TAKE FIVE . . . THEN TAKE THREE . . .

I have not got enough time on my hands to go all out on what I think about all my latest forays around the city of Madrid.  I am indeed a little fearful that on the not so touristy side I might go for the jugular on, for example, the state medical services (good grief), more strikes (heavens above) or residential building standards (for goodness sake). Anyhow, I will (more calmingly) just concentrate for now on three discreet little places worth poking your greedy little nose into when you come visit the fabulously unorthodox city that is Madrid.  Buen Provecho!!


There are no end of traditional Tavernas in Madrid which do a fine job at a great price.  The further way you get from the touristy core though, it is fair to say that things only get better, both in terms of service, product and price.  The traditional taverna is a place where you could effectively camp out all day and have breakfast dinner and supper and then grab a few beers and pass the rest of the evening stuck in garrulous conversation while throwing your eye over the large screen TV blaring out the commentary on the latest league match. Frankly, I hate soccer.  My unabashedly biased view is that there is an unhealthy addiction to it in Madrid.  It seems to act as some sort of tribal mechanism whereby Madrileños get to pound their chest and express their collective masculinity in an overtly tactile manner and without a care in the world as to whether they are causing disruption or disturbance or nuisance to other citizens.  Well at least there is one taverna where the TV is mostly OFF. Yahoo.  But that is not the only reason to like the Taverna de Moncloa at 45, Calle Andres Mellado.  They have totally delicious, (sinful even), croquettes, Andalucian bread with tomatoes and garlic, great jarritas of beer, a gregarious and friendly staff all day and night, a buzzy friendly mixed clientele old and young and . . . well, they just have a great thing going on.  Their coffee and pulga breakfast deal at €2.20 is a real treat to start the day (that is a cafè con leche, a slice of warm freshly made tortilla and a fine fat sandwich of your choice (the patè is my favourite!).  The best time for supper is about 8.30pm (you need to book!). Yummy yum yum.  Come out stuffed, sated, fed and watered (read "beered") on great home cooking for as little as €10.00!  I do not know how they do it, but I just hope they keep on doing it (and without the football blaring!).  Now where is my wallet . . . (You can book on Tel: 91 549 11 43)


Love Italian? Love Sapori di Sicilia at 15, Calle Francisco de Ricci. This might be a bit of a long shot for most weekend visitors to Madrid as it is about a thirty minute walk north from Plaza del Sol.  But if you are looking for great, authentic Italian cooking at a great price, then you really need to do yourself a favour and stretch those legs.  The boys in Saperi are the real deal; from the kitchen to the front door Italian all the way and they have taken a huge big leaf out of Mamma's cook book and applied it deliziosamente!  The hand made parcels of home made pasta filled with pear and spek in a creamy Gorgonzola sauce was the nutritional equivalent of a year of psychotherapy.  And only a toothless, gumless, aardvark could turn a nose up at the Canelo with its crisp cracking biscuit coat wrapped around a glorious fondant interior.  Holy St. Francis of Assisi! As though I was not near enough the point of ecstasy, they had to deliver a little shot bottle of Limoncello on the house.  Table for two and with wine less than sixty euro in all!  Some might say this may be heading a little north budget for Madrid but, for quality product, I say unbeatable (www.saporidisicilia.org).


These days when you a signpost for Sushi (I am using this as the generic term for all things fishy, raw and Japanesey!) hanging from an Asian restaurant, there is every chance your getting some chancer the business, but I like my sushi as authentic as it gets (being on the wrong side of the planet and all). If the chef ain't Japanese, I might even settle for a Korean take on the classic eastern delight, but please spare me the big ricey-eggy-fakery.  NIPPON  at Calle Los Madrazos is a Japanese/ Korean  affair with a fine menu from hot authentic Kimchi dishes to Teriyaki and, Yay!!!, great sushi, fresh, perfect temperature (not warm but not too cold) and the best tasting fish.  Shared platters are anything from €20 to €50 and all are adequately generous.  The friendly waiting staff (polite as only the Japanese can be) had little English when we visited and some only had broken Spanish, (no complaint as this could be your chance to practice your Japanese!).  Service is prompt and efficient.  The surroundings are aptly decored with woven table matts, dark wood furnishings and sharply contrasting light and angles.  The tables have ample room between them for diners who cherish their own intimate space or there is an option to eat traditional style (cross legged on the floor).  This is abit uncomfortable for those of us with long gangly legs and creaking hips, but it is a delight to watch the traditional service, including the removal of slippers, bowing and reversing. All great I suppose for the yoga addicts who like to practice while they eat.  Meanwhile, I say stay focused on the scrumptious menu offerings.  Next time I must remember the Sake . . . (http://www.nipponmadrid.com/)


Now about the health service . . . 

HOW MADRID'S SOUTH CAN KEEP YOU FROM LOSING A HAND!

It seems mainly the Senegalese lead the charge - on Sundays particularly. But West Africans of all hues come out to occupy every available bench, wall, pillar, sill - you name name it. They line the courts of courtyards, basketball yards, squares, junctions, crossroads and intersections. They hang from balconies, stair wells, door steps and lean-tos. The patina of magnolia and pale grays that typifies the back streets of the Lavapiès district are suddenly awash with ebony, crimson reds, vibrant greens and yellows and, as well as the boys sporting those traditional knitted caps, others float around in body length garments, mainly silks, of such vibrant colour and design that they might just as well have walked off the set of JOSEPH or AVATAR.  

