DESPERATELY SEARCHING FOR THE WORST BAR IN ANDALUCIA!
Ric Polansky ©
What is there in the nature of the gourmand that he must always squat at the luxurious table of opulence? Why is it that when my friends speak to me of a new culinary discovery it’s always a restaurant cheaper than their last find? Eating out has a sameness recently that never varies: a “festive fulfillment”; as common as red wine with meats, as bland as pate on toast, as customary as an olive oil and vinaigrette salad—routinely consumed, ritually imbibed and as palatable as habit.
How to avoid that commonplace practice? Here is a Dickens of a suggestion:
It was the best of times and the worst of times. Two friends caught distant from home and hearth asked themselves the most poignant question of the day: “Well, we won´t make it home for lunch, where shall we eat Pedro? I´ve heard that Tarzan´s Bar has good steaks.” Yes, I´ve heard that too, he mundanely replied, “but I´ve also heard that there is a seafood buffet at the Hurricane hotel—all you can eat for fifteen hundred pesetas.”
I suppose the scenario for normal folk would have stopped right there. A decision made, a journey enacted and an indulgent gratified. But sometimes, dining out can lose it’s enjoyment because of the sameness of our habitual and predictable passions. All unfortunately stemming from our perpetual methodical way of being. Our mental single-mindedness. And it was just in that same instant that I realized that I too had continuously created daily my own entrapment. Tasteless gratification-- self inflicted.
“Pedro” I blubbered, “let´s find the worst bar in Andalucia and eat there. Let´s find the God awfull-est shit-hole ever hoping to flog a warm beer, sell half cooked prawns or burn baked Alaskas!” The idea fell upon his ears like mana from heaven. Let´s face it, it had to be a treat trying to amuse our more base cravings while laughing secretively and torturing our over indulged palettes.
I knew just the place to initiate such a quest, probably the ugliest town in Andalucia, Cabo de Gata, just outside of Almeria. Besides, the great guitarist Tomatito lives there, maybe he could shed some light on just such a dungeon. So off we drove. The town had a small but pleasant market, was dusty, irritable, but livable. Not vile enough for my dislikes. So we journeyed on, through the dunes across the parched hillocks and past the forlorn cubical boxes that have been masquerading as Mediterranean architecture for the unread tourists.
Then I spotted “heaven” down a dusty, dirt, pot holed, stone ridden path: Bar Paradise, complete with a broken sign swinging in the wind. Outside in the road were two abandoned tick ridden mongrels scratching themselves while laying in patches of car oil. Next to them was a broken down auto that somehow had caught fire and was burnt on the outside and still smoldering on the inside. It´s rear tires had been nicked so it was sitting on the back haunches of bare steel wheel rims. My, I loved that decrepit establishment and couldn’t wait to enter.
We skidded to a halt next to the dogs. They didn´t flick and ear. As we climbed up the broken paving steps a man with a blood stained apron and wielding a hatchet is his left hand bolted from the open door to the right of the entrance. He threw a few scraps to the scrawny mutts; they had a fight for dear life to see who would eat that day. He smirked at them. Then turned and smirked at us, wheeled about and re entered his dark abode. Things were looking up. My morbid fantasy was being fulfilled by the plagued road house.
The filthy aluminum glassed door screached along the floor as I attempted to shove it open. The educated portal fought me every inch of the way as if to forbid me from penetrating my dream refuge. By the time I got it ajar I had the rapt attention of the entire congregation sitting around the bar. Flashy dresser that I am, they immediately surmised that I wasn´t Colonel Sanders selling Kentucky fried Chicken. The darken saloon was typical of Spain at it’s worst, a long cheap Formica counter top supported by rusty chrome legs. Sat crowded along the rubbish strewn counter top were a variety of characters in sundry dress and sporting hats of some damn silly nature, as if they belonged to a film set. The floor probably hadn’t be swept since the Armada ruined Drakes bowling day. Serviettes were ankle deep as were shells of prawns, haba beans, snail shells and cigarette butts. A majestic and glorious setting to behold. My tainted and morose spirits were being uplifted by the gross impurity of the joint.
While the locals were scrutinizing every stitch of clothing to interpret which planet we had descended from I thought it best to inject a curt witticism so as to not lose control of my situation and allow them their just rewards. “Do you have any green beer?” I bleated. Then I smirked. Pedro smirked too. But the barman didn´t flutter an eyelid and instantaneously banged down two ice cold beers with just the right amount of foam cascading over the top. “TAPA” he bellowed. “Gambas” I hurriedly replied knowing fully well I was about to receive some relic of a crustacean weeks old and probably poisonous. He disappeared behind a greasy curtain and returned before I could share a giggle or common word of mirth with my companion. He flung down a plate full of fried prawns with light rock sea salt sprinkled on top. Pedro and I both stared at each other in disbelief. They were delicious. Exactly the way we loved them.
Now even though not a word had passed my lips, other than “gambas,” I had the eerie feeling that something strange was happening. As if the whole party had been pre-planned, somehow orchestrated. Uncanny but interesting.
No one around us talked for the longest time. Pedro and I, nervous too from the vexing situation starred intently at our mound of prawns. Suddenly a man from the far end of the bar hobbled over and extended his withered hand. “I’m Paco, I have a farm near here but have never seen you in here before. May I invite you to another beer and suggest you try a small dish of megas. My wife makes it for all my friends.” We both heaved a sigh of relief simultaneously. Pedro blurted out his name. I was still too dumb-founded to speak.
Within moments everyone else joined us. They shouted their names, we screamed back. Some invited us to more beer, others insisted we sample their home wines. Two young guys ran out the door but immediately returned with handfuls of carrots, radishes, pears and sacks full of beans. We couldn’t eat them fast enough. They were sweet and better tasting than anything I had lately. We couldn’t speak though. If we tried some else gave us another delectable goodie to sample. When we weren’t eating-- something was being poured down our throats. Either home grown wines of assorted colors (and of a character like their owner) or plenty more of that ice cold beer. Everyone laughed and talked to each other like we were all deaf. We had bean soup, morcilla with almonds, red sausage, white sausage, sweet chorizo and even some corn. All of the best produce I’ve ever eaten. They must have thought we wuz cousins or shirt-tail relatives. Maybe they thought we wuz movie stars. And maybe we were. Or, at worst, the time honored tourist that flies into the heavenly web of rural Spanish hospitality. But, I guess they are just that way at the Bar Paradise half way down some dusty road in a nameless forlorn town. I don’t know for sure. I do remember that it was much more difficult gettin’ outta that place than it was finding it.
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Following five hours of gaiety and banqueting we were finally allowed to depart. It wasn’t without substantial difficulties though, good friends are difficult to leave. We gave our new found family our business cards and telephone numbers in the hopes that we could attempt to repay their bewilderingly kind hospitality. We naturally invited them down to Mojacar. I hope that we can find some equally bad places— if you know what I mean.
