Málaga is sugar
and spice...
It's a rite of passage, isn't it? Breaking out from the comforting embrace of home, and pushing out into the world to experience what's out there, good and bad. Somewhere in Italy, 3 twenty-somethings decided to take this leap... with a little persuasion from Madre e
Padre, I happen to know. They chose València as their first port of call, and we’re delighted that they chose to use our apartment to stay in for the duration.
This gives us a chance to make another autumn visit to Málaga. Always a pleasure, always a great experience. But you have to make it real... it can't all be sugar-coated.
The food
that enters the mind must be watched as closely
as the food that enters the
body.
Pat Buchanan
We arrived
at our neat little rented apartment on the west side of centro on a rainy
Saturday evening. There had been bad weather in the south of Spain, and this
was pushing away to the east, but not quickly. It would linger until early in
the week that followed, before giving way to glorious warm sunshine and clear,
cool evenings.
Centro is
eternally teeming with visitors and locals alike. We had arrived in the middle
of a lively weekend, and the streets, restaurants and bars were packed. Málaga
was alive with a hugely diverse mix of people wandering, rushing, delivering,
organizing, stopping, starting, moving, talking, eating, smoking, drinking and
generally making Málaga centro into that loveable thing that Málaga centro is.
But there
were heavy showers that need to be dodged. There are places in the very heart
of centro that remain attractive for drinking and eating despite the brazen
commerciality of those calles and plazas. We sat at one of these with cañas,
indulging in one of life’s great pleasures… people-watching.
Rain came
and went. Small children in wellies splashed in puddles. Tourists (exclusively
male) attempted to vindicate their decision to bring only t-shirts and shorts
by pretending they were not actually wet and freezing cold.
We ate well
outdoors, under a canopy that threatened to give in to the heavy showers… then
made our way to the west side of centro, close to the Rio Guadalmedina, and
close to our apartment for the week.
We found a
café that we had not seen on previous visits, at the previously
unremarkable end of a busy street that starts in a corner of Plaza de la
Constitución. There were several other restaurants close by. The evenings were
still warm enough to be outside, and we found high stools at barrel tables.
This
taberna will remain nameless in this blog post, as comments will be made
later, and we’ll just scratch the surface a little. My comments will be a bit
more real than the tourist vision.
We enjoyed
decent wine, and some interesting interaction with our fellow punters… as the
barrel tables left little room for exclusivity. A couple close to us (she Bulgarian,
he Czech) were Málaga residents, and were accompanied by her rather eccentric
mother, who now lives in the Netherlands. They had chosen English as the common
language between them, and with anyone they interacted with.
The younger
woman reminded me of myself (stay with me here) as she reached out us across the
barrels as if to offer help. I understood what she was doing. I share this urge
when in València, this urge (which I mostly resist) to offer advice and local knowledge
to the foreign visitor, often without even being asked or prompted. We didn’t
need any help on this occasion, but I get you, and I know you wanted to help.
What is
impossible to ignore in Málaga is sweet things. Seemingly every street has one
or more outlets for cakes, sweets, biscuits, desserts, chocolate, ice cream, yogurt,
candied fruit, nougat, toffee apples, milk shakes, slushies. Sweetness excess.
A brand
from Lisboa has several sites exclusively selling the delightful Portugese
Pasteis de Nata. A café right outside the door of our apartment building had
dedicated itself to the worship of cheesecake (and is therefore a very good
thing in my opinion) and was packed at all hours of the day and evening. The
more proactive shops posted staff outside to offer the innocent passer-by a tantalizing taste
of sugar and spice, and to draw them into their sweet, comforting, calorific world.
There are
specialist sweet shop brands, such as Belros and Captain Candy*. The queues
outside the best cake shops were long, particularly leading into the weekend.
This is no
more than an observation… a realization that this proliferation of sugary confections
is too emphatic to be just another grab for the tourist dollar. It’s not an
objection, and I wouldn’t suggest that the traditional shops are being pushed
out in any way. Málaga still has, and always has had wonderful traditional food
shops for jamon, bacalao, charcuteria, amazing canned and preserved goods, and
so many other ingredients for great Spanish food… with quality and simplicity at its
core. And of course, the first-class produce from land and sea at the brilliant
Mercado de Atarazanas.
But I’ve
chosen this retail outlet sugar-high proliferation as a theme for this blog
post, and so you will have to cope with the occasional clumsy analogy and
sweet-related pun along the way. Apologies in advance.
