A ROYAL F$%K UP???

The (almost on-the-run) Duke of Palma's name, Iñaki Urdangarin, also spells:  "Dangr, Iñaki a r...ruin". Is there a message there, one wonders???

A PIZZA FORGIVENESS . . .

I am feeling bad about having given La Vaca Argentina a bit of  bashing, so I have been thinking about how I can make some sort of gesture of amends towards the land of the 'Gaucho'.  And guess what? I did not have to go far.  Not a stone's throw, up the street (Huertas Street, that is), we stumbled upon "Il Piccolino della Farfalla"; A Little Butterfly that set my butterflies all a flutter!  


Here we have another Argentine restaurant with an Italian soul that simply oozes out of its rustic warm cream interior of old parlour chairs, benches, cushions, painted panels and curtains, but, more importantly, from every dish on the menu.   It does not boast anything other than your standard Italian fare and to be honest the prices are so ridiculously cheap that you would be forgiven for thinking you might have hit upon the local student diner (pizzas under €8, deserts under €5,  a perfectly agreeable house red wine for €6 - the bottle!).  But do not let the prices fool you.  Il Piccolino is as good an Argo-Italian diner as you are likely to find in Madrid as it turns out. Everything it does it does scrumptiously well; dishing up pizzas, pastas, meat dishes, salads and deserts as only your Italian Mama might. 


All about us patrons' faces are lighting up like those crazed excited medieval diners or jesters you might see in a Brueghal work.  Tables surround us with 'reserved' notices; it is no wonder.  At the door, eager would-be guests are turned away one after the other; no surprise there either (the place has queues on its bookings list).  Part of the kitchen area, at the entrance to this deceptively sizey place, immediately announces that this house is all about the food.  The good humoured staff bounce about the place with the confidence that only a good consistent kitchen can give them.  There will be no complaints here. Our stone baked pizzas (with fine Spanish chorizo) were crisp and hot severed up on wooden palates. The mozzarella was soft and oily. Perfect. And desert? Well, no disappointment here either  (Somebody should have sent the pastry chef down to La Vaca to show them what a real Tiramisù is all about).


The general air of happiness was only briefly interrupted.  At one point, a grumpy Porteño behind us hollered for a digestif, catching the attention of the whole restaurant.  "Have you anything decent?" he cries out as a chirpy waitress passes his table.  "I have something to put a smile on your face, Caballero!" she tweets cheekily.  The old fellow grunts, unimpressed.  In seconds she is back with a label-less bottle she has swiped from the 1950's fridge beside us.  She pounds a miniature tumbler in front of the retired dictator and begins to spill a yellow syrupy substance up to the rim of the glass. "Now, try that!" she chirps confidently. The grump looks at her suspiciously with the face of man who can never be made happy.  He sips. "Ah, que rico!" He exclaims, catching himself by surprise with  his miserable face betraying a tiny glint of satisfaction.  The Waitress tops him up again and then pounds the cork into the bottle with a pop. "De la casa!" she says with a wink and whips the bottle back in to the cooler before disappearing into the kitchen like a non-plused surgeon passes through swinging doors after a successful heart transplant.  Judging by all the faces here, the warm cheeks and warmer bellies (OK, we had some of that glorious Limoncello too!), she just might as well have completed heart surgery on us all.  Did I mention the Tiramisù?


"Il Piccolino della Farfalla" at 6, Calle Huertas (just off Plaza Santa Ana) is open 2.30pm - 4-30pm and 6.30pm - early hours of the morning every day of the week. 091 -369 4391 - Booking advised.

SECRET GARDEN TRUMPS SICK COW

‘La Vaca Argentina’ (http://www.lavacaargentina.net)

