The Mystery Around Loving a Place

Nobody is alone in here.

Conversation is banging up against the walls like it’s trying to get out. The floor has scattered islands of saw dust to soak up the beer that’s splashed off the trays or the bar. It is, in fact, a practice that promotes sloth above cleanliness. And we buy it under the banner of tradition.

Bar Tomàs is an institution in Sarrià. The average person here is beautiful; even the ugly ones have dickied themselves up with flash clothes or the right creams.

Scarves are good if you’re a girl. If you’re a guy try a pair of black plastic-rimmed glasses and something with a collar. It doesn’t matter if it’s worn out as long as it cost a pretty penny when you bought it.

Enter young man who hasn’t shaved today, (or yesterday) but he looks good for it. He pulls his orange jumper down to meet his trousers just enough for us to notice his desirable black underwear with a thick branded elastic waistband. He doesn’t care for his appearance, he seems to be saying. Let’s not split hairs.

The toilet has double doors like a saloon. You can bash in and out of them and we can notice how you effortlessly hip you look in your studied easy gait. You can carry yourself back to your chair like you are walking across the living room floor. Make yourself at home, we’re at ease with the world.

None of the girls has messed around with their hair. No dies or bleaches or yelling reds. Quality cuts and more-than-daily grooming serves us up a sight to behold; a vision of healthy youthfulness, healthy roots and not a split end on a shapely head.

This is a place to meet after school on weekdays, after lunch on weekends and after work on days when you should have gone home earlier. Waxed jackets, Shoei helmets, slacks and loafers are post-work wear. If you’ve got a tie you can loosen it and unbutton the neck of your shirt. You can speak of deals or sport, last weekend in the Pyrenees or next week’s skiing if this damn warm spell would break and we’d get a decent snowfall. It’s nearly December for pity’s sake!

How can all this go on amidst such shabby surroundings? Here again Formica is king, a paint job from way back when the Olympics buoyed rejuvenation and above the bar a collection of clay wine dispensers that could do with a dusting. How can it be?

Perhaps it’s the bar staff aplenty. Their pseudo-uniform of black trousers, white shirt and navy tank top might be the draw. It might be how they participate in your evening, how they comment on any hint of personality you let slip as you sat down. They’ll remark on your clothing, your attitude, your order or your lack thereof. To be a waiter here you have to be happy, it seems. Or very sad. You have to be a character or we don’t want you. It may be that the place has made them what they are. They started average now they excel themselves in oddness, affability and the ability to slip into the slightest crack that appears in your conversation.

It’s bravas and beers I’m afraid. Don’t come the sophisticated here. You can have anchovies in brine or meatballs if you’re lucky. They could root out some cheese if you push for it or bread in a basket lined with a napkin. You’ll get a toothpick to lift what you bought from the plate to your mouth. No cutlery needed among friends. You can raise your hand and we’ll bring you more. You can step out of the way too, when we have to pass by from the back store to the kitchen with a plastic bin-full of potatoes hand cut into chip shapes. We are all friends here for there is no need to struggle or be aggressive. A joke can overcome a misunderstanding and a bill can be slashed if we like you.

The suits are arriving as the evening pushes on. The school girls with the scarves wrapped tight indoors are checking mobile phones and leaving. Till receipts are appearing on tables as those standing bear down on the seated.

A typical bar is Bar Tomàs. A mystery to a newcomer. The very salt of life to a regular.