My mom has this joke involving a guy who sees a sign for Grandma’s Whorehouse. He gets all excited, and follows the sign all over the place, then after a long time through streets and down hallways, he winds up in a back alley facing another sign that reads “You’ve just been fucked by Grandma!”

We’ve said that twice now, after meals, which is not a good track record.

See, I have this ethic that if a restaurant is expensive and/or far away, that’s the restaurant that I should definitely eat at (as opposed to cruise by and ogle the food and the people, which, it’s true, is the case for some restaurants in guidebooks). Because if it sucks, it’s going to suck extra hard, and the bad vibes from the angry traveler will rain down on me.

Now, after two nearly back-to-back meals that were both expensive and far away, I’m thinking…maybe expensive and far away is just a guarantee of terrible? I can certainly think of a few examples from places I’ve lived–there’s that special-occasion/Sunday-drive factor that puts people in the frame of mind to enjoy whatever crap is put in front of them. But if I lived by this new judgment, and just ignored all restaurants in this category, there’d be no room for El Bulli. (Which is not my territory for this book, but you get the idea.)

The first act of Grandma was a couple of days ago, in the beach town of Almunecar. Following the recommendation of another guidebook (I know, bad form–but it happens!), I drove out to this place that allegedly merged Belgian and Spanish. It was the tail end of lunch (see, already I’m getting late for things), so when I saw some of the initial warning signs of badness, I didn’t feel like I had other options. These warning signs were: painted wicker furniture, a menu in a terrible curlicue font and many tables full of families.

The waiter glided up and told me it was a “menu gastronomico,” which I thought might be a polite way of saying “It’s a little fancier than you’re used to, honey,” but was in fact referring to the set eight-course menu that they were serving that day.

As we sat down, I noticed some food on other tables. I saw red-leaf lettuce as a garnish. I saw something that looked suspiciously like fish fingers. I saw that the waiters’ vests fit them all poorly, and that one of the waiters had a palsy. And yet, I still did not run.

We settled into our slightly-too-low wicker chairs (as those damn wicker chairs always are). The first course was unobjectionable–avocado, goat cheese and pimientos in a twee little column.

But it went so downhill from there. I’ve blotted the traumatic details from my mind, but suffice to say, I now know how to say “fish fingers” in French. (Goulettes, I think it is.) And I’m saying that even though there was foie gras and prunes soaked in Armagnac. Somehow, in the world of high-end dining, even that has become a horrible, horrible cliche.

So…that was interesting. And cost about $100. (Can I just complain at this point that I get paid in dollars, and the euro has of course gained value since I did all the math for my expenses and signed my contract? Argh.)

It was also illuminating because this other guidebook that recommended the place sounds very authoritative on the food front. But if that gets a fancy best-of-the-best star, then I think I can safely chuck that book, and no longer feel a twinge of guilt every time I think about poaching from it.

Grandma’s Round 2 came last night, in Granada. We drove up a million mountain roads (it’s true–the Moor’s Last Sigh is just a highway pullout now), toured the Alhambra and finally found our hotel. We’re on the edge of town, because we have the car at this juncture, and I noticed we’re actually very close to Granada’s expensive, out-of-town-but-allegedly-worth-the-drive place. It’s listed in all the guidebooks I have as being stupendous.

It’s a Monday, but I call to make reservations. Actually, I ask, “Do we need reservations for tonight?” and the guy says, “Why, yes, indeed!” So I get a reservation for half an hour hence, using my new alias, Sara. (Turns out Zora means ‘whore’ in Spain Spanish–no wonder people look at me funny. Also, when I ask waiters what ‘cogollos’ means–I just did a Google image search, and all I got were pictures of pot plants.)

We get ourselves looking moderately fancy–as fancy as possible, considering it’s freezing outside and I didn’t pack for a nice restaurant and cold weather. Suffice to say I’m wearing my fancy shoes with socks.

We trundle down there, and even from our hotel it seems like a long haul. We stride in through the door–nobody. We walk up the grand alabaster stairs–re-nobody. Just the toilets, marked with cheesy brass flamenco dancers and bullfighters. (Did I mention? The place in Almunecar had those terrible pissing-children plaques. Another terrible sign.)

Finally, I try one of the many unmarked inner doors–ah, there’s the party. Or at least a couple of members of the waitstaff. I give my alias, they consult the list seriously, and then…we’re whisked into an empty dining room. In the next room over, we can hear a few people–but we’d foolishly chosen non-smoking when given the choice. I thought back to college, when smart people I knew said they were smokers on their housing forms, so they’d get cooler roommates.

So, we sit alone in this giant tchotchke-filled dining room, every table set with every piece of silver and possible glass. The walls are so crammed, it’s like a Spanish version of TGIFriday’s.

Our waiter, however, doesn’t have much flair. In fact, he’s a little skinny and anxious. He gives us English menus, but I have to ask for the Spanish because the English is so strange and unappetizing.

After we finally order, the waiters arrive with a plate of toasted bread with olive oil–appealing, not stupid-fancy–and our amuse-bouche. Which is hideous. It’s this poor denuded, hollowed-out tomato that’s hiding a wad of inferior tuna, set on a bed of pimiento. There’s some gratuitous eight-inch-long spiky cracker thing sticking out of the top. The tomato is horrible, all sickly and wan (when over in Almeria province, there are special tomatoes in season–argh!), and the whole thing reminds me only of what I had for breakfast the day before.

Worst of all, it’s cloaked in this horrendously bitter olive oil. And our toasted bread is soaking in the same vile bitterness.

It all goes downhill from there: the first artichokes in my life that I’ve not been able to eat, some off-tasting shrimp and this blood-pudding lasagna, which is actually the best of the bunch, but the sweet tomato-carrot sauce on it is cloying.

By the time our main dish, a baby leg of lamb, turned up, we were very dispirited. Which was sad, because the lamb was pretty good. Not trying to be anything but lamb, with a little rosemary, and nice crispy skin. But it was so wee (it was billed as suckling lamb), it was depressing. There’s no reason to eat suckling lamb–it doesn’t taste any better than regular lamb. Let the little guys frolic a while! Eat some grass… I’ll check back later, when it doesn’t seem quite so pointless to kill it and serve it in some random restaurant by the side of the road on a Monday night.

Anyhoo, we at least had a little room for dessert. But the dessert list looked lame, except for one thing. Which they were out of.

We high-tailed it out of there. The diners in the other room had just left, and we were the only people in the place. We went upstairs to the bathrooms, we peered at the weird decor… Why was a reel-to-reel tape player sitting next to an old Singer sewing machine in a tableau of Olde Thinges? And why did that giant oil painting depict a naked boy with a very prominently shaded penis, and a creepy-looking man with his arm around his shoulder?

And why, oh why, did that basket of decorative apples still have their little produce stickers on? If I’d noticed that when I walked in the door, maybe I would’ve actually run out. But maybe not. After all, I’d driven all this way…

Remember, kids, I eat at the bad places, so you don’t have to. I get fucked by Grandma, so you don’t have to.