is a chain of restaurants around Madrid of which there are maybe ten or eleven establishments.  The one we sampled is close to the Paseo del Prado behind the Palace Hotel in the Las Letras district. (Handy when you are in sudden need of a steak and close by!)  The Argentines rarely disappoint on the meat front so ‘Vaca’ seemed like a reasonable bet at short notice. The interior of the venue we chose was inviting with a wooden barrel reception and a dark green interior warmly lit with professionally laid tables of crisp napkins, shiny polished glasses and cutlery glimmering against oddly Chinese looking silver and gold painted wall panels.  Each to his own, you might say. The sizable dining room was quiet when we arrived with  only a handful of tables taken, but at 10pm we were probably a little early for this city of midnight diners.  Anyway, our orders were taken promptly if a  little gruffly.  But when the handsome and succulent steaks arrived, they did not disappoint; cooked as ordered (if ever so slightly but forgivably (just) over seasoned) and generously sized at reasonable prices.  There, however, the good story ends. The service was really so nonchalant and dismissive that our waiter at one point was only stopping short of flinging cutlery and plates onto the table and dripping wine from the clumsily opened bottle. We were not alone. Our neighbouring table of guests were given to sighs of disbelief at the slack and inattentive (disappearing even) staff and . . . oh hell, I won’t even bother going on about the “service”.  Back on the food front, the side orders did nothing to add to the meal (note: bad fries - nasty really), so we figured a shared desert might sugar any disappointments and kill any gaps. Whatever.  OK, that CAKE was not that bad for what it was, (whatever it was supposed to be), but how on earth can an Argentine establishment, with its umbilical connectedness to Italy, stand over a ‘Tiramisu’ that is in fact an ice cream sponge cake?  It beggars belief.  In the end, the bill was the fatal nail in this sick cow's coffin bloated as it was by additional charges for bread (€3.50 - ouch) and a cheeky attempt by the waiter to add a tip to our card without our sanction (a big no-no. Very Big). This was no ‘off-night’ (admittedly, they do happen everywhere). This place smacked of a general carelessness that most likely comes from taking tourists, who flock to the area, for granted. For that attitude, there is a price to pay. Hasta Luego? I think not, Che!

A man's appetite can be ruined by the memory of a shoddy dining experience. Good luck to bad rubbish I say.  Luckily, Madrid has such an array of options for dining-out that you are, thankfully, certain not to be left long nursing a sour taste in your mouth. So the Gods must be thanked (and the owners and the staff) for the existence of the very lively Secret Garden (‘El Jardin Secreto’) at Calle del Conde Duque.  This thoughtfully and engagingly decorated cafe-restaurant and bar at the top of the steps at Plaza de Cristino Martos  overlooking Calle de La Princesa  is not just a blissful distraction in interior decoration, with antique toys, voluminous lamp shades of sea shells,  and crystal, stone, shell and beed wall hangings (like some kind of mystic gypsy fortuneteller’s emporium) but the food and drinks are dished out with equal inventiveness. Here there is a tangible attention to detail and a clear underlying passion for  delivering a fun restaurant service in a consistently excellent manner. The staff is friendly and engaging and the menu bristles with hints at flavours and concoctions begging to be sampled. So, when you have been jovially guided to your table in one of the many cosy alcoves or window seats you can expect what comes next to be just as pleasing.

The chocolate menu is reason enough to drop by this blissful find. Try the hot chocolate with real forest fruits marinated in liqueur, yes OMG, or even OMG-er, the hot chocolate laced with Dulec de Leche; pure unadulterated deliciousness.  Madrileños know a good thing when they see it and taste it and this place is invariably packed and rightly so.  For dinner (with an extensive but inexpensive menu of traditional and original offerings) booking in advance is essential. For chocolate, there is almost always a queue, but the wait is soooooooo dribblingly worth it whether its minus 10 or plus 40 Celsius. If Michelin did fun this place would probably qualify for a big twinkly star with chocolate smothered lips, but it is just as well Michelin do not get their paws on places like this. Hasta Luego? You bet.

NO ME GUSTA 'THE PINT' . . . ABROAD

In spite of the Irish propensity for the gargle and being a loud and boorish lot at times, we are well and truly beaten into the outsider ranks on that score by other more populous nations, especially a certain few to the east and north. We can equally rest assured that 'Paddy' is in no way to blame for the travesties of holiday destinations that are Benidorm, Santa Ponsa and numerous other coach-crashes that have morphed from demure seaside villages on the Mediterranean coastline into seasonal free-for-alls where urine and vomit flow down streets like an incoming tide; where tango-ed Geordie breasts and the blue-white arses of raucous Brummies or Hamburgers are as likely to assail you in the street by night as a sunbeam by day. The wreckless developers and local city planners did not conspire to build these cheap thrill ‘Gomorrahs’ for a few thousand Paddies; they were throwing out the red carpet for the hundreds of thousands who flock, principally, from the UK and Germany.  