“Poner la
guinda del pastel”
Spanish
saying: “To put the icing on the cake”… adding a final detail or element
to a
situation that perfects or embellishes it.
Heavy
showers continued through the weekend and into Monday. Our “shopping” visits to
the usual suspects: Massimo Dutti, Mango, Zara, Natura and so on were little
more than chances to stay dry. By lunchtime on the Monday, the rain had pretty
much relented, so our usual visit to Muelle Uno was very much back on the
agenda.
Crossing
the road at Plaza de la Marina and onto the Paseo de Muelle Uno… Málaga changes
here. It changes from traditional-but-modern Spanish city, and becomes a smart,
airy, cosmopolitan sea port and marina. A leisure and retail experience that
delivers on every visit. An even bigger choice of cafés, bars and restaurants now,
it grows and grows in stature.
Walking
along under the great pergola, past the Palmeral de las Sorpresas, something
new (although not unexpected) starts to become clear. Over our last couple of
visits, it had been obvious that Málaga was going for the superyacht market.
The quayside at Muelle Uno was being developed, more efficient and sophisticated facilities
installed, glass walls raised to separate us from them, and provide security
for the visiting super-rich.
I was far
from star-struck. You don’t have to look and think too hard to realise how
obscene this all is. How sickly sweet. They’re all registered in tax havens.
They will be floating at any given quayside for much of the year, costing
millions, but empty. They are the kid at school who kept the sweets in his
pocket and gorged on them all, growing more bloated by the day.
If they
bring prosperity to the city that benefits the Malagüeños, then that is a good
thing, but like I said… it feels obscene. It felt like the opposite of the
famous Malagüeño modesty and generosity. I’m not sure they belong.
I don’t
think it’s high on the list of issues that come with these bloated, floating
money-pits, but they also block the view of the city across the harbor from
many of the Muelle Uno restaurants. We found a table that had a view between
the glistening craft, and enjoyed a nice lunch. We made our way back to town in
the sunshine, counting our blessings.
The Mercado
de Atarazanas is a must-see. It may not be an architectural gem like the
incredible modernista Mercado Central de Valencia, but the huge stained glass
window across one end of the Mercado Atarazanas is spectacular. It goes without
saying that the stalls and produce are worth 2 or 3 circuits of the market. Like
a good restaurant menu… you want it all. I’m always conscious (as a tourist) of
just getting in the way of the locals’ daily lives occasionally. They have
groceries to buy, things to discuss, prices to barter, stock to maintain,
floors to wash and actual real life to live.
A mass of
humanity, a more eclectic mix you could not imagine.
Less
eclectic, less of a hub, less central, but nonetheless one of my Málaga
favourites is the Mercado de Salamanca. It does the same job as Mercado de
Atarazanas, but it does it on a much smaller scale, it does it without
tourists, without cruise ship groups, without waiters and without dramas.
The Mercado
de Salamanca sits there north of centro, in El Molinillo, looking pretty in the
sunshine. Architecturally, it does a passable impression of Mercado Colon in València, only on a much smaller scale, and without the pretension, overpriced
food offerings, and surrounding opulence.
Once again
(as on a previous visit) it was a great relief to get the first sight of
Mercado de Salamanca as we crossed the road from Calle Cruz de Molinillo, and
see it unchanged. It remains an authentic barrio market. I hope it always
remains so. Mercifully it stands out of the tourist epicenter, so has a
reasonable chance.
We walked
under its neo-Arabic arch and into its lines of market stalls. The fish, meat,
produce, and preserved goods were being bought and sold without pretension or
show. Bought and sold by regular Malagüeños who would stop and chat, relate
their stories, scold their children, and scurry home with their fresh fish to
keep it fresh.
It’s nice
to look at, this market, but it’s even nicer to know that it’s genuine,
authentic and real. It’s part of the ebb and flow of barrio life, and doesn’t
feature in any Málaga tourist guides. It will always be a must visit for me,
and I live in eternal hope that it never changes.
The Arabic
influence gets a brief mention above, but there is enough content to write about the
Moorish**** influence in Spain for a 1000 blog posts.
“Europe was
darkened at sunset, Cordova shone with public lamps; Europe was dirty, Cordova
built a thousand baths; …, Cordova changed its undergarments daily; Europe lay
in mud, Cordovas streets were paved; Europes palaces had smoke-holes in the
ceiling, Cordovas arabesques were exquisite; Europes nobility could not sign
its name, Cordovas children went to school; Europes monks could not read the
baptismal service, Cordovas teachers created a library of Alexandrian
dimensions. (800-1000 C.E.)”
