Logroño, the Rioja region's compact capital, is only a couple of hours drive north west from Zaragoza. The motorway follows the Ebro valley a few kilometres to the south of the river itself.
We figured if we managed to exit the Zaragoza campsite by elevenish we would reach Logroño in time to walk into the city for lunch at one of its many pinchos bars. We've been caught out before by the place's complicated Sunday opening arrangements; some bars operate only in the afternoon, others just in the evening, many both times but always with a break in between servings which varies from place to place. We know our favourite spots so hatched a two pronged assault to ensure we were not caught out.
We spent most of the journey to to Logroño rehearsing a range of minor disasters that might imminently befall us: the opening times of the restaurants shown on Google might be incorrect because today was Palm Sunday, the extensive areas autocaravanas would be full because of Semana Santa celebrations, bars would be so busy that getting served would be problematic. None of these things happened.
There was a Sunday market occupying part of the big space that motorhomes use (we hadn't thought of this particular glitch), but the area is huge, there were lots of vans drawn up but still plenty of space for more.
We headed straight out, across the bridge over the Ebro and up the main street towards the cluster of small alleys around Calle Laurel that are full of small bars vying to outdo each other's 'small plate' delights.
The area was busy, but not impossibly crowded, anyway people here are accommodating and amiable, willing to shuffle along to make space for others.
Our plan was to find the place where we had the best patatas bravas ever back in February 2020, the problem was, we hadn't made a note of the place's name, neither in the blog nor in the handwritten diary that Gill keeps. But we had taken a photo of the dish at the time and Google photos records the location of every single camera click. We may live in some kind media driven dystopia, but sometimes it comes in handy. 'Bar Jubera' Google advised was the place of the beauteous patatas, so we headed towards there, a big sign by the door boasted 'Especialidad, Patatas Bravas!'
We squeezed into a space at the bar beside the front door, it was a bit tricky with people coming and going but we managed to order two white Riojas and two portions of patatas bravas.
The bar staff are impressive, keeping track of who ordered what in seemingly chaotic circumstances. Two glasses of wine duly arrived along with one portion of patatas bravas which we shared.
After a while we managed to muscle into a space next to the window with a narrow shelf to use as a table. We had just about given up on the second bowl of bravas when it appeared, passed along a line of people from the bar to us. It's all very jolly and convivial, a happy place.
We moved on, just around the corner to Bar Sebas. This place specialises in tortillas, and was somewhere else we have been to before. We shared it's signature tortilla and ordered what looked like deep fried prawns.
One was, the other was a deep fried soft boiled egg. Unusual. The place had an impressive range of Riojas on sale, though we went for the house wine, one white, one red.
By now it was fourish, as if by magic the area emptied, no 'time gentlemen please' just some implicit social contract between diners and bar staff that they both needed a break before the evening shift.
Back to the van, en route I stopped momentarily to take a photo of an old mansion with a pleasing plateresque doorframe. Then a hat shop. I am in the market for a new wide brimmed hat.
My battered beach bum sun hat finally had to go after black mould spread from the inside and started to speckle the brim. It had become more of a wearable biological hazard than a rakish accessory channelling the young Harrison Ford (beach bum hat 1 was actually replica Indiana Jones headgear purchased in Disneyland Paris in 2003).
The shop really did have some lovely hats in the window, especially the one on the top right, a tad pricey at €214!
I have a very functional attitude towards clothing. Only three criteria matter to me - practicality, price and invisibility. This latter quality has nothing to do with Harry Potter, what I mean is does the garment contribute to you not being noticed, does it help you to disappear into the crowd and cease to exist in the eyes of others? Over the years I have become adept at all of this, apart from in one area, I find beautiful hats alluring. Am I capable of ditching my principles and splashing out serious money on a fabulous hat? Maybe, luckily the shop was closed.
We wiled away the rest of the afternoon, Gill engrossed in her knitting while I tapped away on my phone. As the sun set we headed back to Calle Laurel. You can the hear the place you before you see it, a babbling brook of voices, then as you turn the corner a wall of humanity, every alley packed with locals out for the evening. We melted into the crowd.
