An unsteady guide to Madrid’s literary bars & cafes
A century after Hemingway first sought inspiration in its taverns, Madrid's literary heart still beats in its historic bars. Philip Webb Gregg went in search of the ghosts of the great writers who drank, debated and created in the city’s watering holes.
It was a hot June day, a little over a century ago, when Hemingway first set foot in Madrid. Then a young and unknown journalist, he came to Spain on the advice of Gertrude Stein, godmother of the Lost Generation, who urged him to visit a country “wild, with bulls and drink” where the people lived “with a spontaneity that does not exist in the rest of Europe.”
Suitably convinced, Hemingway took the overnight train from Paris to Madrid in late spring of 1923, and saw his first bullfight soon after, at the now-demolished Plaza de Toros de la Fuente del Berro. The experience, described by Hemingway as his “taurine baptism” was the beginning of a life-long love affair with the rawness and beauty of Spain, calling it “the last good country left.” Following that first encounter, Hemingway kept returning to Madrid for three decades, setting two books and one play in the city.
But Hemingway was neither the first nor the last literary figure to be inspired by the “city of the bear and the strawberry tree,” despite (or because of) the turbulent atmosphere of the 20th century.
The list of names who walked these cobbled streets is long and multinational: Lorca, Orwell, Borges, Pablo Neruda, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Maria Zambrano, Carmen Laforet – to name just a few. And that’s just the writers. The artists include such giants as Picasso, Antonio Saura, Miro and Dalí. These figures met and mingled in a haze of smoky Madrid bars, cheap eateries and artistic institutions. Together and apart, they painted, wrote, loved, fought, and – perhaps more than anything else – drank.
These artists, writers and free-thinkers might have acted like outcasts at the time, but really they were – and are – essential to a functioning society. Especially in a country like Spain, where the memory of brutal dictatorship still casts a long and gloomy shadow. I could not help wondering how much these spaces had acted as a crucible for all those creative and courageous ideas.
And so, a century later, on a warm night in June, I set out to see how the places that influenced these great thinkers have changed. My plan was simple: to take to the streets of central Madrid and see how many of these haunts and havens I could experience in the span of a single night. Armed only with a notebook, a group of bohemian friends and an unquenchable thirst.
Cafe Gijon
The night begins with a quiet coffee at the Cafe Gijon, a grand old building just off the Paseo de Recoletos. Sitting on the shaded boulevard by road-side, we watch as the waiters narrowly dodge mopeds with an air of stylish-yet-sour indifference.
Cafe Gijon first opened its elegant doors in 1888, and since the very beginning, writers, philosophers, and exiles have always flocked here. The famous tertulias – literary gatherings – included members of the Generation of ’98 and ’27, two major cultural movements that shaped Spanish society. The first, in 1898, was born out of the crisis following Spain’s defeat in the Spanish-American War (1898), when the country lost its last overseas colonies (Cuba, Puerto Rico, the Philippines); while the second, in 1927, was characterized by the fierce, experimental energy of modernism, surrealism, and symbolism.
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Despite the mopeds that zoom past the cafe, it’s easy to picture great playwrights like Valle-Inclán, who wrote Luces de bohemia, and Nobel Laureates like Cela and Octavio Paz, drinking and chatting here. I can almost see them now, scribbling drafts by the windows or plotting the future of Spanish art on the boulevard while waiters in bow-ties brought out glasses of absinthe on silver trays.
Alas, there’s no absinthe on offer today, but the bow-ties are still on display. We sip our expensive coffees and talk about how things have changed. My friends are all artists, in one way or another. A published poet, several painters, an opera singer, a beautiful and glamorous actress, and me, a wandering writer. As is often the way with Madrid, our little table is made up of people from half a dozen countries. Only three of us are “gatos” – gato, meaning cat, is what you call locals in Madrid. I ask the gatos about the modern-day artistic and literary scene in the capital. They shake their heads with a grimace, as if they’d just swallowed a bad olive.
