Ask a policeman
July 2006, InMadrid
In order to research his new guidebook to Barcelona, andrew losowsky explored the darkest and dodgiest haunts in the city. Who better as a guide than an armed, plain-clothes policeman? This is Barcelona as you've not seen it before...
"You see?" he says, nudging me hard in the ribs. "Yes," I reply. "I do see." I see yet another round of free drinks in front of me. I see the plain-clothes policeman who just nudged me emptying his glass and then quietly slipping some money into the hand of one of the girls nearby. I see two people having sex on a rotating bed. In fact, I see a lot of things, and all of them are a little fuzzy. How did I end up here?
Everyone thinks that researching a guidebook must be the best job in the world. In truth, much of it is walking from place to place, having a drink in each, and then swiftly dropping almost all of them from your list of candidates. By 'yawningly average bar number 27', it starts to lose some of its charm.
But just occasionally, the job lives up to the billing. We wanted to make a guide like no other, one that told the story of the real Barcelona that we and our friends lived in, without resorting to clichés, tourist favourites or dull, repetitive reviews. To find out information, we spoke to friends, to friends of friends and to people we found on the street. "You should meet my friend Alberto," said one girl. "He's a policeman."
A policeman indeed, one who walks the night beat in the centre of the city, wearing a creased suit and a shoulder holster. He's in his late 40s, works alone, and gets bored easily. Could I follow him around one Friday night? A shrug, a nod. It is arranged.
We meet at 1am. First stop: Tequila on c/Escudellers, "the number 1 rock'n'roll heavy-metal bar" according to its handwritten-in-biro sign. The walls are covered with vinyl sleeves: Metallica, Motörhead, G'n'R. The serving staff's tattoos match the décor, right down to the faded colours. "This DJ has the best selection of rock and metal in the city," says Alberto proudly, as the barman approaches. Two shot glasses are filled with the place's titular spirit. "On the house," smiles our server. Alberto seems to know everyone in here. He's been a long time drinking this route.
Across the small, dark street is Zoo (c/Escudellers, 33), worth a visit for its kitsch entrance, with every Happy Meal Toy animal from Bambi to Dumbo represented. Inside, it's dark and ultra-violet. What would Uncle Walt say? "This place makes the best cocktails in the city!" exclaims Alberto with an avuncular wink to the barmaid, who treats us to a shot of something that would melt wire.
Next, we walk down c/N'Agla, a quiet alleyway that holds little except for Shanghai, a skater-dood hangout, chilled out and friendly, with a vaguely herbal scent. I sip our free drink cautiously. The waitress, "the prettiest in the city" (wink, grin), points me in the direction of the toilet. It's probably the worst in the city.
Then we stroll through Plaça Reial, tourist hell at any time of the day. Two policemen complain to Alberto about their lack of a decent cop car. A couple of English tourists stagger up to us and ask where the bullring is, giggling as they do so. Although Plaça Reial is filled with bars, we check in at only one of them ("the best tapas in the city"). Tourists make us both uneasy.
"This man has the most girls in the city," Alberto says proudly, introducing me to the toothless bouncer at Panams Showgirls (Ramblas, 27). A gummy grin from the man himself confirms it. "What do you like?" asks the biteless pimp. "African, Russian? Romanian?" I smile what I hope is a non-committal "I'll think about it" grimace, and enter the small sex club close behind Alberto. It used to be larger, I'm told, but now one half is Fellini's, a trendyish nightclub next door owned by the same landlord.
After a few free drinks with some very friendly girls, and a show that a narcoleptic might call "eye-opening", we leave in order to witness the last moments of the night in Moog, a techno club nearby on c/Nou de la Rambla, 22. Upstairs, a small room plays '80s pop and singalong tunes. "This boy," says Alberto, hugging the glitter-coated dj from upstairs, as the place closes to the public and offers us, yes, some free drinks, "is like a nephew to me. He is the best dj in the city."
It's after 6am when we stagger into the daylight. A few people around us are carrying €2 boxes of croissants from the bakery on tiny c/Lancaster. I eye them hungrily, as only a very drunk man can.
"I'm going to meet my son in Pinoxo's Bar in the Boqueria Market for breakfast," says Alberto. "It's been a pleasure." I smile, shake his hand, unsure how to express my gratitude, unsure also how make my legs work.
Throughout the night, I made careful notes in my pad. The next morning, however, my pithy summaries have been replaced with a series of wobbly lines that look like the heart-rate monitor of an epileptic psychopath. I quickly scribble what I can remember, the basis of these very words. I go back to bed, my head so heavy that I feel sure it will sink through the mattress and hit the floor.
We hope that our guidebook does truly share some of the best bars, djs, tapas and much more that Barcelona has to offer. As for whether we've covered the very best of the city - you'll have to ask Alberto.
(ends)