They say that doing what you love in life makes the word 'work' insubstantial, because you find yourself not really working, but living your passion. Until you try this experience, you can't understand it, but maybe that's exactly what happened to my father and me during our Spanish trip last June.
By day to companies, by night to clubs, to experience something different from the Milan we are used to, to discover the flavors of Barcelona, taking with us around the city the one thing we seek even here in Italy: the desire to drink well.
So after indulging in a nice meal of tapas at a time that is indecent to say the least, but perfectly calculated to avoid the evening hustle and bustle, we set out to bivouac around the city: Barcelona. I swear I've never heard anyone say it's a city you don't love, that would really be impossible.
Our first stop is at Boadas, on La Rambla, perhaps better known for the name than for the cocktails. No jigger to dose, no shaker, just 2 tumblers of the most classic ones held together to mix the ingredients. The two bartenders are probably the same age as the club and shake their heads when asked for a list: after all, you can take whatever you want, never mind consult anything. Old-fashioned mixologist masters smile from the black-and-white paintings on the walls, and before leaving one is of course honored with their little pocket calendars. Back in the open air, one feels like leaving behind a discreet world of soft lighting from dusty lamps and an atmosphere that smacks of another time, as in a Zafon novel.
Undecided what to do, we decide to head to the refined Dry, a classic and timeless venue. Behind the bar is the bartender in a tuxedo as white as his mustache, and hovering around him are his boys who serve at the tables or prepare in the back of the bar any other cocktail, Gin-based of course, but not Martini. The Martini is the only one prepared at the counter, where everything is arranged so that in a couple of moves it is ready. Behind the counter, stacks of books by Javier De Las Muelas, an antique cash register and on the mirror printed the recipe for the drink: 'Dry Martini, original recipe: ½ London Dry Gin, ½ French Vermouth, 1 dash orange bitters, squeeze lemonrind, add a green olive.' Exactly above the door leading to the back, the electronic scoreboard marks the number of martinis made since 1977, and so far the figure stands at 1,040,938.
After being in this temple of Gin, we decide it's time to go back home and promise to devote more time to the premises the next evening, when we actually clear our schedules all too soon, so soon that Cocteleria Negroni is still closed. So it's off to dinner, before the famous 'light bulb' comes on about what to do and then the evening makes sense: the destination is Ohla Boutique Bar.
As soon as we enter the hotel, we are startled by the ambiance but the feeling lasts just long enough to set foot at the bar and see behind the counter our very Italian Giuseppe Santamaria entertaining guests at the counter while preparing cocktails with a mastery derived from years of experience.
We take a seat next to an American couple, opposite Giuseppe, and thus discover that the husband is actually Italian but can hardly speak the original language because he has been living now for too long with his wife in San Francisco, where they are often guests of Julio Bermejo, since the lady was his teacher. How small the world is! So it is that all five of us get to talking about drinks, the pleasure of drinking, and how difficult it is to stay in Italy if you want to grow into a mixologist. The conversations only stop when Giuseppe is working, because watching him is a real pleasure: our first round is based on a cocktail presented almost like a jar of jam for me, while for my father it's a reinterpretation of Daiquiri. Impossible to feel like leaving, so with an empty glass, we have another round. We don't want to see the list just because it would create discomfort to have to choose among so many excellent drinks, so our now trusted bartender offers me a drink with chamomile top and gramophone playing a sweet lullaby to match, with a faint smoke coming out of its drawer and also smelling of chamomile: this is how I think I have now found peace of mind; my father meanwhile sips who knows what wonder from a small cup adorned with basil leaves, while talking about how beautiful Barcelona is and how wonderful Italy is with what have now also become our friends, the Americans from San Francisco.
As much as we sip slowly and try to linger longer talking about Giuseppe's experience at World Class two years earlier, the second glass also empties and we really have to get up. Photos with the bartender, promise to stop by sometime in San Francisco, but when we leave it is the stark reality of having to take the subway that assails us. A stark reality sweetened by the knowledge that we are in a wonderful city like Barcelona, which will surely have so much more to offer on our next visit as well.