“The pandemic killed the scene.” Says Jorge, the opera singer. “And the massive rents will soon put the nail in the coffin.” The others around the table nod in agreement. We’ve all felt the pinch. It’s a sad and frustrating truth that rent in Madrid is over 80% higher than it was 10 years ago. While at the same time, the last decade has seen a 10% decrease in the number of bars, cafes and nightclubs in Spain. And of course, it’s always the most bohemian places that go first. I can’t help but wonder how long Cafe Gijon can hold out.
Casa Botín
We decide take a detour to our next stop and swing by Casa Botín, the oldest restaurant in the world, according to the Guinness Book of Records.
Established in 1725, Casa Botín sits in the heart of old-town Madrid, between a network of narrow streets and the great Plaza Mayor. To find it, all you have to do is follow the endless river of tour groups, who inevitably begin or end in this sacred source. And for good reason, not only does it hold the Guinness World Record for the oldest restaurant in the world still serving today, it also has an excellent reputation for some of the finest cuisine in town, particularly the cochinillo – roast suckling pig.
Unfortunately, being true bohemians, we hadn’t booked.
BobNoah
The manager smiled with a pitying look when we tried to charm our way inside. “Booking three months in advance,” She said with mock-sternness. So there would be no eating or drinking here today, but as it was still early and we were – though I say so myself – very charming, she let us slip in quickly to see the famous Hemingway Table.
Not that there’s much to see, it’s just a corner table laid with wine glasses like any other. Yet anyone who knows The Sun Also Rises, often described as Hemmingway’s best novel, will know it from the scene where the protagonists Jake and Brett enjoy a final, melancholic meal at the end of the book.
As for the place itself, it’s as beautiful as you would expect. The atmosphere inside is pleasingly sophisticated and traditional. Tiled floors, low beamed ceilings, and old wine cellars carved into the foundations of medieval Madrid. There’s a story that Goya once worked here as a dishwasher while waiting to be accepted into the Royal Academy. Though this is likely apocryphal, the legend still adds to the spirit of an establishment that’s paid host to everybody from royalty to rock stars over the years.
Though I’m guessing royalty probably didn’t have to book.
Cerveceria Alemana
By the time we arrive at Cervecería Alemana, the sky over Madrid is falling into that indigo colour Spain does so well – not quite night, not quite day. The Plaza Santa Ana is rammed with tourists and locals alike, drinking and smoking in the slow evening.
Inside, the bar gives off the pleasing, though no doubt deliberate, impression of not having changed since 1904 when it first opened. The decor is all dark wood and white table cloths. We order cheapish beer in tankards and sit by the window, which is – surprise surprise – another famous Hemingway's spot. Apparently one of his favourite things to do was sit here and flirt with passing strangers through the open window.
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But it isn’t just Hemingway that brings us here. This bar has hosted dozens of actors, poets and journalists over the years. And I can see why. A dark, slightly dingy cave in the centre of town; perfect for plotting revolution, relationships, or – much more difficult – the fate of your next novel. And with the Teatro Español just across the square, it’s fun to think of Valle-Inclan or Lorca dashing in between acts to sip a quick vermouth.
We eat croquetas and patatas a la pobre to soak up the beer, and soon the conversation turns to exiles. There are many exiles in Spain’s recent artistic history. The Franco dictatorship lasted for 36 years, from 1939 to 1975. Like most dictatorships, the regime was authoritarian, ultra-conservative, and deeply repressive, especially towards intellectuals, artists, and those who stood up for regional identities (Basques and Catalans, etc). So much so that many artists and writers had no choice but to flee the country rather than be caught and ‘disappeared’ because of their sexuality, or their religious and ideological beliefs.
“The film director Luis Buñel frequented this area before his exile to Mexico.” Says Irene, poet, playwright, and gata. “So did Rafael Alberti, another voice lost to Franco’s rise. And of course, Lorca.”
