There is a man in Logroño’s Calle Laurel who makes garlic mushrooms. It’s the one and only thing on the menu, not that there is a menu. Griddled mushrooms, served on toast, drowning in garlic butter with a small slice of prawn on top. They are miraculous. I think about him and this bar often, as I lurch between life crises, as I think he may possibly have discovered the ultimate secret to a life of happiness and contentment. For me, this dish in this place is