Tabanko Callejón

Fuengirola in Southern Spain is a town of two parts. Towards the Malaga side is more of a resort, popular with Belgians, Dutch, and some Brits, with its attendant sprinkling of "British" pubs as well as a paseo crammed full of lookalike restaurants.  Strolling through at night, you are accosted by "propaganda" types, trying to persuade you in.  It is the sort of place that has plenty of buzz, but to me at least, little appeal, but you have to see it to be sure.  On our two visits to the town, we have probably only walked through it occasionally. There is a divide though, and when you cross it - and it is very obvious - you are in the truly Spanish part - the old town - and it is there, that for this writer at least, the real attraction lies.

Typically, a Spanish seaside old town will have a lot of backstreets, with various business, shops and of course bars and restaurants. It will usually be unspoilt and pretty well timeless. There are several squares and often these have bars with outside tables of  varying degrees of appeal and sometimes, hidden away, is a gem. Such is Tabanko Callejón. Situated on the main road, opposite Pl. Reyes Católico, a busy square which contains a very smart hotel, the former Town Hall, at its top end. I know this, as this is our hotel of choice when we visit. You could easily miss the bar, next to a supermarket, with an unassuming exterior. It is a proper Spanish bar. Proper in that it almost solely attracts locals and that it ticks every box in the mind's eye of what a Spanish bar should be. It is typically rammed during the day and then, not evening, is the best time to visit if you want the full on experience.

On our previous visit, we had sort of looked in several times, balking at the merry din and wondering, "Are we welcome here?" Once we had actually gone in, and as we couldn't find a single place to stand or sit, we retreated, self-conscious, tails firmly between our legs and utterly defeated. We had also looked in at night where it was a shadow of its daytime self, less busy, more gloomy and somehow not the same.  This time our hotel room, with its little balcony, overlooked the square and the bar. We could watch the comings and goings. We needed a plan, but we were going there no matter what.

We decided on simplicity. Basically, we'd get in there in good time and make ourselves part of the furniture. So, on the appointed day, we'd have a small breakfast, go in early afternoon and eat lunch there. The bar is quite long and thin, and we speculated that we'd be looked on more kindly when taking up one of the few tables if we were eating. 

When you enter, the first thing that strikes you is the hubbub. The air crackles with shouts and laughter and while it is quite dim, you realise instantly that this is the real deal. The place is going like a fair and is just as cheerfully boisterous.. On the right are a few empty, more formal tables, all with cutlery and all with reserved signs on them. The bar takes up the length of the room, with a few high tables and wine barrels acting as tables facing it with stools for seats. There isn't much room between barrel and bar. Just enough to get by. At 2pm, all except one are occupied, while the bar is crammed with bodies, some with small plates in front of them, some not, but all with either a caña of beer, a vermouth, or a glass of wine.  We boldly nab the only empty table as we look round.  Within seconds, a waiter approaches with a brief hello. Are we eating, he says. We reply in the affirmative, he asks what drinks we want and disappears. Dos cañas. He brings two Cruzcampo and plonks them down with a menu. Seconds later, he returns with a plate of bread and a small bowl of paella. "On the house" he says. We are in and can relax.

The theme of the bar is bullfighting. The walls are decorated with the heads of vanquished bulls, looking, presumably in their taxidermized state, a lot more happy than when they met their fate. Bullfighting apparatus covers the ceilings. The bar is dark brown and white walled, with the usual trinkets, bric-a-brac and collectables, and at one end several large wine barrels are dispensing who knows what.  On the door end of the counter is a chill cabinet with salads and seafood. A cheerful pile of knobbly and oversized tomatoes completes the picture.

Looking round, there is a good customer mix. Mostly men or couples, but this changes as a family come in and occupy the reserved tables. They are jolly and have various children, obviously used to it all, who are fussed over and included.  They don't run around, not that there is any room to do so. Behind us is a man in his thirties, accompanied by a younger woman. He is the type that you certainly wouldn't want your daughter to bring home, and they spend their time canoodling, though in fairness, he is the canoodlee rather than the canoodler.  A barman catches my eye as he shucks shellfish with a fierce looking knife, without looking at them. He jerks his head to the couple and shakes his head at me. I shrug and nod. We understand.

