of my blog readers are New Englanders. If so, then hopefully you’ll agree with me on this one.

Is it ever proper to help yourself to your dining neighbors’ dishes? At any point during the meal?

Let me back up a bit. When we booked our flights and hotels in Sonoma and Napa, we also booked a Saturday night reservation at Thomas Keller’s Ad Hoc, the celebrity chef’s casual bistro in Yountville. Five weeks went by – during which I devoured every “du jour” four-course dinner menu that arrived in my email inbox. (The restaurant serves a set family-style menu every night, which is so notorious that some diners choose to be “surprised” when they arrive for their seating.) We even dressed up a bit, though wine country is very casual. Bottom line: I was incredibly excited for this dining experience.

We were placed at a corner table, but practically on top of another couple, both who looked to be in their early fifties. If there’s one thing I hate while dining out, it’s close-proximity seating. And if it were any run-of-the-mill local restaurant, I’d ask to be moved. But I wasn’t about to do that at Ad Hoc.

It became clear that the couple next to us was VERY intoxicated. They were sharing a bottle of wine (who knows how many they’d had at that point) and practically shouting at each other across the table. The man in the couple was trying to sound philosophical, and we all know how attractive that is when someone’s drunk. And every time the woman glanced at her menu, he would snap, “Listen to me! Are you listening to me?” I happened to look down and realized he had also removed his shoes.

They were so obnoxious that even Rob noticed. And since we were half an elbow’s length from these people, we couldn’t talk about it. This is where BlackBerry Instant Messenger comes in very handy. Me: “These people are fucking morons.” Rob: “I think the toolbags are leaving soon.”

We did our best to ignore them. But as our waiter ran down the evening’s menu, they piped up with their own commentary of everything they’d eaten so far. Fine, whatever.

The salad came. It was a work of art, with roasted beets, endive and bright citrus fruit. I took a picture, since this is what I do. The woman leaned over and slur-screeched, “Are youuuu a fooooood styliiiiisst?” I gave her a tight smile and said no, hoping to be abrupt enough to discourage future conversation.

Our “add-on” dish, mussels in a saffron-mustard cream, came before the entree. The dish was fantastic: plump, succulent mussels cooked to a melt-in-your-mouth consistency. The sauce was velvety but kind of heavy, and we wanted to make sure we saved room for the rest of our meal. So we put the plate off to the side. This apparently incensed our wine-soaked table neighbor, who proceeded to rant at us for not eating “the amazing sauce.” “If you don’t want it, I’ll take it,” she slurred. “I’ll eat your sauce!”

We got through our entree – grilled flatiron steak – without incident. But as the waiter came to clear our plates, she stopped him in his tracks. “You’re not allowed to take that,” she said. “They don’t want their sauce! I’m taking their sauce!” Then she reached across to our table and snatched the plate of mussel sauce, practically licking it clean.

I looked at Rob, horrified. The woman’s companion laughed loudly. “It’s a family-style restaurant!” he said in response to our shocked faces. “Welcome to California!”

If this is California, I thought to myself, then fly me right back to Connecticut.

Look, I know we New Englanders have a bad (but sometimes deserved) reputation for being cold or unfriendly. We aren’t the type to strike up conversations with strangers in elevators, say hello to people we don’t know from Adam, or even slow to let another driver merge on the highway. But I don’t think you have to be from the Northeast to be creeped out by a neighboring diner taking your food from your table. All personality debates aside – it’s rude, it’s unsanitary and it’s downright disgusting.

We met some of the nicest, most relaxed people in Napa and Sonoma. They were warm, earnest, helpful, knowledgeable and genuinely happy to make your acquaintance. That was one of the best parts of our trip. And without the countless bottles of wine, maybe these people would have been equally cool. We’ll never know.

Our time at Ad Hoc was wonderful. The food, service and atmosphere were quite enjoyable. But I’ll always remember that night in Yountville as the “Unfortunate Mussels Incident.”

It’s going to take me quite some time to document our extraordinary whirlwind visit to California’s wine country, which ranks a very close second to Santorini in terms of my favorite trips ever.

So in the meantime, I leave you with shots of the epic Mongolian pork chop at Mustards Grill in Napa. We ate this one for Ben.

Before...

After.