The seafood counter
at O’pazo, in the
Tetuán district.A communal crock
of butter at Arzábal
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served the sweet and delicate razor clams with
aioli. Now, razor clams can be rubbery. Aioli is
mayo with good PR. But here the unlikely pair
came together with a kind of low-key magic.
Madrid’s worst-kept secret sits at the end of a
tiled pedestrian lane in a leafy barrio 20 minutes
by taxi from anywhere else you need to be.
Despite its austere, shabby elegance, the room has
a certain clubby charm. Muted light falls through
café curtains onto wood floors painted a
captivating royal blue. The regulars sitting around
the linen-draped tables—men in blue suits,
women in stylish sweaters—appear familiar with
the menu and one another. Everyone seems
pleased to be there in a Spanish life-well-lived way.
Sacha’s parents, Pitila Mosquera and Carlos
Hormaechea, opened the restaurant in 1972 and
named it after their son. Sacha didn’t train as a
chef. He was working as a photojournalist when
his father died, and he was called back to run the
restaurant. Since then he’s transformed it into that
great rarity, the laid-back hangout with ineffable
style and soul.