This stinks. I think they keep all the customers who died of starvation with their elbows glued to the bar forever, in sickness and in health, at lunch and at dinner, in the storeroom behind the door at the end of this dreary passageway. The counter in this bar is presumed to be archetypical of old-style Spain but only because it is smeared with some chemical substance similar to lichen, but a lichen passed through the fryer.
In past decades we have gone backwards in many things but in exchange, we have almost managed to eradicate filthy restaurants; during the pandemic, they continued being just as filthy but glazed with hydroalcoholic gel. We must thank the hipsters for making hygiene fashionable, rescuing us from the lumpy and radioactive aromas of the grunge scene we imported in the 90s. Along the way, we lost the bartenders in stiff uniforms and gained a legion of bald men with huge beards and horn-rimmed glasses, in which, if it weren’t for the hygienic obsession, all kinds of exotic animals would have been nesting. But the truth is that their bars are cleaner and the filth is limited to that required for authentic taverns, of which there are still some left in Madrid, where the toothpicks retrieved from the toothpick holder give off an enigmatic smell of anchovy, even though the nearest live anchovy is more than 400 kilometers away. (READ MORE by Itxu Diaz: Trump Is a Much Better Candidate Today Than He Was Yesterday)
This place seems to have anchored itself in the no-man’s land that stretches from the decadence of hippy modernist 90’s restaurants to vintage-inspired bars, mirrors, ubiquitous stripped walls, and glass as shiny as the chef’s bald head. So the old tricks from the Good Pig Manual are still in use. Namely, turn on the fryer first thing in the morning to make it look like the churros are freshly made. Avoid clearing the tables between meals; it will make the place more authentic. If you don’t know where something goes, put it on the floor behind the bar. Yesterday’s steaks will look like today’s if you dip them in yesterday’s oil. If the cheese is too hard, turn it into Parmesan powder. Garlic, pepper, and onion are prodigious when it comes to placating the original flavor of spoiled food. And I reckon cleaning glasses is overrated.
I ordered a coffee and a glass of water to try my luck. The coffee tastes suspiciously of chorizo, while the glass of water bears the imprint of red lips, once seductive and, in all probability, in residence six feet under since the end of 1990. I paid quickly with a bill to get out before becoming intoxicated by the smell of battered hake, and they gave me back my change on a small metal plate. I tried unsuccessfully to remove it from the refrigerated bar top showcase for the tapas. I pulled even harder, while the waiter wasn’t looking, and all I managed to do was to pull the tapas cooler with me, rising like a whale to the surface. Even though I’ve managed to stand it on end three times, the tapas haven’t moved from their respective pots. The chicken drumsticks look like the survivors of a nuclear holocaust. The Russian salad has seen several generations of truckers pass by. As for the potato omelet, stiff and vertical like a poppy stem, it shows properties that would drive Newton crazy. You turn it over and it’s still stuck to the plate, with that arrogant and ridiculous pose that only omelets with a certificate of origin from classical antiquity are capable of.
I saw that they replenished the pastries first thing in the morning. So I was reckless enough to order a Donut. But something was off, the logo on the wrapping was not the current one, nor the previous one, nor the one before that. It seems to correspond to a special edition of the Barcelona ‘92 Olympics. And I’m not even sure that it was the original brand either. The amazing thing is that some guys are playing dominoes obliviously at the next table, without a mask, a helmet, or anything. They are content because if someone drops a domino on the floor it doesn’t bounce off around the bar, it just stays stuck. (READ MORE: 10 Idiots and a Boat Party)
Upon leaving the place I looked back reflecting on how maybe all that oily gunk is just a visible, moderate part of what’s going on in the kitchen, where the extractor fan exhibits an impressive number of yellow stalactites.
The good thing, I guess, about having breakfast in a place like this is that each latte contains such a concentration of leftover food that you may not need to eat anything else during the day. My coffee was reminiscent of fish fries, potato chips, paella, and Melrose Place strawberry cream pie, all washed down with the aroma of sausage. You can’t imagine the amount of vitamins in there. So at least when I get home I’ll have the strength to take a turpentine shower and try to get my hands back to a state where I can touch things without getting them stuck. The consequences have been dramatic. This dirt is top quality. Shortly after leaving the bar, I patted a friend on the face affectionately and waxed half of his beard. I should have suspected something when, before entering I saw those pale lobsters in the window, hunched over and walking with great effort over their tray using crutches.
Translated by Joel Dalmau
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