Messy Night in Barcelona

A recent holiday has only reinforced my fondness for the Catalan capital. Day or night, the natives of this famous city know how to enjoy life. And unlike some southern European cities drink and the places it is imbibed are, almost, as important as food and restaurants.

Daytime was covered in my earlier blog. This time it’s nightime and a journey from La Ribera across the Barri Gotic to a finish in El Raval.

The Muse and my brother accompanied, both patient in the face of my bar-hopping compulsion which, in this kind of environment, can get quite out of hand. But it does produce a longer list of bars visited than a ‘normal’ night would produce.

La Ribera, even less than a decade ago, used to be a quite different place. When one crossed the busy Via Laietana, the artery down which vehicles hurtle to the port, one entered a relatively impenetrable part of the city, an area even some locals looked on with disdain. It was perceived to have no tourist draws and many only passed through it to reach the Parc de la Ciutadella.

It has changed. Boutiques, galleries – including the Picasso - restaurants and bars proliferate. But not all of it has been gentrified. We began our night in the top half of the district, Sant Pere, through narrow streets of older housing and concrete newcomers, most of which accommodate poorer families and immigrants.

Carrer d’Allada Vermell is itself a rather ugly concrete street with a few trees to lighten the look, but home to a number of cafes and bars. We chose the Casa Paco, a well regarded small bar that attracts the local cognoscenti. Basic metal tables and chairs fit the environment and it was pleasant to be out in the square, sampling an experience well away from the tourist centres, with an easy breeze that would have played with my hair had I more of the stuff.

Our next stop, El Born bar, is named after the short, leafy, street that is the centre of tourist activity in La Ribera. This bar was one of the new arrivals around 20 years ago that were the vanguard of the area’s transformation.

This bar has two small rooms downstairs and a little more space above via a spiral staircase. Its cramped nature, including the cellar accessed by a trapdoor amidst the tables doesn’t get in the way of a good time. The cheerful staff help too and offer good drink advice, such as recommending their best bourbon for me.

After a couple of swift ones on ice we were out and past the Santia Maria del Mar, Barcelona’s largest example of a Gothic church. The street behind, Carrer de L’Argenteria is full of good tapas bars but we eschewed their charms to press on to the aforementioned Via Laietana and across it into the Barri Gotic proper.

The promenading Carrer de Ferran was still populous as we hunted our next booze hole. We were thus distracted when a shout went up the street. Two quite well dressed guys in their early 20s sped past us a second or so after the cry. Being a Glaswegian, my initial thought was that this was a fight being escaped, but in another instant a middle-aged German came steaming past also.

He had been robbed. He wouldn’t be able to maintain that pace so we knew his valuables were gone. Even if he were to catch them, his money would probably have been passed to an associate of the thieves already. We cursed our slow reactions, wishing we had realised quicker and stuck out our legs, or employed even stronger means, to bring down the muggers.

Especially so as The Muse had herself been dipped by an English woman the day before, while browsing scarf stalls at the bottom of La Ramblas. So despite my enthusiasm for all things Barcelona I won’t yet be employed by the city’s tourist board. Mugging remains a problem and economic woes may make it worse.

But onward to more positive things. Such as the delight in turning off a busy street into a narrow byway down which mystery lies. In the old town this can happen hundreds of times and it gives me, at least, a delicious frisson.

One of these lanes is the Carrer d’En Rauric and at a bend in its course there are two bars only open at night. Both easy to miss, they are that tiny. Sugar and Club Rosa are their names. I liked the spot so much we sampled both.

Both do what you good joints do in the confines of the inner city; they make lack of space not only surmountable but a charm. Curtains, red lights, candles, cheap old paintings, cushions in window alcoves all somehow work. The second of the two also manages to be something unheard of in Britain, a trendy Gothic bar.

Even the fact that Brewdog’s 5am Saint was off in the first joint, didn’t harm the good impression. Partly because Brewdog products are becoming as ubiquitous as Carling back in the UK.

Placa Reial is the main entertainment square in the Barri Gotic. I’ve enjoyed a couple of great nights in Jamboree and other clubs there but on this night we made the wrong choice and picked a corner bar, Roma Reial. Too many virtually abstemious tourists filled the outside tables and chairs and even the novelty of urinals you needed to balance on your toes to access didn’t save the place.

