The Plaza de Oriente dressed in autumn
** Madrid ** has invented this life of schizophrenia and traffic jams after every sunrise but also the fall of a beauty that is almost an insult, of so much lyricism.
The Madrilenian does not see it (is it possible to stop to look at something?) but the color of the clouds is filled with tan, indigo and mauve pigments in a chromatic symphony that resists, beautiful and architectural, immutable in the face of our nonsense: it is that they are.
These autumn days are that “river minuet of automobiles, a crossroads of saloon and half a century, with cubist statues in the sky” by Threshold, but also **the boletus of Juanjo López Bedmar and the Tom Collins of Mario Villalón in Angelita. **
Squab with thyme juice, lemon and onion sponge cake, from Zalacaín
Crossbow and the Queen, Can two streets say more than one city? The neighborhood greengrocers, **the lamps of the Matador Club** by Alberto Anaut and Pochas stew in Asturianos –Who was the idiot who said that less is more? More is more, especially in Madrid.
Because this fall (like every fall) It's spoon time, bitter cocktails and dry leaves, It is time to forget the impossible dreams of summer –no, you will not leave everything to set up a chiringo in Zahara de los Atunes– and abandoning oneself to social gatherings, the three-quarter length coat and regrets.
To live is also to suffer from what has been lived because if not they will tell me what would we talk about in front of the Jurucha bar, of our politicians? Come now.
Artichokes from La Tasquita de Enfrente
The sherry menu from Corral de la Morería, Horcher's deer ragout on its linen cloths (must be age, or perhaps this melancholy autumn: but what growing laziness modern restaurants without tablecloth) and the vermilion velvet of almost any corridor of the Teatro Real.
The hunt, the hunt! Roe deer, partridges in pepitoria and thrushes with snails. Woodcocks, pigeons or pigeons. Iñaki Camba in Arce, Iván Saez in Desencaja, Carlos Torres and Elisa Rodríguez in La Buena Vida or César Martín in Lakasa.
The pantry of the Sierra de Madrid any October is the gastronome's harem; maybe it's the fault of the mushrooms , of the wonderful black truffle and from that impossible smell of wet earth, I think its name is petrichor.
Tripe and offal, haute cuisine and low cuisine, the new and the old shaking hands to the sound of another third in almost any street in the Forum.
It's already autumn in Madrid and it is impossible not to think that sometimes, just sometimes, the world is well designed.
Potato with truffle, from La Tasquita de Enfrente