All that said, I about to commit an act of treachery. Despite their inferior numbers, the Irish have a lot to answer for when it comes to the pervasiveness of the so called “Irish Pub” abroad. Frankly, it is bad enough that the Irish social, environmental and psychological landscape is blighted with them, but does it have to be the rest of the planet too? Who actually thinks these little temples to Paddy-whackery in Hong Kong, East Timor, Chile, France, Spain or where ever are actually genuinely Irish, except maybe for some  parts like the odd temporary bar staff in black tee-shirt with a harp on it? (something you are unlikely to see in Ireland as it happens).  Why is it necessary to experience a little bit of (non) Irishness in Spain for example? Is Madrid such an intolerable place bereft of the comraderie, wit, booze, banter and wood panelling to which the Irish seem inextricably attached? How have the back streets of Madrid then become a breeding ground for the evil pseudo Irish neo-Dutch-German-pine-church bar-stool bastardisations; pubs, in fact, the like of which would be more at home on the holo-deck of the Starship f@#king Enterprise, Holy God.  If you are Spanish, go to Ireland. If you are Irish, go home to a proper pub for chrissakes (God, knows they need the custom by all accounts).  Buying into the Irish pub abroad is worse that sporting a fake Louis Vuitton handbag.  It is the ultimate insecurity statement. It is Ireland’s no-can-do answer to ‘made in china’; effortless copycat tack. 

Who on earth are the Irish then to whinge about the deconstruction of Irish identity at home by the preponderance of multinational corporations and globalsied high street retailers when the viral infestation of the planet’s cities by “Irish” pubs is singularly responsible for stripping streets and squares across the earth of any semblance of unique local-ness.  I thought it was McDonald’s that had that claim to fame? Yet, the truth is that for the last decade across historical Europe, while McDonald's has been progressively sneaking behind discreet local architectural frontages, “Irish” pubs have been pouncing out with unmistakable Baggot-Street-shop-bannerishness, hammering themselves onto the likes of medieval Moorish streetscapes in Madrid with unblinking abandon (Hell, did I say they have even managed to do it in the city of Jerusalem?!).  One cannot help being aghast at local authorities for playing the Santa Ponsa card so unthinkingly. The sight of it calls for a large stiff one. Get me to an airport (albeit with a police escort, I suspect).

FRUIT FOR THOUGHT . . . .

This morning I went to my local market and bought a bag of (Spanish) fruits for three Euro.  Over my breakfast, I happened to click on highlights of the latest EU report on the recent presidential elections in the Democratic Republic of Congo. How boring, you might say.  But, having gorged myself on several plates of fructoses and sucroses, I was set to thinking . . . . .

State visits are often great occasions for political leaders to exchange niceties about how two countries - with absolutely nothing in common -  are actually some sort of socio-geopolitical set of twins separated at birth. The strands that are found to bind the respective nations on such occasions are often so nebulous as to leave invited guests wondering if they have arrived by accident at a fundraiser for the unhinged. But it does not take deluded state visitors, trading wildly speculative commonalities, to  find the ties that bind  Ireland and the western part of the Democratic Republic of Congo. Forget that Roddy Doyle infamously announced in “The Commitments” that the Irish were the ‘blacks of Europe’; the Congolese would never buy that anyway. What ties these two seemingly polar opposite territories is something terribly plain and simple. It is so obvious that every man and woman, of both these distant lands touching upon the great Atlantic sea, is likely to cheer in a unified congress of Vitamin C starved souls. We do not have any decent fruit. The bits that we do have are not ripe, ever.  And the bits that are faking ripe are either rotting or bananas.  

Let’s face it, is a banana a fruit in the same way that a luscious peach is? Or a ripened mango whose rivers of sugary liquid drench every chin as they explode in an Igazù  of flavour the second teeth burst them? No, we Irish and Congolese have no sumptuous Khakis that make you feel like you are french kissing Angeline Jolie and eating macaroons from Ladurée at the same time. When did an Irish apple ever make you feel as hot as Djimon Hounsou? (OK perhaps after 10 pints of Bulmers, but that is not the same thing). Where would you find the Lingala or Gaelic for ‘fresh ripe pineapple’? Not on Google translate I'll bet. Does either land produce a fruit equivalent to a blood grapefruit so salivating as to make you fore-go a chance at sucking the face of Charlize Theron or Ryan Philippe? The Irish claim to have great strawberries and the Congolese shout about their mangoes, but have you ever tried them?

