By telling us your country of residence we are able to provide you with the most relevant travel insurance information.
Please note that not all content is translated or available to residents of all countries. Contact us for full details.
Shares
I nudged my way through the thick commotion in front of the glass counter. Its hot. But it's that nice hot of standing out near a marina, feeling the light breeze of spring and just enough sun to feel it warm up the back of your t-shirt. Inside its warmer, under its low slung roof and cave like walls, lined with rows of wine barrels used as table tops, it leave little less than room wide for a couple of people to make a line, yet the cave with glass doors is teeming with locals, tourists and wanderers alike, all happy to be here for the same thing. As I get to the counter squished by the mob, I order “el numero 3, un plato mixto, y una copa.” He writes down my order over the bustle and just like that, my golden ticket is off and I wait while my copa begins to fill. Sweet, luscious, pungent pink is the cava rosada, the house specialty take on the national sparkling wine. But do not let the idea of glamorous fuchsia champagne have you mistaken for a fancy modern quick dine. Above the wall lined wine barrels are hung photos and newspaper clippings of Barcelona and Cataluyna's History. The counter, while fingerprinted on the outside, impeccably clean on the inside, is of an old style decor with a rimmed cover accent trim of a pale yellow lining, and up above it hang robust mounds of sausages and chorizo, bringing your gaze back down to the stiff black stocked kitchen where all the heat, steam, and sizzle come out. Be it the glasses poured or the fire in the kitchen, we all feel warm inside. And my glass fills again as I’ve found myself in conversation with Julio, one of the older gentleman behind the bar, one of the ones running the show. The place has not changed in almost 100 years, “..as you see it is as its been” he tells me in thick Castilian Spanish of the popular embutido sausage and meat stand. “...and I have been working here since I was a boy with the original family owners;and look now what that time has aged me” He bolsters as hands me my plates and fills my glass on the house again, every other glass in fact. He walks over to help others and gestures hell be back soon enough, so I'm left to delve into the delicacies. As warm air rises from the fresh grilled meat, juices run down my hand before I can even take a bite. Words would be at waste to attempt to describe the luscious tender meat or the fatty fragrant chorizo and morcilla. But as I revel in the flavors I can't help but to think, so this is what it was probably like, The bundles of people blissfully eating and unbending, fun and flirtatiously, washing it down with cool sparkling cave from champagne bottles that fill them up only to be twirled around by laughter and cavorting only to be filled again. People, from all paths crossing for a sole similar reason, exchanging in the moment, as has been happening for generations past ‘as its been.’ As Julio returns to fill my last glass, I ask for the check and ask him why he never left, or if he ever had the chance and replied “this what you see here is how its always been. This energy, who wouldn't want to come back everyday to experience it.” I see his case. I pull out my debit card and he shakes, “no cards, cash only.” Of course, nothing has changed, “I should have figured”, I tell him. “Don't worry, come back tomorrow. I trust you. By then, I will have remembered more stories.” And with that, I saw just what he meant, and I will always go back.