Post by Bozur on Dec 19, 2005 4:58:55 GMT -5
Europe > Spain > MadridMore on Madrid
In Madrid, Pinching Euros, by Day and All Night Long
By SARAH WILDMAN
Published: December 18, 2005
AT 5:30 in the morning, on Calle María de Molina, a broad boulevard in the Salamanca district of Madrid, it is nearly impossible to get a taxi. This is not because taxis stop running this late - or early, depending on your orientation - but because everyone else in the city is also hunting for a ride. This quest isn't limited to Madrid's youth; late-night buses hurtle by shivering taxi seekers, filled to capacity with revelers of all ages.
Matias Costa for The New York Times
The tapas bar at Taberna Almendro.
Matias Costa for The New York Times
The Hotel High Tech President Castellana.
The culture of late nights in Madrid is simply the lingua franca: the time to sleep, just like the time to eat, comes at an hour when other cities have long since dimmed their lights. When Madrileños go on "la marcha," which means "the march," it amounts to an overnight bar-to-club hop that continues until the light of day.
And so, several weeks ago, with a mandate to spend only $500 for a weekend in this nocturnal city, I took a gamble by not booking a hotel for Friday night, figuring I would save some cash by staying out all night.
That night began - late of course - at Taberna Almendro, a tiny tavern with custard yellow walls and big barrels that served as tables. The room was hot with bodies pressed together, most people were smoking (the other Spanish national pastime), and surging toward the counter where the beers or miniature tumblers of sweet Galician white wine are bought, or lining up loosely near the kitchen window.
Early expenses were encouraging. For 9.50 euros - about $11.40 at $1.20 to the euro - my partner, Ian, and I shared a huge plate of el pisto roto, an egg over easy served on top of fried potatoes, dressed with a delicious vegetable sauce that turned this breakfast dish into dinner, and drank glass after glass of canas, the small beers that invite several rounds. Taberna Almendro announced a last call for food at around 12:45 and we moved on into the freezing night air.
Fortunately we had chosen an area that didn't require too much walking. Where the Calle del Almendro meets Calle Cava Baja, an intersection jampacked with tapas bars, restaurants and pubs, we walked down the street after midnight. People were spilling into the chilly night laughing, eating tortillas española (the ubiquitous egg and potato omelets) or patatas brava (fried potato in a spicy pink sauce) at one spot, the famous jamón serrano at the next. The neighborhood was so crowded at 1 a.m. that we couldn't push ourselves into the first cerveceria we walked into, let alone order drinks. Ramón, a genuine Madrileño who joined us for this late-night bar crawl, suggested we try the bar VaOva, an exclusive joint decorated in a style that blends postcolonial Europe (somewhat like a Ralph Lauren flagship store) and Morocco. We knocked on the door - locked in a suggestion of snobbery - and a curmudgeonly doorman let us in. Out of the bustle of the street we found ourselves, suddenly, in total quiet.
It was as though we had fallen out of Spain and onto the movie set for "Out of Africa" or a Merchant-Ivory production. Downstairs, groups of well-dressed Spaniards shared water pipes, drinking out of enormous cognac glasses, in banquets that suggested a kind of exoticized Pan-Orient. Our waiter wore a fez. The music was trance and electronic lounge - a Buddha Bar soundtrack - the drinks were a pricey 10 euros each, and the energy, like the conversations around us, was pitched low. Too low. After one round of drinks, we left for Corazón Loco, a warm tapas bar with bare brick walls where the drinks were generous and cheaper (6 euros for Rum y Limón). But we had missed the crucial window for tapas. In Spain late nights may appear free flowing, but the rules are strict. You can no longer eat at 2 a.m.; kitchens have closed. As the clock neared 3 a.m. we progressed onto Phase 4: a club.
Reluctant to pay a cover charge at the famous dance hall Pacha, my first choice, Ramón suggested we head by taxi to Salamanca and the disco Déjate Besar (Let Yourself Be Kissed, a suggestion that most dancers seemed to take seriously). The entrance fee was agreeable: free. A line of people stood stamping their feet in the cold waiting for the doorman to nod us through. Once inside we pressed forward to the bar, noting that the Spanish clientele was what the Madrileños call un poco pijo, a little snobby. But in the club, lighted only by neon squiggles of lights, we danced to an odd but poppy mix of 80's and 90's music until 5:30 a.m, spending another 25 euros in drinks.