The former - at the best of times - is like eating an unshaven leprechaun and  the latter is like munching into the softened bark of a .  . er, well .  . . a bark; pleasures both for trolls, crocodiles and aardvarks perhaps. So there you have it - a gift to the respective departments of foreign affairs of Eire and the DRC should ever an exchange of leaders arise, the buffet lunch will be a great occasion on which two countries can celebrate a fruitless shared heritage.

Mind you, I would give up my bowl of Huelva lemons any day to see Michael D. (Yoda) Higgins blabbering pompously across the dining hall table to Joseph (where did I leave my Vertu) Kabila about ethical  sustainabiliity and creative intellectual paradigms (over a  bowl of Galway gooseberries and Bird’s Eye custard of course).  Meanwhile, to the rest of the Irish and Congolese, the wonder of fresh succulent, slobbering fruitiness awaits you  . . .  in Spain. Which brings me to the point of all this. 


Madrid has many many enclosed and open street markets, which you are likely to happen upon as you stroll through the city. One of the smaller slightly chaotic - but very local markets - is close to Anton Martìn Metro. It really is amazing at times the sense of closeness of Spain to its Moorish past as well as to North Africa. It is in the faces and the mannerisms and the sounds and smells of the Madrid markets. No better place then to get to the soul of a city. Buen Provecho!

My hot Madrid markets of the moment are;

1. Mercado De Maravillas is as it says - a marvel. Near Quatro Caminos Metro, this big market has all the best and freshest Madrid has to offer.

2. Centro La Paz, in the well heeled Salamanca district, affords visitors the opportunity to wander with their glass of Cava or Rioja and feast at over 100 stalls of food (and of course fruit).

3. Mercado Chamratin at Metro Colombia is spread over two floors and offers all that is good about La Paz and Maravillas, but it gets busy for that reason. One for the early risers!

Una cerveza por favour. . . no make that six please

In an effort to suppress my raging desire to airlift our property agent off the planet on the end of my boot, I could think of nothing better to do over the weekend than find a new bar. I know one is not supposed to deal with negative emotions by drinking alcohol, but as my knees have finally succumbed to the wear and tear of walking 200 kilomteres about Madrid in the last 10 days, I am left with little choice. So back off Shirley Temple! On the plus side, I can now update you on where you might get a decent sup at a decent price and also avoid wallet-molestation.


Let us start by killing off one old drone once and for all. Gran Café Gijón claims to be the grand old dame of Madrid traditional coffee houses; something akin to Bewley's in Dublin, or Tortoni in Buenos Aires, or as Mèlange is to Vienna. In fact, somewhat unashamedly, it proclaims itself (on the rear of its menu) as no less than Madrid's "cathedral of humanities and letters" (I kid you not), boasting of a past populated by distinguished artist, writer, actor and philosopher clients. There is little sign of them today however. Even the portraits hanging on the wall are so diminutive as to seem like an embarrassed acknowledgement of a questionable assertion.  Four anorexic white columns support an uninspiring flat ceiling suggesting, at least on a architectural level, that Gijón is more diocesan office than Gothic emporium; a place where a genius might have come reluctantly rather than religiously. Alas, the floor space does little to alter the perception of pretentiousness. The unspectacular square room with the odd potted plant and uniformed waiters (as you would expect) do nothing to entice the ghosts of a purported literary past out of the smoky wood panels.  And, with nothing to really distract the novice visitor, except perhaps the preponderance of the local wealthy blue rinse brigade, all that is left to do here is startle at the shockingly over priced coffees, teas, beers and sandwiches.   Expect to pay over €4 for an espresso (a novelty indeed in a city where the average price of the same drink varies between €1 and €2).  For that price, I would expect a word from the spirit world with Garcia Lorca. In the end, you will not even be convinced your bum might have warmed the same piece of wood as Míro, Machado or Turina.  The big spend might be worth it if the service exuded any of the personality suggested by the crisp white uniforms, however, even by Madrid standards (where service with a smile is a sometimes infrequent and erratic occurrence), the waiters are just a bit too smug and snappy. You be the Judge (http://www.cafegijon.com/). Next.