You wouldn't really have thought the bar would get much busier, but it does. The dynamics are simple. Newcomers try to squeeze in, or wait just behind those at the front, and when someone goes, they seamlessly slide in. Our server brings our food all at once in the Spanish manner, but as two of our three plates are salad - no problem. We eat boquerones and move on to white verdejo wine while taking it all in. Measures are generous and only three euros.  I raised finger gets you a refill. It is all easy now. My barman friend - a worried father maybe - catches my eye again. His feelings now quite open about the couple behind me.

A single woman enters and skilfully finds a spot in front of the tomatoes. She acknowledges everyone around her and throws us a winning smile. Children, old ones, locals and foreigners, everyone is welcome if they play by the rules and really, all you have to do is read the room and tune in. We are happy and our food finished and enough wine for now, we depart.  As I look back, "our" table is occupied already. No doubt it had been subtly watched and earmarked.

So, when in Spain, find these places. They are so worth a visit and a people watcher's paradise.  The atmosphere is unbeatable and the experience lasting. Don't be afraid of them.

We also had an afternoon in Torremolinos as a trip out on the Sunday of our week away. Though not in the same league as Tabanko Callejón, we found a couple of excellent traditional bars, including one, surprisingly, in the main shopping Street. Well worth looking in the backstreets anywhere in Spain really.

Spanish Cruzcampo is pretty easy going stuff. Maybe the best, but Alhambra and Victoria are OK too. San Miguel and Mahou, not so much,  but you may think differently.

 

 

Venta Socorro

While beer may play an increasing part in the lives of the urbanites of large Spanish cities, in the countryside it is more utilitarian than that, being a small drink of a quarter of a litre to have as a quick refresher, or just as an accompaniment to sit with while chatting.  In Gaucin, a white village perched high in the hills above Gibraltar, bottles of (usually) Cruzcampo were the normal drink of choice amongst Spaniards, while us Brits, when asking for a beer, were automatically given draft in thirds or half litres.

We didn't go to Venta Socorro much. It was underneath the village on the road leading to Ronda and while there was a set of tables, watching the traffic was about the best you could do, though the views upwards across the hills were splendid - and it kept odd hours. It did though have the local cake shop adjacent and was on a good spot at the end of our afternoon walks round the village in searing heat.  It wasn't always busy.

As we approached one afternoon though things were different. On the first table, there was a well dressed old gent with a cup of coffee and a crossword. The next table was empty and we sat down, looking on with interest at the five or six workmen, dusky from the sun, but tinged white with cement and dust getting stuck into the booze.  The old gent ignored us, but cheery "Holas" were shouted by the workers.  They'd obviously had a few, but their drink of choice was gin and tonic.  Now I like a gin, but we ordered tubos (33cl) and enjoyed looking on as the lads grew increasingly inebriated. As the conversation and banter flew back and forth a more gins went down red lane the drinkers grew more animated.  The old gent didn't look up at all, he just carried on with his business. After we'd had a couple of beers the crossworder got up and with a cheery flick of his paper as a way of saying goodbye to all, he was off. We followed a few minutes later and as we climbed back into the village, we could still hear the shouted conversations of the gin drinkers below and round the corner..

While it may not have been beer, I reflected that really you could imagine a similar scene in almost any local pub back home.

I didn't take a photo of the bar, but this painting by Jack McKenzie shows the place and is used in accordance with the terms on his blog.  Cheers Jack.  The coke bottle isn't there any more and the village behind has grown,  but the scene remains essentially the same.

Social Cohesion

 Keen readers of this blog will know that I have mentioned what I call social cohesion as a key to the way that Germany and its pubs operate.  So it is interesting to note, that in rural Spain at least, that same kind of togetherness dominates drinking proceedings, albeit in a rather different way. I've been in Spain you see. Rural Spain actually, so I won't be telling you about all the exotic beers I have been drinking because, well, there weren't any. Sorry about that. You'll have to make do with some observations and dodgy conclusions instead; not about beer, but about drinking beer, or anything else alcoholic for that matter, in a different environment entirely.

