06 July 2026
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It’s 11 in the morning and already warm in Barbate, a small fishing village on the Atlantic coast of southern Spain. Standing by the water’s edge, Labron-Johnson doesn’t miss a thing. He doesn’t speak — he just watches, as if hypnotized. The aroma arrives before any explanation: salt and iodine, the open sea.
Beside him is Fernández, chef of LÚ Cocina y Alma (Two MICHELIN Stars), who is acting as Labron-Johnson’s host and guide during his visit to the province of Cádiz. For Fernández, nothing is new. He’s been coming to the almadraba his whole life, explaining to outsiders what happens here and getting emotional every single time he does.
The nets of Gadira, the local almadraba company, extend several miles into the Strait of Gibraltar. They can’t be seen from the shore, but their presence is felt. There’s a tension in the water, a palpable activity.
Somewhere beyond the limit of sight, in the depths of the ocean, the tuna undergo their annual migration from the Atlantic to the Mediterranean. They do this every spring, and every spring Barbate awaits them in the same place and with the same ceremony: the almadraba, a labyrinth of fixed nets that intercepts the passage of these large fish (up to 10 feet long and 1,300 pounds) without overfishing or damaging the ecosystem.
It’s a traditional method that the Phoenicians were already using 3,000 years ago and that the Japanese later helped to perfect, as Fernández tells Labron-Johnson. “They’ve taught us how to improve fishing to obtain a higher quality final product,” he says, explaining how tuna are killed quickly without struggle in order to obtain the softest, most delicate meat. “This synergy is a beautiful thing: two places so far apart and different coming together around an iconic product to make it even better.”
For Labron-Johnson, who comes from Somerset in southwest England, where he has his restaurant Osip, this world inspires great curiosity and enormous respect. Fernández explains that it’s not just about exceptional raw materials: “In Barbate, they spend all year preparing for something that lasts barely five to seven weeks. It’s a fishing method that takes into account the tuna’s life cycle and population. There are only five almadrabas in Cádiz, and each one has a strict annual quota. Everyone respects it because they know what’s at stake. Bluefin tuna is one of the most prized products in the world. In 24 hours, it arrives at the Tokyo market, where it’s auctioned for an extraordinary price.”
Afterward, the two chefs head to the port, following the same route the fish takes, arriving whole, with all its parts: the tail, the belly, the roe and the kokotxas (cheeks). Fernández shows the British chef a preserved heart. Labron-Johnson looks at it, smells it, tastes it. At Osip, he ferments, cures and uses everything — or almost everything: He never would have considered using a tuna heart as an ingredient. Until recently, it was considered a humble cut and wasn’t sold. Today, however, it appears on the menus of some of the world’s best restaurants.
On the coast of Cádiz, more than 20 cuts of bluefin tuna are known. “From the pig, every part is used, and from the tuna, every part is used,” says Fernández. “We make broth with the spine, a stew with the hip, and another with the head. Each part has its specific preparation. And I, depending on the season, use one, two or three parts and give them different applications, always seeking to maximize their flavor.”
Nothing Is Thrown Away, Everything Is Cooked
Fernández was born in the mid-’80s in Jerez de la Frontera. He soon began working in a bakery, more out of proximity than vocation. He then moved to a pastry shop and later went to the Basque Country to train with Martín Berasategui (of the Three-MICHELIN-Starred establishment of the same name). He subsequently returned to El Puerto de Santa María as Ángel León’s right-hand man at Aponiente (Three Stars). At 33, Fernández opened LÚ Cocina y Alma in his hometown. Less than a year later, the restaurant earned its first MICHELIN Star. Today it has two.There, he practices what he calls “rear-guard avant-garde” — reviving traditional Cádiz recipes (stews, chickpea and vegetable casseroles, soups) and filtering them through the lens of the most academic French techniques, with long stocks, structured sauces and extreme precision at every temperature. It’s a glow-up that’s capable of transforming a humble cabbage into a delicacy that could be served in a top Parisian restaurant, but that tastes exactly like the one his grandmother used to cook.
“Cádiz has an impressive larder,” Fernández says. “It’s the end of the Atlantic and the beginning of the Mediterranean, or vice versa: It’s where one dies and the other is born. Marine life is endless. Sea anemone is only eaten here. They don’t sell it anywhere else; they say we’re crazy. But we’ve always taken advantage of everything the ocean gives us,” he explains.
Two Paths, the Same Idea
Labron-Johnson grew up in Devon, in southwest England: an idyllic, verdant place surrounded by organic farming. His parents (his father a poet, his mother a museum curator) always championed good food, and he learned to cook by washing pots in exchange for lunch at school.At 18, without speaking a word of French, he went to Switzerland. He worked in Two-MICHELIN-Starred restaurants in the Alps and in Chamonix, and in the radical kitchen of In De Wulf, which shone in the Belgian countryside, where Chef Kobe Desramaults’ philosophy based on ancient techniques left a lasting impression on him. At 24, Labron-Johnson opened Portland in London, a challenging location, and just nine months later earned the restaurant a MICHELIN Star. He was the youngest British chef to achieve this distinction.
Labron-Johnson has worked for years with the same zero-waste philosophy: In his kitchen, nothing goes to waste, everything is transformed. He and Fernández come from different backgrounds and distant contexts, but they end up meeting in the same place: a gastronomy that understands the product as something that must be respected and used to its fullest potential.
Wine for “Old Folks”?
