I think and write that big cities (Barcelona is still counted among them) are a source of icons. I understand that the phrase may sound cliché and that the mark of the civil often entails the overexploitation of architectural totems or the trivialization of history by the grace of megalomaniac tourism. All of this is true and crystal clear, but even so, the commonplace holds up; very occasionally there are singular objects that summarize the liveliness and polychromy of cities. When these icons are made of flesh, the matter is even more exceptional because, whatever the heritage specialists and the prissy in general may say, men always win over stones in terms of complexity. All this cheap metaphysics comes into play when mourning the death of Juan Bayén, Juanito of the Pintoxo bar, and, once the tears are dried, to celebrate his entry into the Pantheon of the glories of our city.
Before praising the statue, let's talk about the temple. Once Ramón Cabau died by his own will (a figure that history will one day place at the level of universal Catalans such as Dalí, Casals, or Adrià), Juanito became the visible face of one of the most important markets in the world. Thus it was for many decades La Boqueria, ground zero of Barcelona's gastronomy and unmatched muse of most of our best chefs, all that before the neglect of the different administrations that have nested in the City Council allowed our beloved market to end up becoming an unbearable boulevard of guiris full of fishmongers with more than questionable produce. Juanito was the ideal incarnation of a market that was extraordinary because it became the primary source for some of the best restaurateurs on planet Earth.
There is a Catalan way of embracing a table and enjoying the food with a very sweet smile, but with a very discreet measure of gestures. This just medium happened at Pinocho's bar, a place to go to eat in the most sensible way possible; that is, in the strictest solitude. Icons can be as global as one wants, but my Pinocho is the one for hangover breakfasts, based on a capipota amb samfaina celestial or calamarsets with the pleasant taste of guilt in the batter. You could be broken or a victim of a very acute migraine, but Juanito always smiled at you like a Zarathustra with a bow tie and his coffee always kept the exact measure. Given the difficulty of explaining what Barcelonity means to a foreigner, if I had to choose between Juanito's joy or Gaudí's nauseating trencadissos, I would always end up choosing Pinocho.
Given the difficulty of explaining what Barcelonity means to a foreigner, if I had to choose between Juanito's joy or Gaudí's nauseating trencadissos, I would always end up choosing PinochoI am an enemy of nostalgia and the glorification of the past, but I contradict myself by stating that the death of Juan Bayén takes us a bit further away from our origins and thus pulverizes Barcelona's identity. The city does not stop and I suppose that our youth will be elaborating a new powerful visual imaginary that (by pure nature; that is, by age) escapes me. It will be difficult, however, to get an icon with a power of durability and excellence like those of Pinocchio's sovereign. I will be sad to miss the bar of this establishment and the fair play of his master, but it still bothers me more that Juanito died with so much bitterness on his lips. I'm not going to get into the trashiness of the gossip press or traffic with the cotis that already fill the microcosm of Ciutat Vella with bitterness; I will simply write that if I were one of his relatives, I would have trouble sleeping with a clear conscience.
Rest in peace, Barcelona icon. I hope the market stallholders continue with the idea of giving him a tribute and that the City Council has the kindness to give him one of those little medals, streets or avenues that always arrive when the protagonist is already sleeping underground. This is also one of the hallmarks of our city: we always do everything when it's already too late.