Once upon a time there was a city where –around noon, when the Mediterranean race practices the art of vermouth– one could sit on any terrace to savor the unmatched combination of a beer, a plate of olives, and a bag of potato chips. This mixture, as simple as it was eternally unsurpassed by any other soup of elements, was one of the hits of what the pretentious call "the Barcelona brand." The act in question was not a custom that occurred only in our city (I insist that most inhabitants of the Mare Nostrum anticipate lunch with a prelude), but our capital had always excelled in the art of the terrace and the metaphysics of a good vermouth in the sun. Give me any opulent meal in the best restaurant on the planet; I will gladly exchange it for half an hour of clams and fresh air.
Well, the city's bars and restaurants are killing this beautiful tradition of ours. For some time now, thanks to the guirización of Barcelona, restaurateurs have been depriving us of a right that belongs to us by seniority and commitment to our establishments. Anyone can see how, at noon, most of the city's terraces (especially those in Ciutat Vella) place "Reserved" signs on the tables of bars and restaurants. Thanks to the city's mortgage with tourism, and the fact that most countries in the world have lunch at a much more civilized hour than us, poor Neanderthals, establishments prefer to have empty tables of locals waiting for foreign customers to occupy them for longer (and with a higher consumption). Slowly and inexorably, the Barcelona vermouth runs the risk of Antarctic seals.
I perfectly understand that, after some very tough years of pandemic, restaurateurs look at the cash register numbers with much more care. But I would also like them to take into consideration the fact that, during the lockdown and its subsequent clearing, it was the city's natives who helped unveil an industry on the verge of extinction. I understand that the establishments in Ciutat Vella do not have enough with the twenty or thirty euros that I pay them for a vermouth; but it should be possible to promote that tourists eat a little later and that Barcelonians can ask for a table at vermouth time without the waiters looking at us as if we were aliens (and, while we're at it, with a rude ignorance of our language that should shame the city's baristas). The tourists will come and go; we, if they let us, will always stay.
It should be possible to promote that tourists eat a little later and that Barcelonians can ask for a table at vermouth time without the waiters looking at us as if we were aliensVermouth in the sun is not a whim. It is an inherent part of a culture based on strolling, lively discussion, and a taste for good food. Spotting a free herd of tables with fake "Reserved" signs in a venue is a lack of respect for the citizenry, dehumanizes relations between locals and restaurateurs, and is a different way of saying "this is not your place; don't bother us." I have always defended and will always defend the essential importance of our hospitality industry in Barcelona's identity (spending tons of money on the mission, by the way), but I cannot overlook this crime against vermouth.Restaurateurs, we have long killed paellas, lunchtime menus, and minimally digestible coffee. I beg you, save my vermouth.I know you will label me a grumpy neighbor (I could star in a video for the Restaurateurs Guild, I know), but there are still almost two million of these animals left.
Do not kill the vermouth.