The best bar in the world was me. When Enric Rebordosa and Lito Baldovinos opened Paradiso, around 2015, I was lucky enough to be able to baptize its arboreal whale belly (twin of the curvilinear imperial cavern of London's Dandelyan, may it be in heaven) and then swim in the reddish menstruation of its private room, where we compulsively reread The Great Gatsby until the aroma of white truffle eclipsed the perfume and flow of any female companion. Now that one of the most prestigious rankings in world barism has crowned it as the planet's number one cocktail bar, it must be remembered that Paradiso has become so basically because its creators have long since moved on to the next level and ---today, after a well-deserved hangover--- are already imagining an even better new bar. The present is for unimaginative people, the past is for nostalgics, and the future is the creator's natural playground.
But it is necessary to remember some things. When my dear friends founded Paradiso, most restaurateurs in El Born and throughout the city took them for madmen: they ignored everything while giving birth to a series of venues that have redefined the art of drinking. Paradiso was born from the Aristotelian premise that knowledge can only arise from admiration (thus, with open mouths, we discovered that charming pastrami shop behind which the monster was hidden), but also through the Freudian and stubbornly Central European conviction that links wisdom to some form of secrecy. All the venues of this marriage of friends included the need for a privilege, whether it was the Japanese pagoda of the old Alegria restaurant (chef Giacomo Hassan's first home in Barcelona) or the room of a morbid and disturbing old woman in the brilliant Dr. Stravinsky.
As my friends already know, I consider this their best creation, perhaps because it is the most unknown and does not involve enduring the unbearable payroll of people who visit Paradiso, with that horrifying quota of supposedly American guys who tell you about their complex work project and females who have worked in social causes that always have their epicenter on Caribbean beaches. Stravinsky is something much more Catalan, as it mixes excess with a certain purity of spirit ashamed of luxury. For a long time, Yeray Monforte, my favorite bartender on the planet (with the permission of Mozart's alcoholic reincarnation, Marian Beke, from The Gibson; I have never seen anything like it behind a bar), taught there. You see, the excellence of these people is so generous that they even have to tolerate their ancestral clients daring to find fault with them.
Paradiso was born from the Aristotelian premise that knowledge can only arise from admiration, but also through the Freudian and stubbornly Central European conviction that links wisdom to some form of secretivenessMy preferences don't matter, because what is important here is to emphasize how Enric and Lito have reached the first place in the world despite the country and the city where they are located, a Catalonia and a Barcelona that always go out to the field to draw, that proudly preach poverty and modesty. Not them; they thought that Barcelona could have bars like my beloved Oriole, the Nightjar or the Artesian in London and that the only thing necessary to achieve this is to make them. My friends are the opposite ofprocés, an existential form that consists of making promises always unfulfilled and affirming oneself only in the victimhood of martyrology. They, adored companions, are the opposite of our roster of writers, multidisciplinary creators, and music managers who only open their mouths to complain. They have shown that the only way to get things done is to move your ass.
I was lucky enough to share their explosion of ambition and now I see how most of our tribe does something as Catalan as recognizing it only when the merit has the stamp of foreign excellence. This country is becoming more and more tiresome every day and, in fact, every day it surprises me more that there are still people like them. I was able to enjoy their explosion when it was due, not now that everyone will jump on the bandwagon, and the only thing I regret is not being able to share their success in the extraordinary bars they have devised (take my word for it, if you want to get ahead of the curve, visit their latest creation, the Monk bar). I have long denied myself the pleasure of alcoholic beverages and promised my psychiatrist and my mother that I would stop drinking. The contracts you make with the doctor are not strictly binding, certainly, but the pacts with those who gave birth to you are tinged with a frightfully difficult biological weight to break.
Those of you who can, thank Enric and Lito and visit their creations. You have to be truly foolish to queue in the coming months at Paradiso, but you still have Stravinsky, Monk, La Confitería, Maravillas, Muy Buenas, Mudanzas... and these crazy people have devised so many per square meter that I have already lost count and now I am too lazy to document myself. Those who claim that they are bars for tourists should do the fucking favor of going, paying something, and they will see how the public ends up becoming fully indigenous. Pay for once and stop complaining and crying like Jordi Turull. I hope to return someday, as a healthy life is terribly boring. The best bar in the world was me, because we had all the joy in the world. And we were right. Now everyone knows it.
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