A Spanish Morning- Un café y pincho
It’s early, or is it late? In Spain those morning lines are often blurred. I lock the door and turn back towards the world where I’m greeted with the casually animated chatter of the last few revellers from the previous evening’s events as they meander down my barrio’s narrow streets. Madrid is awake, and a dry wind gently whistles through the air as I shuffle into the local bar for my late summer staple: un café con hielo y un pincho de tortilla.
Even during the working week nights can be long in Spain and huddled up to the bar, my body reverberating from the sounds of the impromptu salsa night that me and a few others had not that long ago left I’m thankful for the sunglasses I had grabbed from my bedside table, unfolding the few euro street-corner-specials before putting them across my ears.
I’m less thankful for the suit and tie that surrounds me, constricting my movement as I struggle past my stiffened cuffs to click my watch strap into place. The last piece in the ensemble of my aesthetic preparations ahead of another baking day in the Spanish capital.
A small plate is quickly thrust towards me. A glass soon follows, rattling off the counter as coffee percolates behind the bar, a whoosh of steam raising a childish yelp from the server. A second glass appears. This time, the clatter of ice as it’s shovelled in temporarily causing my senses to wince, a noise soon replaced by a scraping sound as a plate of tortilla is spun to produce the perfect slice from behind the counter as I drag my stool closer in anticipation.
I look up to the corner television where the morning’s other patron is currently staring. Nobody does animated chatter quite like panelists on Spanish TV and I follow along. My Spanish is serviceable, it has to be, and one point in particular raises a quintessentially Iberian hand wave and groan from the man at the end of the bar who may, or may not, be on shift.
The plate is placed in front of me where quickly, but politely, I refuse the offer of mayonnaise, “What kind of monster do you take me for?” I think, before slicing my little fork through a tortilla with an ooze that would frighten many but is a welcome sight to my hidden, but increasingly hungover eyes. I pour the hot coffee over the ice and swirl the cubes around as though I am about to take my last throw at a crapshoot.
It’s not the best tortilla I’ve ever had, it doesn’t need to be, a mundane tortilla in Spain still has the beatings of most and I hungrily tear at the obligatory hunk of bread to help mop up the escaping trickles. The coffee floods my mouth in just a couple of gulps and I feel my senses stir from their slumber. Fumbling around in my pockets I ask for the bill, whipping my jacket on whilst simultaneously taking a final bite before throwing down a couple coins to cover the bill.
I’m awake now and there’s a spring in my step as I push the stool back and head for the door. I say “hasta luego” and then look up to see the emerging rush hour cavalcades. Horns blow, scooters rev and buses stop and sigh as the flashing of red cards beep the masses on board.
Walking is always my preference and so I grab a bottle of water from the nearest kiosco and take a long slow sip, letting the plastic crumple just a little before screwing the cap back on. I tell myself that tonight, tonight will be an early one, but in reality I am ready to do it all over again.