Alhama de Granada is a small town in spectacular mountainous country not that far from Granada. It really is rather lovely. There are no pubs exactly; rather a set of bars and restaurants that act in much the same way. Two weeks there and a touch of observation told us that "locals" operate much as they do here. The indigenous drinkers all have their favourites and are rarely seen frequenting other bars. Drinking at least in the early part of the day and after work is a male dominated pastime, with small glasses of beer seeming to be a background to social intercourse, rather than the point of the visit. Early morning drinking - well say ten o'clock onwards - is seen as normal though there was some old soaks getting stuck into the booze - brandies and red wine/lemonade mixes were popular - and one bar in particular reminded me of a Wetherspoons - not in size, but in the dedication of its early morning topers. They even seemed to hang about outside there, somewhat forlornly, on the rest day when the bar was closed.

In the outside areas frequented more by families, a request for a beer would result, more often than not, in a small glass of beer (0.2l. These are sipped very slowly by locals and we soon "got it" and surprised ourselves by making these tiny measures last a half hour or so. It just would have somehow seemed wrong to gulp and order repeatedly, particularly as each came with a small snack or tapa. The behaviour of others did indeed change our behaviour, which would seem to give some credence to the positive effect of nurture over nature.

The inclusive thing was most noticeable at night.   Now of course, I don't doubt that late night boozing in the cities is an entirely different kettle of calamares, but in the sticks, teenagers happily mixed with grannies and grandads, mums, dads, aunties and uncles. They seemed content and at ease, chatting away and we didn't see a sullen face at all. Even the local travelling fair seemed to bring out whole families, who would meet friends, but always remain together. Shared snacks were the norm, with even young children happily eating whatever the adults were having. Mixed groups of young men and women sat happily yakking away (at top volume - well they are Spanish after all) with no real drinking going on. It all made for an utterly relaxing and sober atmosphere, though at night we could revert to type over wine with dinner. There was a choice of beer, depending on where you went, of Mahou, Alhambra or Cruzcampo. Only the Cruzcampo had anything you'd describe as character, but even that was pretty ordinary. It didn't matter though. The place and the time were what mattered. The booze was background.

It was a timely reminder that beer should be, at least some of the time, an accompaniment to fun rather than the fun itself. Not a bad reminder either I'd suggest. The real fun was in people watching. 

At no time did I feel like a frustrated drunk. Of course, I tanked up before I went out. Think I went native altogether?
 

Just Another Commodity

Beer is. In Spain, or at least the lovely part of it I was in. The little town of Orgiva is full of bars (and the great unwashed). We didn't try them all - the bars that is - preferring a couple in the centre and two on the long walk back up the hill to our rented place, some distance out of and above the town. (For the record, we didn't try the various great unwashed at all.) Beer in Andalucia is it seems, a cold pale tasteless fluid that means so little its brand name isn't even listed in most menus. You have to find out by a quick shufti at the bar on your way to the bogs, or take a punt that the name on the napkins or chairs is actually what is being served. I am pretty sure that over the piece we had, in no particular order, San Miguel, Cruzcampo, Alhambra, Mahou and Estrella. All much of a muchness, as was the own brand stuff from supermarket chain "Dia", which at about €6.50 for 24 x 25cl, was just as good as the rest really, made a good poolside sun quencher and had the straight to the point and perfectly logical name of "Lager".

What was interesting too, was that most of the bars seemed to be thriving inside, even though we sat outside, sun starved as we were. The recent smoking ban seems not to have dampened down enthusiasm much and all seemed lively most of the time. Another oddity was the prevalence of non alcoholic beer and its relative popularity. So while it is bloody freezing here, it is nice to be back and have to have a genuine choice of beer again, both in brand and in style.  Not that I drank that much beer, preferring often to have a cold glass of white wine, though I do confess to the odd "tubo".  I can't say I missed beer that much,  though perhaps tellingly, before going home, we headed straight to the Angel in Manchester, where the Hawkshead Windermere Pale didn't touch the sides.  Hops. Yes I missed hops.

Despite complaints about this and that, it is a useful reminder that we are a beer country here and that makes me both pleased and grateful.

Actually, Alhambra Especial, despite the maize, wasn't too bad, with better body than the rest.