First stop, Bar Soriana. It's hardcore! A place that firmly adheres to the values of the traditional pinchos bar. It only has one dish on offer, grilled mushrooms, piled up one on top of the other on a slice of baguette. Each mushroom has a small prawn secreted within it. It comes searingly hot and is seriously delicious, perfect with a white Rioja.
What is on offer is almost embarrassingly cheap. The bill for two grilled mushrooms and two glasses of wine - €6.30.
The business model is based on volume - portions are small, but very tasty, people go from bar to bar sampling a snack here and a snack there. In most places it's standing room only. The bars themselves are not stylish but unfussy and practical, in the case of Bar Soriana 'spartan' might be a better word.
Most of the bars seem to be run by friendly but slightly scary matriarchs. However, Bar Soriana has an all male crew, the owners we presumed, we recognised all of them from our previous two visits.
Pinchos is a Castillian adaptation of the Basque term pintxos, bite sized delicacies which I suppose we would call finger food or canapes. In England they've got Hyacinth Bucket connotations, but in northern Spain pintxos has more demotic roots. In the early twentieth century the gastronomy of the region was maintained and developed by all male 'cookery societies'. Perhaps the 'gastro-barmen' of Soriana are a last vestige of those.
These days Logroño's pinchos bars are very inclusive places and Letras de Laurel is typical, bar at the front, small dining room at the rear for people who want a meal rather than a snack and a drink. It was the front for us along with all and sundry! Whereas in Zaragoza's tapas places we were the oldest customers, sometimes by decades, here isn't some hipster foody enclave. The customer base is cradle to grave, great to see three generations enjoying a night out together.
The young couple at the table next to us had a baby with them, almost a toddler, maybe eighteen months or so. She wasn't walking or talking but ate with style and had already mastered the art of spearing a potato cube with a cocktail stick. After rubbing it in a dollop of sauce on her dad's plate she popped the morsel into her mouth looking very pleased with herself. Impressive! You can see how Spain supports a plethora of regional and local food cultures, people are born to it; whereas we have appropriated others cultures' gastronomy - Italian, South Asian, Far Eastern and fast food from the US.
Above all eating out here is nothing special, it's affordable and not regarded as 'a treat'. Eating places are as commonplace as pubs and often have a similar workaday ambience with a big screen TV somewhere showing some incomprehensible game show or a tedious mid-table La Liga clash between Ciudad Real and Murcia. In fact the entertainment in Letras de Laurel consisted of looping Shakira videos. They can be somewhat distracting, as Gill observed, 'she really is exceptionally bendy'. There'was one with her gyratingin front of a row of urinals. A little weird and not really ideal entertainment while eating pinchos.
We decided to try the place's spinach croquettes which were lighter and more subtly seasoned than the ones we had the previous day in Zaragoza. Reviews of the cheesecake were very complimentary, we had to check this out too.
They were fine, the problem is I haven't a particularly sweet tooth, in the end I probably would have preferred to try another savoury dish.
We don't know how late the evening pinchos fest lasts, sometime after eight we decided to walk baçk to the van. It was not fully dark yet. Logrono is very atmospheric at twilight, especially the crowded alleys around Calle del Laurel.
The empty streets of the city centre have a more haunting feel, dreamlike almost..
...especially the long bridge across the Ebro the fading light reflected darkly in the placid water.
When we got back to the van Jupiter was bright in the west as it has been for a couple of weeks or so.
It felt milder tonight, definitely spring-like. A week today we will be back in England, suddenly I felt the trip slipping away, lived moments destined to become distant memories. It's easier to accept time passing in places you feel certain you will return to. Logroño is definitely one of them. Auden ended his valedictory poem to 'The South' with this observation:
"though one cannot always
Remember exactly why one has been happy,
There is no forgetting that one was."
Calle del Laurel - one of our happy places without a doubt.
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