The Review: Casa Molina Is So Much More Than Paella

This isn’t the first time I’ve crossed paths with chef Javier Blanc (or the second, or the third). I interviewed him way back in 2022 about his experience competing at the Concurs Internacional de Paella Valenciana de Sueca and after that I made a point to try his food whenever I could. At food festivals, summer pop-ups on Como Taperia’s patio, private events—if Blasco and Blanc’s company, Paella Guys, is there, you’ll find me in line for a bowl of veggies, protein and saffron-scented rice. So when I heard that Blanc had opened his own brick-and-mortar spot, Casa Molina in Mount Pleasant, with Blasco in place as culinary director and chef, I knew I wanted a seat at the table.

That table just happens to be inside an adorable converted house. Casa Molina only seats 25, but the room feels cozy rather than cramped thanks to dim, golden-hued light accenting the limewashed walls and unstained wood tables. Between that and the scent of something sizzling in the kitchen, it does feel like you’re entering someone’s home—if, you know, that person also had the forethought to create a batch of sangria ($15). I order mine almost the moment we sit down: Casa Molina’s version is spirit-forward, but in the way that reflects the 10-year-old brandy it’s made with: there’s warmth without bite, and flavour without muddying the wine down into an afterthought. My partner goes the other direction with the Agua de Valencia ($15); it’s light, refreshing and uncomplicated—just how I prefer a gin-based cocktail to be.

Sometimes it feels like ordering bread as a dish at a restaurant is a cop-out—is there really bad bread? (The answer is yes, obviously; I’m a food writer, my opinions are strong.) But this isn’t your ordinary bread ($9). It’s touted as artisan, and though that word gets thrown around a lot, here, it’s merited. High hydration and a just-long-enough fermentation meet to produce a toothsome yet yielding crust and a bouncy, airy centre. When served with the must-order, traditional-style garlic aioli ($3)—that is to say, simply oil, garlic and salt—I all but forget I’ve ordered anything else, because this is bliss.

But then the Iberico ham ($16) arrives. Yes, the Spanish cousin to prosciutto wasn’t made by Chef Blanc, but it was sourced by him and his team. The 48-month ham is salty, it’s gently marbled, it’s nutty and it’s bold, thanks to all those acorns the Iberian pigs were munching. And when placed atop aioli-smeared bread, the flavours meet in a way that highlights each one without crowding anyone out. Sure, it’s simple, but it really sings.

While we’re savouring the ham, a trio of croquetas ($18) arrive: ham, shrimp and spinach. Being knee-deep in Iberico-worship already, ham is the obvious choice to start with. An impossibly thin crust gives way to a punchy, smoky and melty centre. So melty, in fact, that the question becomes: how the heck did it all stay together in the fryer? The shrimp croqueta is just as delicate—chunks of bouncy shellfish meet a bechamel-esque sauce, all miraculously contained within maybe a millimetre of crisp breading. It’s fragile to hold, like it could collapse under the pressure of my fingertips, but it stays together despite the absolutely insane ratio of filling to breading. The spinach iteration is the surprise hit of the night: the decadent funk of blue cheese is met with a sweet undertone; nutmeg is my first guess, but either way the final croqueta turns into a two-bite wonder.

The octopus ($32) arrives as the final dish of the night—and it smells like bacon. A generous garnishing of spicy pimentón is the culprit; it’s smokier than the store-bought stuff we stock at home. The heat itself isn’t overly present—it’s more like a very welcome warmth atop the ultra-tender octopus and layer of Madeleine-style potatoes (they’re sliced thin, and taste creamy). Like most of what I’ve ordered, it’s simple, but so expertly executed. We clean the plate down to the last bite.

All of this isn’t to say that Casa Molina doesn’t have technique-driven plates. Take the salmorejo (manchego ice cream with Iberico crumble and chilled tomato soup), the huevo trufado con espuma de patata (sous vide egg, potato foam, truffle and potatoes) or the award-winning Valenciana paella that Chef Blanc is known for. But my experience here has been a study of simplicity: whether or not it takes bells and whistles to make food delicious. I’m not immune to a good show, but when food is ingredient-forward and unpretentious, any flaws are more likely to stand out. Here, I didn’t find a single one. If that’s not the best reason to return to the tiny converted house on Manitoba Street, I don’t know what is.