Spanish sojourn

I had arrived in Madrid with precisely two Spanish words in my vocabulary -hola (hello) and adios (goodbye). I left it with a fair smattering of the local lingo. That's because the Spanish don't speak too much English. So you have to point at things in the Spanish-only menu, more so if you're eating in cheap places, and hope that the harried waiter and your bewildered self will somehow bridge the language divide and you'll experience an epiphanic, gastronomic, a-ha moment.

It's all part of the fun, though. (Not to mention that it does wonders for your Español.) For Madrid is a fantastically vibrant city which invites everyone to be a bon vivant. High art? Check. Smashing food? Check. Great local tipple? Check. The Spanish capital really has it all. I knew that my three days in Madrid would hardly be enough to do it justice. But I was going to give it a try.

On my first morning, I headed out to the Plaza de la Puerta del Sol, which is really the heart of the city, thronged by locals and tourists alike. A short walk brought me to the Palacio Real, the magnificent 18th century Spanish royal palace. I decided against venturing into the imperial pile and instead, spent some peaceful moments amidst the elegant greenery of the Plaza de Oriente nearby. A chocolate con churros (hot chocolate with strips of fried pastry -a delicious Madrid staple) at one of the uppity cafes in the area and I was ready to hit the city's famed art trail.

Madrid has some of the finest art museums in the world, chief among which are the Museo del Prado, Museo Centro de Arte Reina Sophia and Museo Thyssen-Bornemisza. I decided to visit just two since I was short on time. First up was the Reina Sophia, which houses Guernica, Picasso's masterpiece that captures the agony and brutality of war. But the museum holds other attractions as well, including such stunning surrealist works by Salvador Dalí as El Gran Masturbador (The Great Masturbator) or El Enigma de Hitler (The Enigma of Hitler).

After all that soul-enriching art, a bit of nourishment for the body was called for. So I grabbed a chair at a crowded eatery outside the Reina Sophia and ordered a bocadillo de calamares (bread roll stuffed with fried calamari) and a pitcher of Sangria. The food was cheap, the calamari superbly fresh, and the Sangria -well, what can I say? Sipping the cool fruity red drink with the warm April sun beating down on your back did feel a bit like heaven.

Indeed, whatever your budget, Madrid can be a foodies' paradise. You can sup on a delectable array of tapas (snacks) like a plate of thinly sliced jamón Ibérico (Iberian ham), gambas al ajillo (shrimps in garlic), a slice of tortilla de patatas (potato omelette), pickled anchovies and a host of other lip-smacking eats. Wash them down with a bottle of Rioja or Ribera, the local wines, and you may never wish to stir.

If you are still hungry, you could dig into some hearty Castilian fare such as a cocido (meat and chick pea stew) or a fried cod. I found a taberna (tavern) off the beautiful Plaza de Santa Ana and ordered a plate of chuletillas de cordero lechal (suckling lamb chops). The place was packed to the rafters with roistering madrileños, and I ate the succulent meats standing at the old, wood-carved bar, high on atmosphere and Rioja, and loathed to call it a night.

The next day I took a trip to Toledo, which is an hour's drive from Madrid. By the time I returned, and made my way back to Sol, the square had become a throbbing party zone, filled with street performers, musicians, revellers, strollers and gawkers of every sort. A group of musicians were belting out lusty songs vaguely reminiscent of Gypsy Kings. Lots of people broke into impromptu jigs, and we all cheered them on. It was Saturday evening, and no matter where you went -the majestic Plaza Mayor up the road or the narrow, tapas bar-lined streets in nearby Huertas -people were out having a good time.

I set out early for the Museo del Prado the next day . Needless to say, the treasures of the Prado cannot be assimilated in a few hours. So it makes sense to get hold of a museum plan and shortlist the paintings you want to see. I did the same and spent the greater part of the day wandering from room to vaulted room and getting a taste of the Prado's breathtaking art collection that includes works by such masters as Titian, Tintoretto, Raphael, Fra Angelico, Hieronymous Bosch, Goya, Velasquez and so many others.

That evening, I went to the Plaza de Toros Monumental de Las Ventas, Madrid's imposing bull ring, to watch a bull fight. This was supposed to be the apogee of my Spanish experience. Here I was at last, I thought excitedly, about to witness that electric tussle between man and animal, between elegant machismo and brute power. This was what Ernest Hemingway (a Madrid habitué) had rhapsodised about, and I couldn't wait to shout `Ole!' as I took my place in the stands.

But alas! I soon found myself thinking that it would be more apt to call it a bull slaughter than a bull fight. The spectacle of five splendidly attired matadors wearing down a bull by driving spikes into it, and then the matador-in-chief finally plunging his lance into the weak, bleeding animal cannot be everyone's cup of tea. It certainly wasn't mine, and by the time the third bull was killed -each session features five such "fights" -and the blood dusted over with sand, I was ready to leave.

I had one more date with Hemingway's Madrid that night -dinner at Restorante Sobrino de Botín. Founded in 1725, it is supposed to be the world's oldest eatery and was one of Hemingway's haunts. I tried the house specialty, cochinillo asado (roast suckling pig). Was it all that it was cracked up to be? Um, maybe not. But Botin's ancient arched cellar where I sat dripped atmosphere and old world charm. And it seemed like a fitting end to my Madrid sojourn.


The Personal Telegraph