When the hats are off, the spectacle of hair do’s abounds with a platted intricacy so complex as would make Star Wars casting directors weep and spiders turn to a life of accountancy. Such is the splendour that fills the sun drenched morning streets of southern Madrid.  And the people, such beautiful people, with skin the colour of polished umber, tall, elegant, striding, gather in groups to converse, discuss, argue banter, chat and chide, often in the rhythmic dialects and languages of west Africa. For the Senegalese this means (mostly) Wolof and it is no wonder that a country such as it, with its profusions of indigenous languages, ancient and poetic, would give the world the likes of Youssu N’dour, Baaba Maal, and of course the incomparable Ismael Lo (cut and paste this link to hear Ismael; http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_SAWiSPkZaM&feature=related).

I have not been to Senegal although it is high up on my wish list, but I can think of no better way to spend a  Sunday  than  drifting through the lazy back streets of Madrid’s southern Lavapies barrio to soak up such sights, rhythms, sounds and smells as might readily bring you some inclination as to what must be the magic of the legendary west African markets. And what better day for such novel exploration than Palm Sunday, the day of which the Spaniards say: "Domingo de Ramos, quien no estrena algo, se le caen las manos" (the hands fall off him who fails to wear something new on Palm Sunday).

Of course there’s is more to Madrid’s heady mix of ethnicities than the Senegalese or indeed Africans.  Around Calle de Embajadores, generally, you will find every walk of civilisation from Bangladesh to Bolivia and from Laos to Libreville, which is why - if you are looking for for some decent ethnic fare to sate your taste buds - there really is no better place to take a wander and find a table to indulge your culinary fetishes.  (Note: While there are plenty and varied ethnic eateries, good Indian, for example, is definitely not easy to find in Madrid.  The Spaniards (unlike their Mexican cousins) no likey the spicy!  Bizarrely, the Madrileños often refer to Indian food as Hindu food!!! (OMG - LOL), does that make Tapas Catholic or Fish ‘n Chips Protestant?  Anyway, modestly decent Indian food can be got in a number of places especially around Calle Lavapiès.  But die-hards, please note, both Ryanair and Easy Jet have regular flights to London and Dublin for spicy nourishment, alternatively the fastest-cheapest way to India from Spain is via London. (Ah, that might explain . . . duh!).

To walk off the calories, there is no better exercise than heading down to the banks of the Manzares River. Here you will find opening up before you one of Madrid’s favourite weekend playgrounds.  The magnificently reinstated river basin has been decked out in parks and walk-ways, children’s play areas, resting spots, nooks, crannies, knolls, and greens; every conceivable machination of space has been given expression to make what must be one of the finest public recreation areas in Europe and all a few minutes walk from the city centre.  Whether you want to sit back and people watch, rollerblade, stroll, cycle, slide, jump, hop, skip, ramble or crawl, there really is a route, a means and a place for all comers here.  Spectacularly, there is no evidence of much (if any) anti social behaviour (boozers, hobos, drugs, beggars etc), which it has to be said renders the place unusual on a European inspection of similar public recreation areas. Of course, it also can make the place a little sterile at times, but mums with little ones will not be complaining.

Along this fabulous airey space, (albeit quite packed with Madrileños on the weekends) you can work your way eastwards from the Crystal Palace, with its wonderful zoned gardens of tropical and sub tropical plants, towards the impressive Puente de Arguanzuela with its mighty polished steel spirals. Further on you will pass the renowned home of Athletico Madrid (Estadio Vincente Calderon) and finishing up with a stroll through the magnificent gardens of the Campo  del Moro  by which time you should just about be ready for a nice blob of italian ice cream (OK its not Italy, but hey no compromising on ice cream!) in one of the stalls inside the shopping centre at the revamped Estacion de Principe Pio. By the way, that little walk (about an hour and a half) follows part of a  cycle track that circumnavigates Madrid for over 50 Kilometres (one for the bikers!).

The evening stroll back to home brings us into collision with a traditional Palm Sunday procession (around Opera Place) and a biting question. Why do so many tourists head to Seville to see the famed religious processions (with the bearing of the Virgin, the streams of mantilla wearing black clad custodians of the faith and penetant candlebearers in peaked caps)? The by-times errie religiosity of these events reaches a fervour and level of spectacle as, if not more, impressive in the Spanish capital where the crowds are far less over whelming. Oh well, somethings escape explanation. Anyway, here is good short video of what that is all about:-

 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N8lFmYLqdAs

So there you have it. A day on foot starting in the gritty vibrancy of Lavapiés and ending in the shadow of the plush Royal Palace gardens. It just goes to show what a wonderful place a city can be when it welcomes difference, communities, ethnicities, cultures of all kinds. Madrid is a true leader in this game. Check out this worthy cause:

http://malugu.org/

EPILOGUE

There is another little matter I have not mentioned on the journey through Lavapiés and it is “La Tabacalera y el Laberinto de Miradas” . . . but that is such an amazing find, I have to go back myself to make sure I was not dreaming. To follow . . .!

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.

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).