La Bola

My most unique dining experience in Madrid was hosted by La Bola Taberna, which boasts the best Cocida (boiled meat and chick pea stew) in town.  I went on my own while Shawn was at work, which meant I had to fend for myself linguistically.  I get there early and am seated next to a middle-aged Spanish gentleman who ordered the Cocida as well, meaning I would have a live tutorial.

The promised clay pot arrives, piping hot and ready to blow its top, as if straight out of Beauty and the Beast.  My waiter pours the broth into my bowl of thin, short rice noodles, and retains the meat and chick peas for my second course.  The broth alone is deliciously complex, having been stewing in four kinds of meat for six hours.

Meanwhile, the man next to me is overtly enjoying his stew with borderline-inappropriate satisfactory noises.  I choose to relate to him as a foodie since I, too, am thoroughly enjoying my stew.  More people begin flocking to La Bola, and soon my waiter arrives to pour the rest of my cocida onto my plate.  It was a gorgeous thing, complete with chorizo, chicken, bone marrow, and the most tender pork I've ever experienced.

Next to me, the sounds of my fellow foodie have evolved into mumbled words of emphatic approval.  At this point he is literally talking to himself (or to his food-which is more embarrassing?  I do both) but he takes a moment to ask the waiter for another beer (his third) and soon after a whiskey.  Finally I realize that I haven't been in the company of a foodie, but a lunatic-alcoholic.

During all of my people watching, I'm continuing to enjoy my cocida (along with the cabbage and condiments plate of salsa and green onions) and allow my mind to wander as I unbutton my jeans.  Suddenly I realize I forgot to put more cash into my wallet and am relatively certain they don't accept cards.  I put my card down on the check anyway, hoping for a miracle.  The waiter gruffly denies my miracle.  I shrink down and silently whimper inside. 

Keeping in mind that the front room I'm in is quite small and lots of people are watching, I grab my things and my check and head up to the entryway, next to the small bar and kitchen.  "Donde esta' la banca?" I say, half Spanish, half Italian.  The waiters begin to hold a conference in front of me, speaking disapprovingly in Spanish about my situation, but finally my waiter attempts to direct me to the nearest bank, assuming he'll never see my face again.

So I just up and leave, finally finding the atm five minutes away, and then start my own personal walk of shame back to La Bola, so upset that I had ruined such a wonderful meal and thinking that the waiters must hate me.

But when I get back, all their faces light up, and the guy at the bar immediately pours me a limoncello, "Because I'm a good person."  Before I know it, the goofier of the waiters is introducing me to Carlos, behind the bar, who will show me around Madrid at night (with Carlos rolling his eyes, as if to say, "ah, this guy"), while he himself specializes in daytime Madrid.  Soon, little Goofy's grabbing my arm and leading me inside the kitchen for a photo op, he's handing me a pamphlet with the recipe for cocida, Carlos is taking a picture of me, Goofy, and another waiter, and Goofy's getting one of me and Carlos.

As I'm finally about to leave, already mesmerized by their hospitable energy and my sudden transformation from con-artist to celebrity, Goofy asks me to hold on because he wants to give me a gift.  I have no idea what to expect, but soon he comes running back with an adorable clay souvenir from the restaurant just for me.  We exchange a few more words (not many spoken or understood by me), then I thanked everyone profusely and finally made my exit, unable to stop grinning for a full ten minutes as I walked down the street feeling like a magician that turns nightmares into dreams.