The Bars of Seville

    Seville is one of my favourite cities in the world. I recently spent three nights there, and I could have stayed another week. There is something wonderfully languorous about Seville, no doubt due to the intense sun and enervating heat. The climate engulfs and eventually overwhelms you, so that you must partake of that ritual of the south, the siesta. If a sleep doesn’t appeal, the obvious alternative is to go to a bar. And there are a lot of bars. 

My first experience of a bar in Seville was not auspicious. The establishment in question, Bar Europa, was rather empty when my uncle and I wandered in on a February evening and ordered a couple of sherries. We were at the counter and I grabbed a stool, an action which seemed to upset a local man nearby, so I offered it to him. He had a weird and agitated manner, and didn’t seem mollified by my gesture. The bar staff appeared determined to ignore this nuisance, and after quickly finishing our drinks we left. Afterwards, I suggested to my uncle that the guy was looking for a fight, although he was of the opinion that he was trying to make a move on me!

          That incident, which occurred many years ago, came back to me during my recent stay. My travelling companion and I visited a bar in the touristy Santa Cruz neighbourhood one evening. It was busy with locals and foreigners and so loud that we had to stand outside in order to have a conversation. We were nursing a manzanilla and a white wine and enjoying the lovely evening weather, when a very drunk man put his sherry down on our table. He said ‘Skol!’ and raised his glass vaguely in our direction. I assumed he was Scandinavian on account of this greeting, but my friend rightly marked him as a Spaniard.

          The man raised his glass a couple more times, as if acknowledging an invisible drinking buddy. I think we were both filled with a sense of foreboding that he would, inevitably, try to draw us into a conversation. And so it panned out. My cousin gamely made an effort to respond to his questions, but it was gibberish. At one point we figured out that he was attempting to ask us what we wanted to drink, but he was determined to ask it perfectly, and fumbled around on his mobile for a couple of minutes before he found the translation. When I told him I lived in Scotland his glazed eyes lit up and he said ‘whisky!’ He shambled uneasily towards the bar to buy one for me, but the bar staff sent him packing. Soon after, we took our leave. I’m sure the drunk Spaniard has no recollection of ever meeting us.

          Still, I think such inebriates are a rarity in Seville. I have never seen anyone I would describe as drunk in my favourite bar, Hijos de E. Morales, which is found on Calle Garcia de Vinuesa, not far from the cathedral. Perhaps it’s to do with the measurements. If you ask for a beer you get a caña, which is about 200ml in size, and the many varieties of sherry (fino, manzanilla, oloroso, palo cortado and so on) are served in small glasses.

          Morales is small and has only a few tables, but most customers prefer to stand. Like the place in the Barrio Santa Cruz, it attracts a mixed clientele of young and older Spaniards, as well as tourists. You can order local specialities like garbanzas con espinacas (chickpeas and spinach) and eat them while standing beside the wooden counter. Gruff and ageing barmen look you firmly in the eye and bark out ‘dime’ or ‘digame’ (‘tell me’) before taking your order. When they give you your change they slap the coins down on the counter and slide them towards you. It’s loud, indeed another of those bars where you may have to take your drinks outside if you wish to hear what your friend is saying, but the patrons are good-humoured.

Still, we could not entirely escape the cliché of the British tourist, for on two occasions we finished the night in an Irish pub, drinking enormous glasses of whisky. There was football on big screens and sunburnt British women drinking rosé, and we could almost have felt at home. But stopping on one of the bridges that crosses the Guadalquivir river on the way to our hotel, we turned round and looked back at the old centre of Seville, where we saw the awe-inspiring bulk of the Cathedral and the majestic Giralda tower lit up against the night sky.