The Good thing about scampering away from Gijón is that you could end up in the excellent but wholly different La Brocense at 30, Calle Lope de Vega. It has far more understated claim to fame describing itself modestly as "the cocktail bar for friends", but what a find! Inside the curtained door, a cosy bar on the right points the way to a turn of the (nineteenth) century parlour to the rear.  The furniture, with its enticing air of antiquation, renders the room reminiscent of the incarnation of a Dutch master's painting; a feeling accentuated by the ochre candlelight gently illuminating traditional crotchetted  tables cloths and curtains. Yet, could this place equally be an homage to a particular traditional Catalan living room? The bathroom doors are shielded by Chinese panels, which lend a certain charm and irony, standing opposite a brilliant copy of Salvador Dalì's pre-surrealist Girl Looking out a window (1925). The tributes to early Dali are subtle and continued throughout this charming premises with hanging nets and wheat sheaths and even the delph in the cabinets. It is not difficult to imagine an invented past here where Salvador and his beloved Coco Chanel huddle in the flickering amber light - he exciting her wild superstitiousness with his even wilder imagination. 


While friendly and attentive staff tend to your order, there is plenty to feast the eyes and the ears. The clientele are mixed (mostly local) and the atmosphere is  one of mid-volume joviality; mutterings, musings and laughing overlay a soundtrack of off-beat Gótan or café orchestra tunes, making this a perfect stopping point for fittingly priced after dinner drinks or early evening banter. And here you do get the feeling that if the walls could talk you never know what voices you might hear popping out. How fittingly surreal. Salud!

MI CASA ES TU CASA . . . . .EVENTUALLY

Dear Lord, give us patience. How on earth do humans manage to make things so difficult for themselves. Take house hunting in Madrid.  So you find a place you like (and therein lies a whole other story) and you now want to seal the deal. So what would you expect except a barrage of bureaucratic hoops and loops designed to frustrate any possible semblance of expeditious contractual satisfaction. Apart from the requirement to organise a deposit (nothing unusual there so far), the landlord will also require a bank guarantee for several months rent (ok, getting a little onerous, but manageable maybe) and to cap it all off you, yes you the tenant, must pay the Letting Agency for the privilege of them having been found by you. Where else on God's little green earth to you pay for a product and then get charged a premium for having the brazenness to like it in the first place? Hallloooo! Would it not make more sense for one to drop by any old letting agency and throw them a couple of grand just in passing? "Hola querido, I just came out to buy some huevos for breakfast and ye know what, I felt like shafting myself - so there you go pet, a grand for you and we are all happy now".


That's not the end of it. 


Agent - Can ju please make sure de deposit comes fronn a Spanish bank, graaciaaaas.

Frazzled tenant  - What the hell does it matter if it came out of a lemur's backside if its real green-back, por favor?!


Agent - Oh and de guarantee too, graaciaaaaas.


Frazzled tenant -  does it matter which Spanish Bank? oh, forget it. And your fee . . . the shafting charge?


Agent - And do not forget de VAT, Graaciaaas.


Frazzled tenant - Would you like me to suck a grenade?


Agent  - Ju need a resident card to open a bank account.


Frazzled tenant - Of course I do, luckily for me I have three nipples. Any other conditions?


Agent - It takes two months to get a meeting with the immigration office for ju to get a residency card, Si.


Frazzled tenant - But the lease is supposed to start next week!!?


Agent - 


Frazzled tenant  - I am European Citizen . . . 


Agent - Ju need to have an address too to get a residency card and ju need a letter from jour landlord to say ju are a resident. Evidamente.


Frazzled tenant - How could I have overlooked such an obvious prerequisite? Silly, me. Ok, Alice, lets go back through the mirror and start again.


Agent - Que?


(Tumble weed blows down the street as Agent walks to car drives away into the distance).

THYSSENS a cure for techno-torture.

Some guys have all the luck, but I am not sure I am one of them. Yesterday, as I was just about to conclude what I thought was a jolly good old spout about the nice and clever things to do if you ever manage to get Argentina, I inadvertently deleted the whole bloody thing; just like that! Eight hours of work gone before you could press ‘ctrl’. There is a lot to be said for the quill and ink. God be with the days when a house had to be torched to the bare black earth for one to lose one’s . . . apologies, I am rambling. So how does one deal with the aftermath of techno-agnst-rage? Why, an afternoon in Madrid’s Thyssen-Bornemisza Museum of course.

