Still riding the high from Bad Bunny’s Super Bowl halftime spectacle — a full-course feast of Puerto Rican culture, served up with the kind of color and swagger that left fans and MAGAs equally slack-jawed, I found myself, a humble two-step away from any serious food connoisseurship, staring down the calendar.

Less than a week remained before Valentine’s Day, and I was scrambling to lock in a lunch date plan before the universe, in its usual cruel mood, forced me to gamble on a walk-in. Thanks to Benito Antonio Martínez Ocasio imprinting his imagery-rich performance in my brain, my appetite suddenly demanded Latin flavors, which guided me to a Spanish hideaway in the south, nestled in the sweet spot between the misty enclave that is Tagaytay and neighboring Silang, Cavite: Asador Dos Mestizos.

A brainchild of Chef Jose Carlos “Binggoy” Remedios, co-piloted by his daughter Chef Monique Yrezabal Escalona, this restaurant first took roots in Boracay before creeping south like gossip at a fiesta. As we arrived for our V-day lunch date like the tito and titas that we were, walking in was like barging into your abuela’s estate, (if your abuela were a part-time botanist and full-time mischief-maker who insists on showing off arugulas that still smell of morning dew and maintains a tiny lamb corner as if to remind you, yes, these animals were literally frolicking 10 minutes ago). The décor doesn’t demand attention; it sidles up next to you, cozy and unpretentious, wrapped in rustic Latin simplicity that somehow manages to feel like home while subtly daring your Instagram to capture its charm without embarrassment.

After the obligatory bread, olive oil and balsamic prelude, a gentle appetizer wink, we dove straight into their signature tapas. First came the Ensalada de Pulpo, a cheerful, flavor-forward handshake of tender octopus slices marinated in olive oil, chili and citrus, bringing the tamed drama of the sea to a plate without so much as a hint of ocean guilt.

Then strutted in the Chorizo Hecho Por Dos Mestizos, an in-house Spanish sausage that’s soft with a confident bite, a carnival of herbs, spice and pungent punch, flirting with potatoes slicked in oil. And for a shrimp aficionado like myself, skipping the Gambas Al Ajillo would have been a culinary misdemeanor. Sautéed in olive oil and generous garlic, these shrimp are textbook Spanish grandiosa, yet somehow the cookery elevates them. Not mushy, not aggressively firm, just that perfect snap that makes you momentarily rethink all the shrimp you’ve ever had. Then there was the Croquetas de Quezon Azul, a ball of blue cheese goodness that certainly awoke my childhood palate.

By the time we reached the soup course, I must confess, my culinary confidence faltered. The options read like a graduate seminar in Iberian comfort, and my still-developing palate wisely deferred to our server’s wisdom. We landed on the Alubias Blancas a la Fabada, a potage of white beans studded with chorizo and jamón serrano. Think pork and beans, but with a passport and a pension plan. The consistency was velvet in motion, melting obligingly on the tongue, while the chorizo and jamón deepened the broth into something both hearty and improbably refined. It’s peasant food that went on to get a doctorate degree.

For the much-awaited climax, lamb chops and their Lomo de Vaca a la Pobre finally made landfall in a table already reeling from the tapas and soup aftermath. The lamb, paired with chimichurri and lounging against buttery polenta, incredibly seasoned, endearingly smoky, generously juicy and will be the stuff of my dreams. I’ll probably even include it in my last-meal-list. The beef tenderloin followed, thick-cut with a commendable crust, flanked by herb confetti and thin potato medallions. I found myself interrogating its aging process like a detective in a gastronomy noir, but whatever alchemy occurred backstage, it worked. The pepper sauce, built from beef stock, onion, garlic, carrots and mixed herbs, didn’t just accompany; it elevated, nudging the steak’s profile.

We needed a moment, literally and figuratively, to digest the culinary parade we’d just survived. There was the lingering question: Is there still room for dessert, or is it madness to even ask? Madness, clearly, because their homemade Leche Flan arrived and any self-control evaporated. Silky yet obedient, soft with just enough firmness, it seemed to know exactly when to surrender and melt in your mouth. No bubbles and certainly no theatrics, just pure, unadulterated magic. Not too sweet, not flaccidly mushy, but the kind of dessert that makes you imagine the gods themselves debating whether to smuggle a plate back to Olympus.

I’ve always gravitated toward quiet, cozy spaces for dates, spots that favor conversation, small intimate moments and that rare kind of wholesome intimacy that trendy cafes and spectacle-driven restaurants seem allergic to. At this place, I didn’t spot another couple celebrating Valentine’s Day besides my own accomplice in indulgence. Instead, full-blown families held court, exchanging smiles, greetings and laughter; ours just happened to be louder, more conspicuous. Maybe that’s something people forget in the choreography of romantic gestures brought by the day.

Now, to circle back after an ADHD-infused thought process, I honestly think if Bad Bunny had to pick a post–Super Bowl supper, this is exactly where he’d end up, still dripping with swagger but settling into the comfort of a plate that actually understands him.