From “The Muslims in Andalucia”.
And I can’t
resist adding this delicious quotation from a European scholar sympathetic to
the Spaniards:
“the reins of their horses were as fire, their
faces black as pitch, their eyes shone like burning candles, their horses were
swift as leopards and the riders fiercer than a wolf in a sheepfold at night .
. . The noble Goths were broken in an hour, quicker than tongue can tell. Oh
luckless Spain!”
But it was
never luckless. There is very little that one could name in Spain that is not a
result of Moorish influence. Theirs was not a brief invasion. In it’s entirety,
it wasn’t bravely repelled by chivalrous European knights in shining armour either.
With
a heartland in Al Andalus (Southern Spain) the Moors ruled Spain for almost 8
centuries. Their influence extended throughout Europe,
and brought great learning, magnificent art and architecture, great science and
philosophy. In the countryside, sophisticated irrigation systems still used
today (in the Valencian Huerta!) were a testament to their agricultural skills.
Many of those most Spanish of things, the pueblos blancos, were raised by the
Moors in Spain.
When visiting one of Spain’s Moorish sites, I always try to
remember how those people so influenced Spain, made it into the country that
so many of us love and appreciate today.
We climbed the steps and slopes of the Alcazaba, past palms and bougainvillea, between the
great bastion walls. The Alcazaba de Málaga does not compare in size and
complexity to the spectacular Muslim sites in Sevilla, Cordoba or Granada.
Perhaps for that reason, it’s easier to imagine the daily lives of the ruling
governor, his family, staff and garrison in this fortified palace. Maybe here, that
bit of the past feels more accessible to your imagination.
Through the rose garden, past delicately conceived water
features, up into the living areas with beautiful architectural detail that you’ll see
all over modern Spain. The dominating position over the sea and the city
reflected in the breathtaking views all around. And the incredibly skilled
construction of the whole edifice, built into the slopes of the Gibralfaro
mountain in the middle ages.
It has been said that those 800 years of Muslim rule saved
Spain from the Dark Ages.
Speaking of the Dark Ages, there are a lot of British
Tourists in Málaga*****. All the time.
Back in centro at a table in Plaza Carbon, I saw a British
couple arrive and sit down to eat. She was facing away from me, and I couldn’t pick
her reactions to her male partner, or to anything else. He scowled at the menu,
pointing at several things that he clearly disapproved of, until the camarero
approached.
Sadly, I know that people still employ his chosen method of
communication, but I hadn’t heard it used so blatantly for a while. He ordered
his drink loudly and clearly in English, looking directly at the waiter: “A
GLASS OF RED WINE PLEASE!”. When the waiter replied: “Rioja o Ribera?” our
friend from suburban Blighty glared at him, open-mouthed, affronted, as if the
waiter had insulted his dear mother. He’d spoken in a language that was not
English, and this was clearly unacceptable. This departure from his recognized
cultural boundaries had offended him so much that his partner now bore the burden
of all further communication, and he sneered his way through his food and
drink, clearly not enjoying any aspect of his life whatsoever.
I can’t help wondering why some people leave the UK at all.
Another evening 2 middle-aged Brit couples, darlings of
Daily-Mail-reading-middle-England, shared a high table close to us in a café.
They were undoubtedly the worse for drink, it being the first night of their
city break, and as we all know only too well: "In vino veritas".
The male members of the group began to reveal their true
feelings about immigration “back home”, and the conversation between them
basically took an unacceptable turn. The 2 women clearly found it unacceptable also, and (to their
great credit) they rather expertly steered the conversation away from “they’re taking
all our jobs, they're all rapists… etc, etc”. Despite this, one of our intrepid travellers couldn’t resist
underlining the things that he had been prevented from saying with: “The main
thing is that you’re born in England. That’s the main thing”.
Go home, pendejo.
“Imagine
what it’s like being an immigrant in Britain…
being told you need to integrate
more by people who spend their holidays
pointing at pictures of egg & chips
on the menu”.
Frankie Boyle
We overheard a very similar group (it’s the same group to
all intents and purposes, isn’t it?) discussing the great wooden doors of a nearby
Hermandad. “Do you know what’s behind those doors?” one learned individual
asked the group. Their disinterested silence didn’t deter him: “It’s a secret
society”, he announced.
