After flying in from Barcelona, then checking into the Hotel Plaza Santa Lucia, on the edge of the old quarter, I followed the hotel manager’s directions to a local mercato in search of room refreshments…gin, tonic, nibblies, water.
Another inquiry about somewhere to eat directed me to Los Pelicanos around the corner. Very ‘caf’ as the Brits would say…’down market’. I maneuvered through the youth smoking and chatting on the steps and sat down. The floor was littered with a day’s worth of dirty napkins (I noticed that Spaniards just toss them on the floor and there they seem to remain until someone’s sweeps up at the end of the night.) After being ignored by the man behind the bar (I must have screamed ‘tourista’ and therefore, was to be ignored), I ventured to the bar.
“Tienen menu?” I inquired.
“No menu!” he replied abruptly, jerking his head towards a series of plates of food along the bar.
“Ah.”
I perused the dubious selection of unrecognizable meats in gravy, bready stratas and mysterious mounds of mayonnaise, which turned out to be “Russian Salad”: hard boiled eggs stuffed with tinned tuna on a bed of iceberg lettuce drenched in mayo.
I pointed to the bread strata slice. “Una, por favour, y una copa de vino blanco. Grande.”
Edible but forgettable, the strata filled enough of a gap and the vino took the edge of the day.
As I paid at the bar, I complimented the man on his English. Surley turned into a smile as he explained he had studied hard. I offered a handshake and said,
“Muchos gracias, me llama es Julie.” Or tried to. What really came out was “My ham (jamon) is Julie.” He smiled.
Embarrassed, I stumbled out and immediately stepped (in my lovely new boots) into a soft pile of dog shit.
Right. Good thing for the gin.