Good Meal, Good Conversation, Good Night

It certainly did rain the other night. That heavy merciless rain that leaves not a thread dry.

I thought I could get as far as Can Estevet having drowned only one layer of clothing. I deceived myself, alas. When I arrived Roger suggested I dry myself off with the hand drier in the toilets. To get myself anywhere near dry would have taken at least twenty minutes of crouching under a hand drier that periodically clicked on and off. The convex (and ridiculous) reflection of my wetness on the finger-printed and water-spattered nozzle convinced me of the futility of my efforts.

Back to the table I went, only to see Roger greeting half a dozen young men at the other table. They all wore jeans and t-shirts or un-tucked shirts. They were uniformly shod with those fashionable pseudo-trainers that have little more than plimsoll soles.

The tables were pushed tightly together which meant I had to slide in between the table and the chair in a moving seated position. The back of my chair touched against that of Roger’s friend now and again, even though we were well out of earshot, in a restaurant where conversation is as highly valued as traditional Catalan cuisine.

The walls, ornately tiled to just above the diner's head height, are generously covered in photographs of the great and the good of contemporary Spanish culture. From flamboyant singers to reserved actors, from musicians to dancers, they are all there, photographed and autographed, more often than not shoulder to shoulder with the aging owner-cum-head waiter.

On a previous visit to Can Estevet I tugged on my friends sleeve to draw attention to the middle aged lady dressed in cowboy garb with her back to us. A little later she brought us our second course and it became apparent that she was the revered co-owner of this historic eateria where only those who come on recommendation would care to enter.

The table cloths are all of gingham, some carry wounds inflicted by careless smokers, others betray the rough justice of a ruthless washing machine. In all we ate well, sea food and steak in Rocafort sauce, all of which was served at lightening speed, as if the waiter was convinced we were double parked on the narrow street outside.

Far from it indeed, the scooter sat on Ronda Sant Antoni bathed in the easing rainfall just beside a blind-lottery-ticket-seller’s booth. Then out we came into the moist night, well fed and desirous of further conversation on similar subjects.

The hubbub of the streets Valdonzella with Joaquin Costa invigorated us as we strolled further down into the Raval. Just as far though, as the Granja where writer Terenci Moix lived out his early years and nowadays young dishevelled types pore over beers while others stand at the bar waiting for someone to vacate a table.

And then the conversation ended just before we had nothing left to say. It was the right time to hit home. Home on the scooter, damp and shivering but thankfully none the worse for wear.