At Calle de la Reina 4, a metal placard fixed to an austere concrete wall bears the name Angelita. Its backlighting & angel wing engraving cast a haloesque aura on David Villalón – a young man with a receding hairline and small features that hide behind his neatly groomed beard. He’s the sommelier and one of the brothers behind this classy wine bar 100 metres from the crowded Gran Via in the centre of Madrid.
Interviewing David Villalón outside his wine bar Angelita
I trail behind David in my black suede wedges as we sweep through his dual-levelled establishment on a fleeting tour that naturally concludes at the bar, where I happily perch myself on a high stool next to my drinking companions. As I glance beyond the marble countertop, I begin to feel overwhelmed by a library of 500+ wines neatly lined up on glass shelves housed inside a floor-to-ceiling hefty wooden unit.
Angelita's library of 500+ wines
My wine ignorance is soon mitigated by my aptitude for Italian language, as I exchange a few parole with the Italian barmaid who makes my decision-making easy and slides me my first glass of wine for the evening. More interested in the food, I reach for a dainty ceramic china spoon whose deep flat bowl cups a nondescript brunoise of octopus meat, bell peppers and onion.
I listlessly throw it back, eagerly hoping that the next pecking dish will assuage my taste buds. Peering over my shoulder, I catch sight of David bent over busying himself behind an ornate cheese cart, seamlessly nestled in the far corner of the room.
I abandon my posse and swiftly head his way. Focused on the task at hand, he delicately slices slithers of pungent goat’s, cow’s & sheep’s milk cheeses, one riddled with blue veins, from Madrid, Mahon, Basque Country & Asturias, respectively. Carefully, he arranges them in petite piles on wee rectangular wooden boards along with arbitrarily placed earthy walnuts, juicy sultanas, dried apricots and golden nuggets of quince paste.
Returning to the bar, a cheese board of my very own awaits me along with a basket of artisan crusty sourdough and a large glass of red wine. Impatiently reaching for a slither of cheese, Marla stops me in my tracks, reminding me of the importance in simultaneously pairing the former with my wine, as here at Angelita, it is the wine that dictates the food and not the contrary.
All eyes (and a camera lens) riveted on me, a timely recollection of my dad – wine connoisseur – at one of his wine club evenings comes to mind and I self-consciously attempt a somewhat atrocious imitation.
To begin, I lightly twirl the thin stem of my glass, creating a rouge vortex that nearly decorates my silk snakeskin pants, before admiring the so-called “legs.” Next, I plunge my inapt button nose inside the deep vessel, sniffing the fruity bouquet before taking a sip and letting the velvety liquid linger in my mouth. To finish, I unconvincingly aspirate the wine, gargling it like mouthwash, before letting it slide down my throat.
Overhearing the others talk of strong tannins, I nod my head in concurrence like Leonardo DiCaprio from a scene of Catch Me If You Can, desperately trying to mask my ignorance that later, with more alcohol swimming in my veins, I whole-heartedly embrace.
Still savouring the marvellously gooey goat’s cheese in my mouth (that admittedly pairs beautifully with the full-bodied red), a scorching terracotta dish arrives. Brimming with chargrilled calçots (Catalonian spring onions) from the family farm sprinkled with flaky sea salt and accompanied by a little glass bowl of salsa romesco, my taste buds are newly tantalized. I peel back the charred layer and dunk the tender strand into the rich vermillion sauce of roasted red bell peppers and toasted almonds, which immediately droops under the sauce’s weight, before lowering it down my throat like a consummate fire-eater.
Chargrilled calçots (Catalonian spring onions) sprinkled with sea salt & accompanied by salsa romesco
To follow, a double-cooked caramelized octopus whose tough and chewy texture is too much for my stomach to handle. Staring at its beady black eyes, bulbous head, saclike body and sucker-baring arms sinking into a bed of cauliflower purée, reminiscent of a beached slimy sea beast, I politely pass.
The drinks keep on flowing as we make our way downstairs to the dim-lit semi-clandestine American cocktail basement bar. As we slump into the comfortable armchairs in an atmospheric corner, I undo a button or two in preparation for the next round. Served a sickly sweet cocktail that scorches my throat, I discretely slide it along to Greg, and instead dig into the succulent butterfish tataki marinated in Japanese citrus lying atop a mound of truffle infused pearl barley risotto with vivid green Pollockesque splatters of coriander emulsion.
To conclude the procession of cocktails, a precious little chocolate box spilling decadent gemlike morsels. I sink my teeth into a white chocolate almond brittle number and polish off an abandoned dense dark chocolate truffle as we make our way out the door and head down the street to The Cock.
