The Drink of Spain

There is an unsettling sense of absurdity in the busy Barcelona strip Las Ramblas, where pickpockets are notorious and the buskers are bizarre. A towering goblin-esque monster clutches a squealing child in its foot-long claws, and nearby a truly tiny woman sits on a throne in princess clothes. Heritage and tourism stare each other in the face; off-white apartments with intricate balconies are obscured by numerous banners threatening fines for pissing in public. The colour, noise, and pace of the place all seem accentuated in the searing heat. I enjoy the chaotic atmosphere, but today I am here for sangria: that fantastic drink I've heard so much about.

I choose a sunny cafe, and my drink is delivered in a monolithic 1.5 litre jug. The tropical liquid is red and yellow like the sunset of your dream holiday, filled with happy umbrellas and a couple of foot-long straws which reach far above my head as I sit quite low behind the bar. I extend my neck to reach a straw.

I haven't tried this infamous concoction yet, but I've heard a lot about it. It's the drink of Spain, it's sweet, potent, aesthetically pleasing, and served in massive vessels. I'm excited.

But when its journey through the straw finally comes to an end, I do not find the pleasant mix of alcohol and sweetness that you expect from a cocktail. Instead my mouth puckers as the taste of cheap wine fills it, reminding me of the unfortunate time I drank red wine out of a cask. I try hard to force it down, taking big gulps, but it's starting to make my stomach moan in protest.

I skulk away from my largely untouched drink. I'm embarrassed, but then I think about how I've found this city to be full of surprises. The tourism is extravagant, the classic architecture is daring, the food diverse and the most popular drink repulsive. There is not enough time in the world to enjoy Spain's entire colourful menu and crossing one cheap drink off the list will only save me time.