The Hermandades and Cofradias (as I’ve banged on about in a
previous post) are Christian associations of laypeople, some
with roots and history dating back to the Middle Ages.
They are so secret that their meeting places have wooden doors 2 stories high that open directly onto the street (as in this case) and they
invariably have their names in huge letters above these doors (also as in this
case). They are integral to the religious and cultural life of Málaga.
They are so secret, that they parade through Málaga in huge
numbers right through Easter week for everyone to see, carrying enormous
religious effigies known as Tronos. Local TV broadcasts the whole thing, and
hundreds of thousands of people come to the city to see them.
That’s how secret they are.
A final bit of Brit-tourist bashing, and I'll back off: We were at our
favourite breakfast café on Plaza de la Marina on sunny morning late in the
week. The parakeets squabbled in the palm trees above the canopy. For no good
reason that I could tell, all the arriving customers were elderly northern-European
tourists, mostly Brits.
One old boy (wearing a hat reserved only for his “foreign
sorties” and pruning the azaleas) impatiently ordered a café Americano for his
dear wife, which duly arrived. The young camarera was expertly serving lots of
tables on a busy morning.
After a little while, the old boy advised his dear wife to
put her saucer on top of her coffee cup, and rudely shouted out to the
waitress: “we are waiting for the milk for the coffee! My wife can’t drink her
coffee without milk!”. The lack of milk was no more that fault of the waitress
than it was the fault of the cow on a distant hillside that was expected to
produce it.
You’ve ordered an Americano, big fella. A long, black
coffee. Add con leche when you order, and you’ve nailed it. Even order it in English if you must, but don’t blame the
waitress for your ignorance.
We enjoyed a first visit to the Museo del Vino de Málaga. It
was a few steps from our apartment, and it seemed rude to ignore it. There was
an interesting section on “wine and children” (which we thought was an unusual, and slightly concerning twist on the story of vino) and the museum itself was interesting, if not
in-depth. The guy in charge treated us to a little tasting after we had
advanced our knowledge of the vinos de Málaga. We enjoyed a local white
wine that was not unlike a manzanilla, but then he produced the inevitable
Pedro Ximénez. We politely endured the dark, sweet, brown awfulness of it (with
apologies to any aficionados) and escaped with thanks.
We wandered once again along the graceful curve of the
ever-developing and endlessly absorbing Calle Carreteria and found a cold
beer and lunch to take the taste away.
Another rewarding visit was to La Casa del Cardenal. A true gem hidden down a narrow street close to the very centre of town, this is an incredible antiques emporium housed in a beautiful 17th century palace. You need to ring the bell to be let in, and then (assuming they like the look of you) you're admitted into a charming central courtyard with several rooms off, displaying hundreds of antiques of all kinds. It's like another world. An elderly lady showed us some antique jewellery. We wandered the many side rooms around the courtyard, wishing for the means to get any purchases taken to Valencia... but more importantly a fatter wallet.
Beautiful little nests of tables beckoned. Achingly attractive paintings and a quirky pair of outdoor chairs yearned to be taken home. A lady was looking to buy an antique christening gown and shawl, and the owner was spreading the shawl in the cloister of the courtyard for her to see. The cream embroidery was a thing of beauty.
It's worth a visit to see the palace alone. Although it's clearly a financial mountain to climb in terms of upkeep, it's a beautiful and unexpected oasis in the heart of the city.
You can only wonder how many of these incredible buildings lie hidden in cities like this, perhaps long forgotten.
And so, back to our barrel-tabled taberna, and the goings-on
therein.
We visited a few times. Indeed, some of the encounters
described above happened here. On one early occasion, we were offered Caldillo
de Pintarroja. We were assured that this is a typical dish of Málaga. Best
described as a curried fish soup, I would say.
In any case, we won’t be having it again, but it seemed to
be consumed in large quantities at this taberna. Mostly by the staff and
“management”.
With all outside barrel tables occupied on another visit, we
were forced inside, to dentro, where many tourists prefer not to venture. What
dentro does do, is give you a little more insight into the workings of this
operation. The staff consisted of:
Several younger waiters and waitresses. They all stuck
bravely to their task of serving the outside barrel tables, which were often
populated by some of the sub-normal characters that I’ve described above. In
most cases, they appeared to be quite engaged with the general running of the
place, which is always good to see. They were joined by a couple of slightly
older waiters, who tended to take the time to talk to customers a little more,
take a genuine interest in them, perhaps have a story to tell.