In Madrid, Pinching Euros, by Day and All Night Long
By SARAH WILDMAN
Published: December 18, 2005
AT 5:30 in the morning, on Calle María de Molina, a broad boulevard in the Salamanca district of Madrid, it is nearly impossible to get a taxi. This is not because taxis stop running this late - or early, depending on your orientation - but because everyone else in the city is also hunting for a ride. This quest isn't limited to Madrid's youth; late-night buses hurtle by shivering taxi seekers, filled to capacity with revelers of all ages.
Matias Costa for The New York Times
The tapas bar at Taberna Almendro.
Matias Costa for The New York Times
The Hotel High Tech President Castellana.
The culture of late nights in Madrid is simply the lingua franca: the time to sleep, just like the time to eat, comes at an hour when other cities have long since dimmed their lights. When Madrileños go on "la marcha," which means "the march," it amounts to an overnight bar-to-club hop that continues until the light of day.
And so, several weeks ago, with a mandate to spend only $500 for a weekend in this nocturnal city, I took a gamble by not booking a hotel for Friday night, figuring I would save some cash by staying out all night.
That night began - late of course - at Taberna Almendro, a tiny tavern with custard yellow walls and big barrels that served as tables. The room was hot with bodies pressed together, most people were smoking (the other Spanish national pastime), and surging toward the counter where the beers or miniature tumblers of sweet Galician white wine are bought, or lining up loosely near the kitchen window.
Early expenses were encouraging. For 9.50 euros - about $11.40 at $1.20 to the euro - my partner, Ian, and I shared a huge plate of el pisto roto, an egg over easy served on top of fried potatoes, dressed with a delicious vegetable sauce that turned this breakfast dish into dinner, and drank glass after glass of canas, the small beers that invite several rounds. Taberna Almendro announced a last call for food at around 12:45 and we moved on into the freezing night air.
Fortunately we had chosen an area that didn't require too much walking. Where the Calle del Almendro meets Calle Cava Baja, an intersection jampacked with tapas bars, restaurants and pubs, we walked down the street after midnight. People were spilling into the chilly night laughing, eating tortillas española (the ubiquitous egg and potato omelets) or patatas brava (fried potato in a spicy pink sauce) at one spot, the famous jamón serrano at the next. The neighborhood was so crowded at 1 a.m. that we couldn't push ourselves into the first cerveceria we walked into, let alone order drinks. Ramón, a genuine Madrileño who joined us for this late-night bar crawl, suggested we try the bar VaOva, an exclusive joint decorated in a style that blends postcolonial Europe (somewhat like a Ralph Lauren flagship store) and Morocco. We knocked on the door - locked in a suggestion of snobbery - and a curmudgeonly doorman let us in. Out of the bustle of the street we found ourselves, suddenly, in total quiet.
It was as though we had fallen out of Spain and onto the movie set for "Out of Africa" or a Merchant-Ivory production. Downstairs, groups of well-dressed Spaniards shared water pipes, drinking out of enormous cognac glasses, in banquets that suggested a kind of exoticized Pan-Orient. Our waiter wore a fez. The music was trance and electronic lounge - a Buddha Bar soundtrack - the drinks were a pricey 10 euros each, and the energy, like the conversations around us, was pitched low. Too low. After one round of drinks, we left for Corazón Loco, a warm tapas bar with bare brick walls where the drinks were generous and cheaper (6 euros for Rum y Limón). But we had missed the crucial window for tapas. In Spain late nights may appear free flowing, but the rules are strict. You can no longer eat at 2 a.m.; kitchens have closed. As the clock neared 3 a.m. we progressed onto Phase 4: a club.
Reluctant to pay a cover charge at the famous dance hall Pacha, my first choice, Ramón suggested we head by taxi to Salamanca and the disco Déjate Besar (Let Yourself Be Kissed, a suggestion that most dancers seemed to take seriously). The entrance fee was agreeable: free. A line of people stood stamping their feet in the cold waiting for the doorman to nod us through. Once inside we pressed forward to the bar, noting that the Spanish clientele was what the Madrileños call un poco pijo, a little snobby. But in the club, lighted only by neon squiggles of lights, we danced to an odd but poppy mix of 80's and 90's music until 5:30 a.m, spending another 25 euros in drinks.