The City That Never Sleeps

A typical Friday evening in Madrid: A friend and I decide to go for dinner at a tapas bar or two. First stop is Casa Lucio, along busy Cava Baja, an old narrow street in the centre of the city renowned for its many tascas. Every table in the place is full, so we grab stools at the bar and order that most beloved Madrid dish, callos a la Madrileña – tripe casserole with chorizo and chilies.

I love this dish: the chewy ringlets of honeycomb offal and thick slices of chorizo swimming in a pottery dish filled with a thick blood-red sauce flavoured with pimentón, the smoky Spanish paprika from La Vera that smells and tastes like chipotle peppers. But the real treat comes when we order the house wine, a surprisingly good tempranillo blend from vineyards just outside of town, with hints of spicy pepper, raisins and coffee that match perfectly with the earthy tripe dish. The bartender pours us small tastes of another tempranillo blend called Homet, followed by a garnacha from Qubél. This last is so good that we order a bottle of the garnacha at our next stop, the pintxos bar Juana la Loca, to go with a ración of pork loin, dusted with pimiento, as well as carpaccio de bonito, a plate of stuffed artichoke hearts and the special of the night, a risotto with truffles.

At which point it is midnight (how did that happen?) and there is not one square metre of open space in this very contemporary tasca with young people standing three- and four-deep around the bar and tables meant for four crammed with six or more diners. All are being served by a flurry of waiters rushing back and forth from the kitchen carrying armloads of plates with artful presentations of braised oxtails and beautifully arrayed sardines and the sacred meat of Spain, jamón ibérico de bellota – the king of ham from pigs that have fed on acorns in the wild.

Thinking that a tapas dinner meant an early evening, I expected to be in bed by now. But all my senses are on overload from the conversation, the house music, the wine and, of course, the food. “How about one more stop just down the street?” my friend Lisa suggests. “We’ll just stick our heads in so you can see it.” I hesitate, but only for a moment, and minutes later we are part of the ebb and flow of Cava Baja, making our way through the heart of this historic La Latina neighbourhood to La Soleá, a smoke-filled flamenco bar with blue and white tiles and wooden benches filled with an appreciative, youthful crowd jammed in shoulder to shoulder. Again, Madrid has surprised me. I thought flamenco was passé, something only tourists went to see. Obviously not.

In the corner, a guitarist with a ponytail is easing his way into a song while to his right, a young woman, with wild red hair and even redder lips, is soulfully singing, eyes closed, head bowed. Everyone in the room is twitching and swaying, as if possessed, carried away by the music to the point where it feels like the whole room is going to spontaneously combust in a sensual cloud of smoke.

The singer, with her triangular nose, rectangular mouth and wide-set eyes, looks like a living Cubist painting, like Picasso’s daughter. Her voice, which hushes the room, makes me feel feverish. “La mujer es encendida,” I whisper to Lisa.

I order a bottle of cava, telling the waiter to take a glass of the sparkling wine to the singer. After the song, Picasso’s Daughter comes over and sits with us. I nervously pour us all another glass of cava. It is now after two in the morning. So much for an early night.