Bored bar service didn’t help. They’d seen it all before. Good for them. They just hastened our exit towards an area that contrasts markedly from Placa Reial.

El Raval was even more notorious than La Ribera. OK, now the parts adjacent to Placa de Catalunya and the top end of Las Ramblas have been softened and plumped. Designer shops are dotted about, along with some notable restaurants and Almirall, the oldest bar in town. But pockets of the lower end, the Barri Xines, retain their hard edge. This is the part nearest the port and I’m sure there are a few unhygienic tattoo parlours nearby too.

That seafaring trade has mostly gone but the drug dealers, pimps and prostitutes remain, even if they don’t always oblige by appearing. But, or rather because of its colourful history, some of the best bars are here.

We tried London Bar, a very modestly furnished joint with a small counter and a 1930s feel. Picasso and Orwell have been among the notable visitors. The front area was quiet but through the back it was livelier. Especially after a few absinthes.

There were some backpackers, but don’t hold that against the place, because there is a genuine mix of all sorts who bar-go round here. And don’t let the name of our last bar, Kentucky, put you off either. Although originally designed for US sailors it is no more Yank-centric than London Bar is full of expats.

Kentucky is like all the best wild bars, narrow, dark and hallucinogenic after midnight. Some folk complain about the service and the crush and its populist edge but they are over-picky. Just enjoy.

The time and favourable times were flowing so well that I forgot my original intended final destination, Marsella, a place renowned for its absinthe and for being the closest to the old Barri Xines atmosphere.

So it was an incomplete survey, but still a tour close to my favourite way of spending an evening in Barcelona. That would be watching Messi score a hat-trick to break the European scoring record. And that was the next night.

Wintersgill's - No One Will Suspect

Wintersgill's - 226 Great Western Road, Glasgow G4 9EJ


Many Glasgow bars operate under the radar. Wintersgill’s is one. Sitting on the quietest stretch of Great Western Road, near St George’s Cross, for a few decades does that to a bar and means it doesn’t feel the need to shout about itself.

The name has an old-fashioned ring to it but is not the original. That was Andros, back in the 70s, and at that time it was a fashionable hang-out under the celebrated ownership of the Dows. A place where champagne glasses were assembled into that fountain effect we’ve all seen in the movies but probably never in real life.

Since then a more modest existence, apart from being an unofficial Partick Thistle fan meeting point. Most people will pass by thinking it’s just a local for aging, hardened imbibers and leave it to the regulars. This is a view of the place that suits some who have used it, as I will explain.

Picture an evening a few years ago. I had visited ‘Gill’s a few times as I worked nearby, so chose it as the starting point for a Friday night. I even phoned ahead and booked a meal in the side bar. Judging from the reaction over the phone this was unusual. But in there I sat – now there is a posher back area for food – until I tired of the solitude and took my plate next doors into the busy public bar.

The stately brown banquettes that make up most of the seating were half-full and eager eyes followed my dinner to its seat. To discourage them I ate quickly, before starting to admire the large interior. It is surprisingly elegant, with fittings that have a pleasing permanence. Elaborate cornicing, cream pillars, globe lamps and shapely panelling all impress.

Pleasing to look at and also functional. Space to move around in and an environment to make you linger. Details such as the facing of the bar counter sloping away from your legs to give you extra room – pointed out to me by Borrochneldia – were missed by me at the time, but I did appreciate the overall ambience. It was going to be a good night, I felt, both here and in later venues.

Most of the rest of the people seemed to share my optimism but two young blokes near me did not. They looked uptight, on edge, uncomfortable. The smaller of the two was doing the only talking. And patting his mate on the arm every so often. None of it got any reaction.

I gravitate towards tension, so once I’d finished my dinner, I edged into a seat nearer the two. There was still little chat and the mood unchanged. I went for pee, down the enclosed narrow stairs.

I was mid-stream when other people entered the toilet. A quick glance over my shoulder revealed it was the nervy blokes. I turned away again quickly. I could then sense a pause, before there was the sound of a door closing. Aye, aye, I said – inwardly.

Washing my hands I noticed the cubicle door didn’t seem to have a proper snib on it. I took a step closer.

Their voices were clear. “What’s the problem?” said the smaller guy – his volume was in inverse proportion to his size.
“Nothing,” said his pal.
“Aye there is, I can tell. Look, shut up” (superfluous comment surely) “ and keep your back to that door.”

