Wherever I lay my head, there's a bar.
It's not just good fortune - there's a monton of funky drinking establishments in this fair city to cater to your every whim, including the whims you'd rather not discuss.
From the Wax Museum's hidden forest to the 'smoking nights on Wednesdays, Backgammon Thursdays' Pipe Club, plus the Fairground, Museum of Whisky and the Champagneria in between, not to mention all the 'real' Catalan bars with their low prices and fluorescent strip lighting, if you go thirsty in this town then you're really not trying.
The doughty (and no doubt Trojan-livered) Margarita Puig recently brought out a book called "Where they've never taken you at nightfall in Barcelona", filled with wicked watering holes and funky facts. There are, it turns out, at least four bars dedicated to swinging in Barcelona, three of which have their own beds for customers' use; no fewer than 16 bars have decent art shows brightening the walls; and among the collection of fetish bars, only Sm55 offers "the final fisting" at the end of the month, where drinks are 2 for 1 between 1 and 2 in the morning.
Her book doesn't claim to be exhaustive, partly because it can't be. If you're at the tops of the mountains or in the shadiest basement, you'll still find a handful of bottles, a beer pump and someone willing to serve until 2am. It's like a city called Soho, only with less vomit. The trendier bars are open till 3am or so (entrance fee? dress code? you're not from round here, are you?) and then it could be onto the clubs which are usually open until... well actually I think there are a few that still have yet to shut.
This means of course that drinking habits are a little different from the beloved Albion. The largest quantity of beer you'll find in one container is a bottle, apart from in the tourist bars where they've imported German beersteiners to quiet whinging foreigners. More common is a small glass of the local brew (99% of the time it's Damm's Estrella, that tastes a lot weaker than its 5%) and it will usually take a local around half an hour or more, between cigarettes and heated debate, to sip from this vessel that holds less than half a pint.
However, Barceloneans more then make up for such meagre offerings when they order a spirit and mixer. Measures here are generous in the way that Mother Theresa was, and by the time the bar staff have finished pouring the alcohol, you have a choice between a slice of lemon or a drop of mixer because you can be sure as jiminy that there won't be room in your tall glass for both. Drinking vodka-and-lime-for-the-lady's at a British pace will rightly put you in bed at a British time, while everyone else is still warming up.
The city may be cooler than an iceberg lettuce, but it also has its dives. There are two big sections reserved, it seems, entirely for visiting stags and hens, down at the emptier parts of the beach and in the concrete helljetty known as Maremagnum. At these awful areas, Brits and Germans are welcomed with open arms and the sound 'kerching' in Hard Rock Caf�s and Baja Beach bars, Cuban theme bars and Hawaii 5.0, a collection of places whose Robbie Williams collection is unrivalled on these shores outside of Lanzarote. A peer inside reveals more bright red specimens than at a Swedish crayfish festival, all of whom are sufficiently drunk, sunburnt and adorned in oversize Sombreros to forget which country they're in. Which may in fact be the point.
These black holes have been carefully situated away from the old town and away from anything breakable or stealable, which is all well and good. But then of course there's the other sort, which are scattered among more comely locations. You know the ones - they're all over the world and spread with a speed and reach that Sars would kill for. I speak of the Irish pub, sufficiently numerate here - more than 30 at last count - to have their own two division football league. There are 5 or so English pubs too (La Philharmonica - the only pub in town to offer a genuine English breakfast!)... but something tells me I'm going to return to those next week.
By which I mean, I won't actually be going in next week either (though I've heard they do a mean lasagne and chips) but will instead be unleashing the hounds of Barcablog on the world of expat. Get your Watney's Red Barrel in now.
Posted by Andrew Losowsky at May 19, 2003 01:21 PM | TrackBack