MADRID GOTHIC . . . .

 

I  could not stop thinking about Grant Wood's American Gothic last night. Then it dawned on me.  Recently, I had been meandering my way through the absurdly silent Malasaña and Tribunal backstreets (on a Sunday night, all the mad Madrileños had migrated south to La Latina for their ritual collective end-of-weekend debauchery - did I mention that Madrileños move about in great shoal-like waves? anyhow . . ).   I was struck by this little tavern, which for all the world, could have easily sat on a small town high street in middle America 100 years ago, or just as easily in Paris in the 70's or as it does now in the middle of this Spanish urban maze. 

The high bar with confessional like panels subdividing it, large brass taps, a massive inclined mirror reflecting a  chequered floor and oak barrels all cloaked in a dim ochre light had a gothic hue worthy of any Roman Polanski set.  A solitary couple,  he beareded, thirty, drunk, clasping her; she wrapped in large black collared three quarter length, red lipstick, auburn wavey hair, heeled, tipsy, giggling at his rabid  kisses, turn and stare.  
LANA TURNER plucks her purse from the counter and stomps towards the glass doors.  She stares. Pulls out a cigarette. Quick flicker.  Plume of smoke.  James CAGNEY? No. STEWART;  Beautiful, awkward, trundles after the moll.  Door swings shut.  Another cigarette.  Giggles. Kissing. I  enter the bar.  Unfinished Riojas, black, sit.  Waiting. I pass the confessional and grab a stool.









There THEY are then, behind the bar. 
"Si, Señor?"
"Un Ribero de la Casa, por favor"
"Si Señor"
HER back is turned. HE leaves the bar. The TV is on. SHE cuts bread. Some socialist politician is thumping the podium.  A full bottle of wine, an advertisement, sits on the bar.  1978.  The wine has turned to treacle.  The bottle cloaked in dust and grease.  The vineyard?  Who knows. 
The Brass taps sparkle. Polished. Owned.  A plate clanks on the glass surface.  I turn.  Hot toasted breads with tomatoes, anchovies and garlic.  Dainty, sweet smelling, knitted deliciousness.  HE returns with the wine an pours.  SHE stands with her back to me always.  Her hair is cropped.  She wears a black knitted cardigan.  Her shoulders are risen as though she is holding a sigh in her bosom.  Is SHE?  HE folds his arms, leans beside her and stares at the TV.  I look across the empty room. 
The SOCIALIST blathers on.  "Compañeros . . .  blaa blaa blaa. . .".  Is this a movie?  HE turns down the sound.
"Compañeros, compañeros!".  HE sighs.
SHE turns.  Resting against the counter she looks out.  Her shoulders fall.  SHE smiles.  HER eyes are THAT blue.  Then the smile fades.

The Doors crack open. Giggling. The STARS are back. Glasses clink.

HE with his small grey pony tale unfolds his arms. He rubs HER arm up and down. Up and down. UP and down. 

"Señor" a drunken voice calls out.
SHE turns to cut some bread.
HE, "Si".

Spain is facing years of economic hardship but the timeless TABERNA MAYRIT, one suspects, will always be found at Bernado López Garcia,11.