Then came some tap, tapping, and scraping on porcelain. I was about to leave them to it when out came the immortal line, again from the wee man: “This is an old man’s bar, no one will ever suspect.”

I chuckled going back up the stairs but never quite realised I would be using that line some years in the future in a wildly successful blog.

Anyway, they returned soon after me and soon began to be a lot freer in their conversation. Passing by their table a number of times I heard phrases like “big consignment coming in” and “the Gleneagles deal”.

Now this was before the G8 summit and the successful Ryder Cup bid but even then the hotel carried a luxurious reputation, so I was sceptical about what I’d heard, thinking that the closest these guys would get to Gleneagles and cash negotiations was the bookies on Auchterarder High Street.

My horse didn’t come in either because my pal called to cancel and so I had to head-off to pursue my chemical highs (CH3-CH2-OH) alone.

Nowadays Wintersgill’s boasts some natty wicker outside-furniture and a slightly more sophisticated air than before. Go there and enjoy yourself.

Note: Author cannot accept any responsibility for any trouble you get yourself in through your drug of choice. Though, if reports on a certain type’s purity these days are true, you will get a better hit with a couple of quick, strong cups of black followed by a brandy chaser.

Do you know a wee place in Barcelona? Hundreds, actually...

I’m recently returned from Barcelona and I know you are clamouring for my opinions on the place and its drinking. This my third time in the Catalan capital and again I have to largely ignore the overtly high-class drinking experience you can get in any number of elegant hotels and swish bars especially on and around the broad avenues of Eixample and Passeig de Gracia or up in the rarefied heights of the Zona Alta.

Not because there is anything wrong with these places, I like champagne cocktails and impeccable service as much as the next man (but if he’s an ordinary man those times belong to before 2008 and The Disgrace) but experiences like this are generic especially with the high incidence of hotel and bar chains across the major cities of the world. And that’s without the considering the ubiquitous awfulness of the Hard Rock Café which sits at the main square Placa De Catalunya.

No, what stands out for me is the kind of small place you find all over Barcelona, from the tourist areas to quieter neighbourhoods, and from Barceloneta to Les Corts. These can be little more than off-licences that allow you stay and drink your purchases; formica-countered bars serving cheap pintxos and sherry; hole in the wall no-table-jobs; or even bodegas with no bar counter, just barrels on the walls and a few rickety tables.

Most days can be spent in Barcelona just wandering through the narrow streets off Las Ramblas in areas like El Raval and La Ribera as well as the Barri Gotic itself. Around here form has benefited from function with the small spaces creating tremendously entertaining mini-hostelries.

Sure, out in the sunshine of the numerous squares is fun too, but if you are sitting at an outside table there is little difference between one bar or restaurant to the next, they become interchangeable, as generic as the chain bars already mentioned.

There will be more on Barcelona in later blogs, one at least will look at the particular experiences of night time imbibing in this great city.

But for now I will describe one of the best wee places I came across during the trip. Bar Bodega Montse sits quietly on the Carrer De L’Arc De Sant Agusti, by the church of the same name, in the middle of the once notorious El Raval district. Tourists would have feared to tread around here but things have gradually changed, a Spanish gentrification perhaps.

Many of the old residents appear to be still around though as well as the habitués of this traditional, basic bar.. They came and went during our couple of hours spent there, mostly old chaps, some derelict, some compos mentis, all regulars.

Our bottled beers and wines came without a fuss. No bar counter, just straight from the fridge or barrel stuck to the wall. Back to basics indeed. Great.

The only problem my female companions encountered – including The Muse, not slow to come forward normally – was enquiring about conveniences. They had to go to next door restaurant.

I used the open sesame “servicio, por favor” and was led to the place by the owner. It turned out to be a cupboard, basically, with a shower base, a hole, two taps - one for hands and one for excrement - and two foot-plates.

Rudimentary, yes, but it gave the feeling one had found somewhere quite hidden, forgotten almost, amidst this bustling, modern, international, seemingly completely-charted city.

My friends might have found this rather scatological but nevertheless we all continued to enjoy the rest of the afternoon in the shadow of the walls of the ancient church.

