A snapshot of El Boliche
A hidden place of discernment and learning.
The tiny bar could fit, at best, 20 people. There was space, however, for around 60 craft beers from around the world, advertised on a crude, printed-out sign. The bitterness and alcohol content were visible, as were labels like IPA and ‘Irish stout style’. Elsewhere, random flags, miniature trucks and funny adverts adorned the walls, as well as more printouts, this time of the 6 Nations Rugby results, with the scores written in biro and Ireland, an all-island team in rugby, listed as a Republic. It goes without saying that entire bar was bedecked with wood.
I went for a light German beer, something akin to a lager. For me, craft beer was akin to socialism. Great on paper, but in reality, it sometimes led to the corporeal version of economic stagnation, a dodgy stomach. Travis, the New Yorker downed his ones like water, while the only two Spanish people at the table drank at a steady pace, moving between Pilsners and stouts.
Dub mistep
Our conversation, about the merits of dubbing in cinema, was interrupted before we could reach the obvious and natural conclusion: it has no merits. The bar owner, who had previously patted me on the shoulder as I perused the beer menu, informed us that there was going to be a homenaje, a homage to a friend of the bar who had recently passed. He sometimes brought ‘British’ beer to the place, something I found out during the ceremony. I use quotation marks because those beers were Scottish and Irish, and since I felt I could not interrupt his eulogy in the bar, allow me to clarify now that Irish beer is Irish beer, that our craft beer was also liberated in 1922 with the foundation of the state.
A microphone was passed around as people who knew him sang his praises. In the background, the manager made good use of both TVs, with one screen showing photographic slideshows and the other a video montage. My group eyed the door, wondering when the best time to leave would be, caught between respect for the deceased, an appreciation of stumbling into such a unique moment and awkwardness at being the only ones in the bar who didn’t know the man. After Slade’s Auld Lang Syne/You’ll Never Walk Alone faded out we exited into the cold Madrid night, leaving behind an unexpected and touching tribute, allowing the locals to feel the poignant songs and measure their words with love and memories.
There and back again
I’ve only been to this bar a handful times; every couple of years I find a reason to pass through its threshold, marking a waypoint on my journey through Madrid, with each of these waypoints encompassing a significant portion of my time in the Spanish capital.
The first time I was there was with Bruce, a bespectacled American that I had met at our mutual friend’s Sinterklaas party, a Dutch celebration of Christmas that falls on December 5th. I had been regular feature at these parties, where satirical poems and games of secret Santa played out against a backdrop of pancakes and wine.
Another time I was at the bar was with an Irish friend who was visiting. We darkened the door at around 8 am, catching Ireland’s rugby world cup game from Japan, part of a smattering of English-speakers having tea and pints to mark the beginning of the day, starting a marathon of sporting events that took us later to Rayo Vallecano’s stadium and Atleti’s newly opened Wanda Metropolitano.
Rock spirit
The bar represents the rock spirit of Vallecas as it was originally named after Irish musician Rory Gallagher, though now its current name is Argentinian slang for ‘bowling’. The community feel of the neighbourhood is also represented in the establishment, with it being passed from father to son, and being home to a rotating cast of regular customers. It’s a place of discernment and learning, where a person gazing at the beer options and weighing up what to order is a sympathetic character, inspiring kindness and complicity in the way a person strolling into a normal bar and asking for a Heineken does not.