The table goes quiet, and it strikes me how many of the Spanish greats have been either exiled, imprisoned, or killed. Looking around, I can’t help but question where are the modern greats now? Where are they meeting? With all the old bars closing down, or too expensive, or too gentrified; where were the great free-thinkers getting drunk today?
On the way out, we pause to admire the statue of Lorca in the Plaza Santa Ana, standing with arms half-raised, releasing a dove into the sky. Try as I might, I can’t tell if his bronze face shows forgiveness, or fury.
Museo Chicote
Right, the time has come for something a bit more classy. From Plaza Santa Ana, we wander along Gran Vía, Madrid’s broad boulevard of cinema and spectacle, to find the Museo Chicote – Spain’s first ever cocktail bar.
Opened in 1931, Chicote was an instant hit with the cultural icons of the day. Film stars, directors, artists, writers and even spies flocked here to enjoy the drinks and Art Deco glamour. Very much the opposite of Cerveceria Alemana, the bright inside is decorated with shiny mirrors and even more shinier pictures of famous people: Ava Garnder, smoking a cigarette in the booths, a grinning Frank Sinatra, Dalí looking deranged as usual. Hemingway drank here as well, of course, though by all accounts he preferred beer and simpler bars. Chicote is a more Fitzgerald sort of vibe.
David Spence del Valle
Still, my local friends aren’t impressed. Diego, a portrait painter and the third of our trio of gatos, says this place used to be great once upon a time, but now the area is dead. What was once a cultural and artistic centre has become a playground for rich businessmen and people with too much money.
“What is this?” He waves his hand at the price list. “This is Madrid, not Manhattan!”
It’s true. My cocktail is a whopping €16 – more than I’ve ever spent anywhere else in this city for a drink. And yet, despite Diego’s comments, I think the place has style. The service is unusually attentive and the drink – A Papa Doble Hemingway – a mix of Ron Cacique, maraschino liqueur, grapefruit and lemon juice – is delicious. Designed by the great man himself, apparently.
As we leave I hear Diego mutter angrily: “Bohemia is dead. Business is booming.”
La Venencia
In an attempt to rescue the morale of my shrinking party – they’ve been steadily peeling off throughout the evening, I decide to skip a few names on my list and head straight for the jackpot. The holy grail of Madrid’s best bars.
La Venencia isn’t like other establishments. For a start, it doesn’t try to be noticed. There’s no welcome sign, no music, no tourists taking selfies on the doorstep. In fact, it’s almost like it doesn’t want you to drink here at all. It’s a refreshing change from the endless flashing lights of all the other clubs and bars screaming for your attention. But there’s also a grim historical reason for its distinctive bashfulness.
Opening in 1928, La Venencia was an important Republican hub during the Civil War. Drinking here was a dangerous and secretive business. Orwell apparently drank here often. As did other journalists, leftists and foreign correspondents, some of whom were never heard of again. That’s partly why they maintain a strict ‘no-photo’ rule inside the bar. Privacy was once a matter of life and death – it’s worth remembering that.
It’s a strange juxtaposition from the luxury of Chicote. The inside here is essentially a cellar, with a few tables positioned seemingly randomly about the room. The walls are smoke-stained, scratched and lined with posters from long before men first walked on the moon. Behind the bar, a chalkboard lists five types of sherry. And that’s all there is. No beer, no spirits, no bookings, no tipping. No nonsense. Just sherry and Socialism.
It’s loud and boisterous inside, Diego cheers up as soon as we enter. The last of my little group settle into our sherries on a rickety table and chairs. We drink round after round, until the night begins to blur. The sherry is strong and sour, not sweet like I’m used to. It’s a raw, distinctive taste that seems to get better with every glass.
As night draws into morning, I feel that perhaps somewhere here in the gloom, free-thinkers are thinking. Political radicals, activists, writers and artists are embracing, touching glasses and cheering each other onward: the world can be better. We can make it so.
I’ll drink to that.
