Dining out

Inspired, as always, by A.A. Gill, I will subsequently be dining with The Brunette. Unlike A.A. Gill’s The Blonde (his long-term girlfriend Nicola Formby), The Brunette is a collective term for any number of girls I might be entertaining… OK, only ever one at a time, I’m not Silvio Berlusconi. Just picture a mysterious companion, the Stig to my Clarkson if you will.

Casa Lucío, C/ Cava Baja, 35
The Brunette and I dined on Thursday night at Casa Lucío, a ‘Madrid institution’ in old town La Latina famed for purveying traditional Madrileño cuisine. Proprietor Lucío’s authentic Castillian cooking has attracted the likes of George and Laura Bush and the King of Spain so we had high hopes. There was none of the stuffy, jacket-and-tie crowd in evidence as the guide books had suggested. Besides, I’ve only ever seen Madrileños in jackets and ties when setting out for Mass of a Sunday morning, and then only in posh barrio Salamanca. I always worry that anywhere of historic or social relevance mentioned in a guide book will be packed to the rafters with gaudy American tourists (or, and I shudder with horror at the thought, my nemesis Richard and his wife) but to my relief this wasn’t the case.
Our waiter, a career waiter, which is undoubtedly the best kind, recommended a grilled steak for two instead of the huevos estrella (smashed eggs) that Casa Lucío is famous for and explained to us the wine list which apparently consisted only of Lucío’s house wine. (I admit that the language barrier may have at this point prevented me making further enquiries as to the wine list). Anyway, sometimes it’s nice to be told what to eat and drink, after all I’m the customer not the expert.
The steak was, of course, enormous, succulent, and braised itself on the blackened, oven-heated plate before our very eyes. The house wine was outstanding. I’ll be back at Casa Lucío on merely the faintest whiff of something to celebrate and will endeavour to report back on it’s signature dish.

The Penthouse at ME Hotel, Plaza de Santa Ana, 14
I’ve been itching to go for a drink at The Penthouse for some time. I forgot to note the price of the drinks but I recall that cocktails were a handsome 14 EUR a-piece in the hotel’s lobby bar. So no danger of it becoming a regular haunt. A little unfair of them to be charging London prices in a city where the average income is considerably lower then London’s. The rooftop bar was beautifully lit and full of wel dressed Pijos (Rahs lifted straight from Fulham and rendered in Spanish). One could stand for hours gazing over Madrid’s low-rise Southern skyline or watching the comings and goings in Plaza de Santa Ana six floors below, perhaps puffing a Chesterfield into the chill night breeze. (Smoking outdoors being a bit of a novelty once you’ve become accustomed to being constantly shrouded in smoke indoors).
Incidentally, I seem to have become partial to the odd gasper since I’ve been in Madrid. I do think a cigarette naturally goes well with a beer and that smoking is in danger of becoming a lost art thanks to radical anti-smoking groups. Could our generation be, as Tom Wolfe describes Freddy Button in Bonfire of The Vanities, the last of the Great Smokers?

The only major disappointment with The Penthouse was the lack of a Northward view. The Northern skyline being dominated by the Cuatro Torres.

Bazaar, C/ San Marcos, 35
Bright, white and airy, Bazaar is a favourite of The Brunette, and was buzzing when we arrived on Sunday night. We ordered three starters, two mains, two desserts and a carafe of wine for 50 EUR, but sadly the cost cutting showed in the quality of the ingredients. Though they spared no expensive in sourcing the largest crockery I’ve ever seen meaning only two of our starters fitted on the table at once.
Venturing downstairs in search of the gentleman’s retreat I was impressed by the warmly-lit basement restaurant, a painted panelled New England affair, modern yet homely and considerably more intimate than our elbow-room upstairs table. To my horror, the toilet doors, both white and plain were labelled only with ‘C’ and ‘S’. I desperately racked the old noggin’. Seconds ticked by. Dinners paused, lowered their cutlery and stared at the fellow nervously pawing his forrid betwixt male and female lavatory doors. ‘C’? Chicas? Chicos? Caballeros? Caballos? and ‘S’? Senoritas? Senor? Senora?

My brain spluttered and stalled like a prop engine at altitude. I bottled it (both mentally and physically) and beat a humiliating retreat up the stairs. It resolved, amid shrieks of laughter from The Brunette, that ‘C’ is Caballeros (gentlemen) and ‘S’, Senoritas (ladies). Obvious now of course. I’ve never been a fan of cryptic lavatory door indications. When answering nature’s call one does not need to be obstructed by a brain-teaser, and don’t suggest I just pop my head around the door because knowing my luck it would quickly descend into some kind of Larry David incident.