Roused from a deep sleep by the racket of a truck-mounted street sweeper, I’m immediately reminded of my surroundings: the bustling metropolis of Madrid and not the peaceful suburb of Auckland with its soothing sounds of birdsong.
As the street sweeper tackles the litter strewn pavement down below, erasing any vestige of a good night out, I slide out of bed, slip on my black silk singlet and shorts and make my way downstairs to the hotel lobby. Stepping outside, spotless wet sidewalks glisten under the morning sun that only hours before resembled the aftermath of a raucous fiesta.
I make my way to our usual meeting point on the corner of Calle del Dr Cortezo and Plaza Tirso de Molina and ponder what avant-garde ensemble Marla will don today… round black-rim shades, a '90s goth-lite tattoo choker necklace, black tank top, denim short dungarees, white sneakers and a burgundy leather rucksack? ¡Claro que sí! We exchange dos besos and head towards el Rastro, Madrid’s open air flea market that owes it name to “the trail” of blood left behind after transporting slaughtered cattle from the abattoir to the tanneries once located in the area.
Marla's avant-garde ensemble
Strolling through the narrow streets, the sleepy city of Madrid begins to yawn, wipe its heavy eyes and stretch its stiff limbs: birds flutter from rooftop tiles; inner-city residents fling back windows to vigorously beat the dust and debris out of their rugs; storekeepers raise roller shutters and start assembling their wears on the footpath; flower sellers and fruit vendors erect their stalls in the local plaza; and cafés infuse the streets with the lingering aroma of sweet coffee and buttery pastries.
Soon, el Rastro is swarming with sun-kissed locals; elderly couples lugging shopping trolleys; families with kids in tow and rowdy packs of tourists carrying selfie sticks. We weave our way through the crowds to the La China Mandarina, a chic café-bistro-workspace situated at the heart of the flea market and whose salubrious €16 “Sunday brunch” menu transports me straight back home.
Honeycomb tile flooring, exposed brick walls, contemporary lampshades, eclectic furniture and dainty vases of freshly picked flowers set the scene at Fran Echegoyen and Joana Ortega’s eatery. Leaning back into our chairs at a sun-drenched table straddling a floor-to-ceiling window that opens up to a graffitied alley, we peruse the menu.
Honeycomb tile flooring at the chic café-bistro-workspace La China Mandarina
Sunday brunch in the sunshine at La China Mandarina
Before long, our little table is laden with cups of oat milk coffee; glasses of freshly squeezed orange juice; muesli, yoghurt and fruit parfaits; baby spinach, watermelon, feta and basil pesto salad bowls; and pan con tomate y jamón (slabs of toasted sourdough rubbed with garlic and smothered in succulent tomatoes and rouge ribbons of Serrano ham) – the one and only nod to la cocina española. Indeed, a far cry from authentic Spanish fare, but interesting nonetheless to see this new concept of eating and style of food begin to thrive in a country so steeped in culinary tradition.
Freshly squeezed orange juice; muesli, yoghurt & fruit parfait; & pan con tomate y jamón (toasted sourdough rubbed with garlic & smothered in tomatoes & Serrano ham)
Pan con tomate y jamón - La China Mandarina's one & only nod to la cocina española
Serving up baby spinach, watermelon, feta & basil pesto salad bowls
Meandering past tent after tent of art, apparel and antiques, muffled music and the percussive sound of clapping hands draw me around the corner to a jazz band entertaining passers-by who in turn cause a mid-calle traffic jam. I flatten a piece of crumpled up paper and crouch down on the curb, face cupped in hands, lost in the music and jubilant organic dance moves of a Spanish niño. Abandoning my inhibitions, I haul Marla up off the ground and we freestyle dance alongside the boy, before tossing a few gold coins into the guitar case and skipping off bent double in a fit of giggles.
The midday sun beats down on my exposed shoulders, as we pass by terraces in full bloom with tables, chairs and umbrellas spilling out into the squares of the hedonistic and historic neighbourhood of La Latina. We make our way through the winding lanes to The Closest Club - Biblioteca de ropa, a collaborative consumer club where members borrow and return garments as if they were library books. This hipster clothing library is the brainchild of Xácome Froufe Vigara, a youthful quadragenarian with a full head of unruly hair, stubble, yellow linen shirt unbuttoned to reveal his tattooed chest and ripped jeans (a total Johnny Depp doppelgänger).
Una chica entre dos chicos - The Closet Club owner Xácome Froufe Vigara & Spanish model / DJ Javier de Miguel
As I walk in the door, he thrusts a chilled bottle of beer in my hand, but I opt for a glass of pungent vermouth instead. Lightened with a dash of soda and aromatized with orange peel, I sip on the refreshing beverage whilst browsing the racks and swaying once again, this time to the deep house beats of the striking Spanish model Javier de Miguel, DJing in store on a Sunday just for kicks.
