It was one of those gloriously Goan monsoon Saturdays — the kind where the sky can’t decide if it’s lightly weeping or unleashing emotional trauma. Naturally, that’s when I thought: “Let’s go eat tiny Spanish food in small ceramic bowls.” And thus, off we trudged, umbrellas flapping and enthusiasm mildly soggy, to Isabella’s Tapas Bar in Panjim — a name that sounds like she might serve you sangria and unsolicited life advice in equal measure.
She’s tucked away on the first floor of a building diagonally opposite Don Bosco’s High School. Once we made it in, drip-drying like human croquettes), I admit — the interiors charmed me immediately. Cozy, warm, like being gently hugged by a wine-scented throw blanket. The place has that soft-lit, rustic thing going on — the kind of ambiance that whispers, “You’re safe now, sweety. Let the carbs in.”
There’s a bottom deck and a top section, but the upper level was closed that night. Why? Probably because it was fairly unoccupied. Just us and two other brave tables of tapas-curious folk, making the place feel like a private party hosted by someone who forgot to invite guests.
We kicked things off with a Hot Toddy, because: rain. And there’s something so inherently smug about sipping hot booze while it’s pouring outside. It felt like a grown-up’s version of chicken soup. The kind your therapist might approve.
We also called for The Cucurrucucu Paloma. With its poetic name and promise of tequila-soaked romance, it turned out to be just okay, honestly. Made with tequila, grapefruit soda, lime, and a salted rim, it had all the right notes but somehow missed the high note.
Then came the food. Ah, the aubergine special — a dish that promised sultry Mediterranean drama but turned out to be more “quiet cousin at the wedding.” It wasn’t bad. It just wasn’t…you know, sparkling. Followed by the Chicken Katsu, which too, landed squarely in the land of Meh. Tasted fine, didn’t set my soul on fire.
Now, at this point, hope was dangling by a single toothpick. But then, along came the Veg Paella — and what a pleasant little redemption arc it had. Packed with chickpeas, giant beans, tomatoes, this dish was the star of the night. Smoky, hearty, lemony — it sang a tiny Spanish ballad to my weather-weary soul.
Finally of course, we had to round off the evening with dessert. Enter the churros, which in theory should be crispy little wands of deep-fried joy. In reality? Slightly tragic, doughy sticks that had clearly missed their moment to rise and shine. They wore so much sugar, they could’ve passed as extras in a Christmas movie. I nibbled politely, while inwardly composing a eulogy.
Service though? Warm as a shot of brandy on a cold night. Gracious, friendly staff who seemed genuinely happy we were there. A rare delight in an age where asking for cutlery feels like requesting a kidney.
Final verdict? Isabella’s was… fine. Just fine. Not quite fiesta, not quite siesta. One of those evenings you won’t talk about for years, but won’t regret either. Think of it as a decent B-movie on Netflix. Or that person you once dated because your phone was dry and the rain was romantic.
So if you’re in Panjim, feeling a bit experimental and don’t mind a few culinary curveballs, drop into Isabella’s Tapas Bar. You might not leave swooning, but you’ll definitely leave fed.
And sometimes, especially in the middle of a Goan downpour, that’s enough.
Honest Reviews 