Cecconis Barcelona
We have eaten under the sea . We have eaten lonely , in minced ball or in front of a faralaes dress; in a circus, under the constellation of Cassiopeia and of course we have eaten (and drunk) in the most beautiful restaurants in the world. What was then the last gastronomic terrain to conquer? Well, the forbidden, of course.
The beauty of the forbidden. “What is lawful is not pleasing to me”, Ovid said, and how right the Roman poet was because the clandestine puts us in touch, inspires us and reminds us that we are passing through here —like Humbert Humbert, Les amours imaginaires of Xavier Dolan or the furtive tablaos of that taciturn Madrid of literary coffees, duels and brokenness.
The inaccessible, the slums ( speak easy ) that were born to the beat of the Dry Law in the United States in the 1920s.
Today the forbidden is still a fascinating and necessary claim ; tell whoever you want that they can choose any dish on the menu except the ones on the last page and there they will be, salivating like a puppy for what they can't have. C'est la vie.
what do I know, the Paradiso cocktail bar by Giacomo Giannotti, in the heart of Born , which is accessed through the refrigerator door of a Pastrami Bar at the Rooftop Smokehouse or Candelaria in Le Marais , a shabby taqueria behind which hides one of the best bars in Paris, or so they say in 50 Best Bars. I have been happy there.
And the private clubs. Because let's be honest, if it's not that it's not, but really; like the ** Puerta de Hierro **, which has not admitted members since 1987. And there is no waiting list. To fuck campechanismo by ass.
Annabel's in London , The Residence in Dublin , Roppongi Hills Club in Tokyo or the fabulous soho-house that has fit like a glove in this poor Barcelona —a trench against a hostile world. That too is a private club.
Annabel's Champagne Room
The cuisine of Soho goes hand in hand with the Italian cuisine of cecconi's bar, the same menu in all the clubs in the world and that already says where things are going: pasta, risottos, carpaccios and tartares; perhaps the most interesting remains in the breakfast trench and a couple of eggs benedict.
The Real Club Pineda of Seville since 1940 (the children of members become new members when they reach the age of majority) or the ** Real Sociedad Bilbaina since 1839 **, an illustrated club where a fried hake with red peppers fits next to an initiation course to boxing. Live life.
Madrid has lately surrendered to the charms of these txokos of the good, so present in the Anglo-Saxon culture but here we continue to look a little askance. a bit that way.
El Club Alma** (only for women and “some good men”), Argo in Santa Ana — Rational Association of Gastronomy and Leisure and especially the **Club Matador in Jorge Juan , small homeland of good taste and natural extension of that prodigy of cultured, cosmopolitan, critical and free magazine. And it has merit, the latter.
Soul Club
Alberto Povedano he is the chef of a kitchen that flees from what technoemotional (fortunately) , Angel Avila the bartender —and one of the fittest bartenders in the Forum, which is saying something—and the Saturday bar a bacchanal dedicated to the pluperfect product: sea urchins, skinny clams, red shrimp, brown shrimp or lobster. I can't imagine a better Saturday morning. Alright; Yes.
Drink without haste, books to read and four walls safe from so much noise, from so much despondency. It's not too much to ask, right?
Matador, the meat club ;)
Club Matador, a Madrid classic