From Barbate it’s just an hour’s drive inland to reach Jerez de la Frontera. On this plain of white clay and vineyards, perhaps the most influential — and possibly also the most misunderstood — wine in Spain is produced. Sherry (fino, manzanilla, amontillado, oloroso or palo cortado) is a family of wines unique in the world, aged under a natural veil of yeast called flor that protects them from oxygen and gives them enormous complexity. For a long time they were given a second-rate status, with bottles gathering dust on family sideboards and rarely uncorked for a special occasion.But things are changing. There’s a new generation that grew up with their grandparents’ wine, studied it, traveled abroad, and returned to Spain to tell their story. One of them is Juan Carlos Vidarte, a 25-year-old winemaker whom Fernández and Labron-Johnson meet in the city of Jerez. With his wine bar Albariza en las Venas Vidarte tries to debunk three myths surrounding sherry.
The first is that it’s “wine for old people”: Outside of Spain, especially in the Japanese market, sherry has been trendy among young connoisseurs for some time. The second is that it’s sweet: While sweet cream sherry and Pedro Ximénez were the most exported styles for decades, they represent only a small part of a very diverse family. The third is that sherry is only an aperitif wine. It can be an aperitif, but it also pairs well with almost everything: seafood, cheeses, meats or even desserts. That’s why it can be a perfect companion for both lunch and dinner.
The chefs’ next stop is Tío Pepe, a winery near the Alcázar of Jerez that has transcended its category to become a true cultural icon. For years it has seduced travelers from all over the world with the promise of “the sun of Andalusia in a bottle.” It doesn’t disappoint Labron-Johnson, who leaves the visit deeply moved.
“The aroma of the Tío Pepe cellar, the barrels, walking among the criaderas and soleras — it’s something I’ll never forget. And then you realize that that aroma is also in the dishes. That sherry isn’t just drunk; it’s eaten. Here, you truly savor the landscape at the table,” says the British chef.
Labron-Johnson asks Fernández how he cooks with something so aromatic without overpowering the flavor of everything else. The Jerez-born chef replies that amontillado doesn’t shout: It whispers. And he promises to show his British counterpart.
The Ingredient That’s Not in the Recipe
By now Labron-Johnson has realized something: Cádiz’s cuisine doesn’t just taste, it also sounds. There’s a constant background hum, a music that’s the best salsa even though it’s not listed in any recipe. It’s the sound of the glass of fino sherry hitting the marble bar; the sound of conversations that grow louder without anyone getting upset; the sound of someone spontaneously bursting into song. Then come the clapping and the tapping of heels. In this province, all of that is a natural consequence of being together, of eating and drinking well.This happens every night at El Pasaje de Jerez, a traditional wine bar and tavern, where Fernández takes Labron-Johnson both for a bite to eat and to help him understand a word that never ceases to amaze him: “duende,” a combination of emotion and inspiration that is difficult to explain, and which Andalusians attribute to flamenco.
“In Cádiz, you go into a bar with your friends, start with a glass of fino sherry, some fresh fish, some tortillas — and sooner or later, someone is bound to start singing and clapping,” Fernández says.
Labron-Johnson observes the scene and asks, amused, if what happens in the bar happens every day — it’s just a typical Tuesday — or if they’ve staged it for him. Fernández laughs. He explains that in Cádiz, this isn’t organized: it just happens. If you have to orchestrate duende, it ceases to be duende.
From the Traditional Tavern to the MICHELIN Stars
In this context of perpetual celebration, of bars and singing, of fried foods and finger foods, something has blossomed that might seem contradictory elsewhere: an unprecedented concentration of haute cuisine.It’s not a paradox. It’s the very essence of Cádiz. Excellence didn’t come from changing its identity or pretending to be something else. It came from chefs who grew up eating fried sea anemones, shrimp fritters and tomato soup with stale bread, and who one day wondered why all of that couldn’t be found in a MICHELIN-Starred restaurant. It turned out that not only could it, but it should.
Today, the province boasts seven MICHELIN-Starred restaurants, from Aponiente’s Three Stars to Mesón Sabor Andaluz in Alcalá del Valle, a village tavern with One Star.
“Twenty years ago, the province already had great traditional restaurants, many of which are still there and should remain, because they are wonderful. We started in Jerez with the first MICHELIN Star. Since then, new projects have emerged, driven by restless young people who are doing different things for the city and bringing new perspectives.”
It is no coincidence that Jerez, where avant-garde gastronomy, ancient knowledge of wine and unique spaces like tabancos and flamenco clubs coexist, has been chosen as the Spanish Capital of Gastronomy 2026.
Upon arriving at LÚ Cocina y Alma, the Andalusian and the Englishman put on their chefs’ jackets and begin cooking together. Fernández gives him a taste of Alba prawns, a wild shellfish caught at dawn with a trammel net, a type of fishing net used on the coast of Cádiz. It’s crispy, juicy and has a powerful taste of the sea.
Then the two chefs prepare a dashi together. Instead of the seaweed and bonito of the original Japanese broth, they incorporate Andalusian tomato and mint with bluefin tuna from the almadraba, cured in salt mixed with amontillado — the sherry that doesn’t shout, but whispers. Labron-Johnson’s touch, sensitive and precise, lets the product speak for itself. He closes his eyes for a moment. The aroma he found hours earlier in the cellar is also here, on the plate. “Sherry is, truly, the sun of Andalusia in a bottle,” he says.
Fernández invites Labron-Johnson back to the Fiesta del Mosto (Wine Festival) in November, a ritual almost no one outside the province knows about. It takes place when the first juice of the harvest ferments, in that uncertain border between must and wine, and the vineyards of the Campiña hang red flags on their doors to announce that the new season has begun.
“I’ll hang mine up to let you know I’ve arrived,” says Labron-Johnson.
Fernández replies, “I’ll be waiting for you here.”
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Hero image: British Chef Merlin Labron-Johnson with Chef Juanlu Fernández at Jerez Cathedral. © MICHELIN Guide
