28 MARCH13, 2022
while his wife is on vacation. That film is sappy and chaste (made
during Franco-era censorship), but a racier follow-up came along
in 1975, “Tres Suecas Para Tres Rodríguez” (“Three Swedes for
Three Rodríguezes”), in which three dudes whose wives go on
vacation ... hang out with three Swedish women. Not exactly a
classic.
The idea of François being “de Rodríguez” came up as a joke one
evening while we ate the most amazing jamón and sardines at a
crowded corner bar. Our other friend Abraham was leading us on a
tapas crawl. “This is sacred,” Abraham said. “When a man calls his
friend and says he is ‘de Rodríguez,’ that friend needs to clear his
schedule and go out with you.”
The only agenda for these Three Rodríguezes, however, was a
deep dive into tapas and a galaxy of drinks and food you get only at
Spanish bars. At Casa Camacho, we had yayos (a cocktail with
vermouth, a little gin and a fizzy soda) along with patatas bravas. At
Casa Julio, we had amazing croquetas and vermouth from the tap.
At Asturian spots like Perlora and Casa Parrondo, we had young
Cabrales cheese and mussels to go with the cider. At a sherry bar
called La Venencia, we had amontillado sherry and olives. All along
the way, there were countless tiny cañas of beer to wash down more
sardines, more manchego, more jamón.
“Bars are the best thing about living in Spain,” said François.
“Yes, the climate is nice, it’s affordable, safe, and life is easy. But still,
it’s the bars that are the best part.”
In July, covid-19 did not appear to be dampening the buzz at
Madrid’s tapas bars, which had been shut down during the worst of
the pandemic. People dutifully wore their masks on the street, but
once inside the bar they felt free to take them off. The only nod to the
pandemic seemed to be that the government had prohibited people
from crowding around the bar itself. But most places just moved
tables in front of the bar, and so people crowded around those
instead. Plates of toothpicked snacks continued to be handed over
the bar and consumed while standing up. Those toothpicks and
napkins soon ended up tossed on the floor, just like always in Spain,
which never ceases to be mildly surprising at first.
I was still adjusting to the midday heat in Madrid. The evening
tapas crawl had followed a shorter one earlier that day, during the
hot siesta hours. François and I met an older friend of his, Alberto,
for a short pre-lunch crawl of three bars. Alberto was a linguist in
his late 60s, an expert in Arabic, sporting a big bushy white
mustache and a blazer even though the heat was stifling. I was
dressed in shorts and still sweated through my shirt.
Alberto talked about his time as a bartender at a popular spot
during La Movida, the wild, hedonistic countercultural movement
in Madrid during the post-Franco 1970s and 1980s. He also regaled
us with tales of Tangier, Morocco, where he spends part of the year
and owns a home. Alberto seemed like the kind of worldly
gentleman I could see modeling my own golden years after.
Then, the vibe suddenly changed when he seemed to realize I
was wearing shorts. “If I owned a bar, I would not allow anyone in
who was wearing short trousers,” he said to François, who laughed
at me. François happened to also be wearing a blazer and long
pants. No offense, Alberto said, “but it’s not about the heat. It’s
about dressing the part.” For Alberto there was a certain date every
year, in late summer, when he allows himself to stop wearing socks
for a brief period. Other than that, he believed a man should be fully
dressed, including a jacket.
“But it’s so hot,” I said.
“Well, that’s what the siesta is for,” François said.
Clockwise from top:
Vineyards in northern
Spain’s La Rioja area,
the country’s most
famous wine region. A
pintxo (small plate) of
peppers stuffed with
meat at Bar Sebas in
Logroño, Rioja’s
capital. An
arrangement of tapas
inspired by works
such as Juan
Sánchez Cotán’s
1602 painting “Still
Life With Game,
Vegetables and Fruit,”
found at the Prado in
Madrid.(Continued from Page 25)