To be honest any hiding spot would have been good for me yesterday, including a padded cell. Thankfully, I found myself in the less austere surroundings of the aforementioned gallery and now that the rage has been dissipated by the distraction of one of the great private collections (European and American paintings spanning over seven centuries), I find myself having to share with you some thoughts about art galleries, visiting them and in particular the Thyssen museum.



No one in their right mind actually visits a gallery of art to see all the paintings in it unless they are a) an art student b) the owner c) mad d) Rose Dugdale (WIKI her if you don't know). So you need not worry if you thought you had to sidestep your way around every wall-hanging looking like an all-knowing art afficionado. Collections are not in fact meant to be approached like the fat kid in a sweet shop. Hell, you don't go into a library and start at Aaa - do you? There is no need to pause in front of every single work staring like an owl with an arrow stuck in the back of its head.


So, before going off to see any art collection (particularly to national collections or ‘Goliaths’ like the Louvre in Paris or Thyssen), it really is a good idea to cast off expectations and preconceptions before you head - excuse the pun - in .

Whether or not you think you like art, you probably do have a favourite colour; shapes might tickle you fancy; textures might remind you of your childhood blanket (or your first date’s knickers/jocks); you might pine after a place on earth but be far away from it (hopefully still on the planet nonetheless!); or you might like Sudoku but despite being useless at it still spend hours gawking at that box in the newspaper. 

Truth is, we all have a particular tick, some internal bell, which goes Briiiiiiiig, when it sees something it likes - setting off mental fireworks, sending the serotonin levels hopping. Yet, you will not likely get that bell ringing in an art gallery by following a prescribed route involving a rigorous inspection of each picture you pass (I ask you, since when did torture involve a sensation of well-being?). The art buzz is more likely to hit by allowing oneself to roam randomly as one might on a dance floor. While the conscious mind might be predisposed to trotting around in formulaic goose steps (a guaranteed recipe for crippling boredom in any museum), the subconscious mind on the other hand is the inner 'freewheeler'.

Unless you are training for mastermind, roaming randomly means that instead of seeking out the obvious or feeling compelled to see everything, your inner radar is freed to draw you to the images that reflect your emotional likes and dislikes.

And you do not need to play inspector Morse. If the paintings are hanging on the wall of a museum, you can rest assured that some 'anorak' (bless 'em) somewhere has passed them 'technically' as being a quality item. After that, they just hang there waiting to be appreciated and sometimes loved. Random engagement ensures that each one will be loved by someone. Even if you emerge uninspired, at least you will not feel like your brain has been bashed up by skinhead art dealers, which is sure to be the case if you opt to follow the see-all approach.

After all that, it seems frighteningly contradictory for me to even suggest any paintings worth a look in the Thyssen Museum, so I will not. On the other hand, I have no hesitation is telling you what rocked my boat. But when in Madrid, do yourself a favour and have a random wander around The Thyssen Museum. If nothing else you will be able to say you saw the art collection of the single unluckiest husband on earth (no less that four wives predeceased him . . . that's randomness for you!)

_________________________________

My Thyssen-Bornemisza Museum of Art highlights are in RANDOM order (some images attached for your pleasure or irritation).

John Singer Sargeant - Portrait of the Duchess of Sutherland, 1904

Richard Estes - People’s Flowers, 1971

Claude Pissaro - The Cabbage Field at Pontoise, 1873

Francis Bacon - George Dyer in the Mirror, 1968

Michael Sweerts - Boy in a Turban, 1655

James Rosenquist - Smoked Glass, 1962

Paul Gauguin - Dogs Running in a Meadow, 1888

Eduard Degas - Swaying Dancers, 1879

Emile Nolde - Summer Clouds, 1913

Il Bronzino - Portrait of a Young Man as St. Sebastian, ca. 15thC

John Federick Peto - Tom’s View, 1903

Francis Silva - Kingston Point, Hudson River, 1873

Georgia O’Keefe, New York with Moon, 1925

Edward Hopper - The Martha McKeen, 1944

Michael Andrews - Portrait of Timothy Behrens, 1962

Heindrick Bruggheim - Esau Selling his Birthright, 1626