The Lampost

Deoch an Dorus

Deoch an Dorus, 427-429 Dumbarton Road, Partick, Glasgow G11 6DD

It takes a bit of nerve to change a local son. The Hayburn Vaults had its faults, like a slightly recalcitrant member of the family who refuses to toe the line or move with the times. Sometimes that is part of the attraction of a person/place. And why you get loyal regulars. It might be grimy, it might be a strange shape, it might not welcome every stranger over its door but it’s ours…so would speak the regulars. That group of folk who made it a harsh school of drinkers. Fun, but harsh…

It was, I think, a fairly early Saturday evening there around a decade ago. The mostly male inhabitants were enjoying a mostly quiet drink when the doors were flung open and in walked a loud group of women. One of them wasn’t so loud though. More sheepish. A hen, in fact.

She was following the rest of them, but before any one could even order a drink, the chant went up: “Who let the dogs out…!?” I’ve never been sure whether the song came as a reaction to their overconfidence or the clientele could sense an underlying fear. Whatever real reason, the women were out in an instant, the very existence of the rest of their night in doubt.

The pub was named after the Hay Burn, one of the many forgotten streams that run into the Clyde. Founded in 1904 it was a prominent member of the Partick drag of pubs that attract folk from everywhere further west along Dumbarton Road from Old Kilpatrick to Whiteinch, as well as more local residents.

Oh, and I’ve been informed that the Hayburn was a ‘bluenose’ bar. Doesn’t mean that much to a fan uninterested in football below the top level, and all the Scottish stuff unfortunately falls into that category now.

Perhaps, though, the above fact is a reason why the new owners insist on the edict: NO FOOTBALL COLOURS. Now, being a man of taste, I think such sartorial instructions are like the notice: NO SPITTING; you really shouldn’t have to say it.

Those new owners had taken a sabbatical from pub-running after a successful stint in charge of the Rhoderick Dhu, Waterloo Street (in a period after it was a hang-out of pimps and associated lowlife) and only re-entered the scene when spotting a prime opportunity.

Many months of work followed, the chief fruit of the man-hours being the re-emergence of original exterior features such as the number plate. This may be their attempt to connect with the past, as are contents of the website detailing the history of this spot as a refreshment stop for cattle drovers. But no mention of The Hayburn Vaults, a pity that. As if re-writing history.




Anyway, the refurb: the bar is of the island variety, in much the same place as the previous counter. The old one was battered and bruised (innumerable heads and other items hitting it at speed over many years) but it was a big solid hunk of timber with a look of permanence. The new one looks insubstantial with an unimpressive gantry, you can’t see it still being here in decades time. Other woodwork is similarly flimsy, MDF in appearance if not reality. None of this is helped by the smell of varnish that was everywhere on the opening weekend.

There used to be a back section to this interior but now it’s a very large single bar area with plenty of tables. On these tables is served what was described in a local free rag as “tasty and great value” this verdict countered by a friend of mine who recently experienced D&D’s fare. But these newspaper reviews are basically adverts. I should know. I’ve tried to cajole various of them to take me on as a reviewer but the replies were of the nature: “It is not parent group policy to hire reviewers or similar. We prefer to feature advertorials.” Great.

So, neither outstanding food nor a massive range of beers. Looking at the long counter space there appears to be a noticeably small number of taps. Not promising for the craft beer lovers, or anybody with a need for variety.

The large interior could also do with something to break its regularity. A large square like this needs a hub, a focal point. I was thinking just these thoughts on a visit to D&D when I started noticing some faces from Partick of a few years back. Not friends or even acquaintances but just recognisable people from places like the Liosmore and The Partick Tavern when Dumbarton Road was an actual pre-club zone.

So the place is attracting a decent smattering of folk out for a good time, rather than just the football fans gorging themselves on the numerous big screens before leaving for home early evening. I haven’t yet myself stayed right on here until the end of the night but I hope the lights get dimmed later, because they’re too bright to create a proper late-night atmosphere.

But my 70-year-old downstairs neighbour, a glamorous granny who attracts many admiring glances, is also a Hayburn Friday afternoon regular for years, is now attending D&D regularly, a measure of recommendation, someone, at least has accepted the changes. She no longer smokes, but her earlier self would have liked the ingenious use of the building-well out back; half-covered, smartly-paved, and with branded barrels to rest drinks and ashtrays.

Perhaps, then, a pub greater than the sum of its parts, able to live up to its name and become a social meeting point for old and new visitors, whether they’ve heard of the Hayburn or not.