A rotund, brusque chap who appeared to be running the place,
a manager. Always dressed in black, with a dirty apron and a sweaty brow. His
management style appeared to consist of dramatically demonstrating how hard he
was working, but this seemed to a) impress approximately none of his staff, and
b) serve only to work himself up into a stressed and sweaty mess. He indulged
in exasperated sighs and slammed down his 17th glass of caldillo
onto the bar top to heighten the effect. I’m going to call him (perhaps
unkindly) Sancho.
If you were fortunate enough to be served by him, he would
dramatically slop the wine into your glass, perhaps spilling a little with a
practiced show of urgency, before moving on to the very important thing
he had to do next.
There was also a slightly creepy individual, who we initially thought was a
very regular customer taking too many liberties. It soon became clear that he
was probably the owner, and also appeared to have an interest in the restaurant
opposite… a slightly more formal tables-and-chairs sort of a place. He
permanently had a glass of red wine on the go, which he kept in a little nook
on the bar, just inside the entrance. He generously topped it up regularly, and
did the same for his many cronies when they paid him a visit. I’m going to call
him Quixote.
The first time we sat inside, we were close to the tiny bar
area, which may have taken up around a third of the total inside area. This
tiny bar area was where food was prepared. It was where glasses and dishes were
washed. It was where the waiting staff and Sancho went for endless (large)
glasses of caldillo. It was where jamon was cut, and where other seafood was
plated up from the glass-fronted cool cabinet a couple of meters away. The till
was here of course, the table plan displayed on a greasy screen.
Aside of a couple of beer fridges around the room,
everything happened in that tiny bar area.
Quixote and Sancho had a poor relationship. Quixote was not
content to leave Sancho alone to run the taberna as he wanted to do, and
constantly interfered. Sancho took his obvious frustration out on his staff,
who largely ignored him and got on with what they were doing. Mostly drinking
caldillo. A young female waitress (Dulcinea?) gulped it down while she washed
up behind that tiny bar, as if her life depended on it. When Sancho reached the
end of his tether at one point, and wouldn’t speak to Quixote any more, Quixote nagged at
the other staff. They know well enough to ignore him.
It’s only when you get a bit closer to this, take in what’s
going on, scratch the surface a little, that you get a more real picture of the
lives behind the Tripadvisor reviews. You can feel versions of this soap opera
played out in every taberna, café and restaurant across Europe. Dramas,
relationships, frustrations, highs, lows, bitter and sweet, sometimes sour and
unpalatable.
Enough of the dysfunctional taberna and the Cervantes
analogies. Inexplicably, they seem to love their Caldillo de Pintarroja. Each
to their own.
In the middle of the week, we had gone into a nice-looking
bar (seemingly an independent in a city with a lot of chain places) on Calle
Carreteria for a drink as the nights were getting cool. It was a quiet night,
and the staff were hanging Christmas decorations and cleaning a little while
they had time on their hands.
We went back in on our last night to eat, and the place was
lively. It was Friday night, and the bar was full of (mostly) locals relaxing,
eating, drinking, sometimes breaking into song along with the bar staff. As we’d noticed on the previous visit, the place was run by a
group of young women who were very clearly working together as a genuine
collective, and helping each other to make the whole thing friendly and fun.
The food was good, and the drink was good, but most of all, the feel of the
place was good. It was refreshing and carefree.
I love Spain’s café culture, but it can’t always be said
that your average Spanish bar is friendly and fun. We’ll seek the place out
next time. I don’t know if those young women had a mantra, but if they do it
might be this, because this is what their attitude felt like:
"Huele
las rosas. Huele el café. Lo que sea que te haga feliz”
"Smell the flowers. Smell the coffee. Whatever it is that makes you
happy." Rita Moreno.
So, I
spared you too many clumsy, sugary analogies and sweet-related puns, as I got
diverted from that theme by people and places. But who cares. But there is a lot of confectionery in Málaga.
And the next trip? We hope to
be in València for Easter, to feel the uplifting joy of the Domingo de Pascua
parade in the Cabañal, and to remind ourselves how lucky we are.
* It should
be said that Belros and Captain Candy are not exclusive to Málaga.
** Perhaps
ironically, one of the founders of Google had his stinking great superyacht
moored on Muelle Uno the week before we arrived.
*** People-watching
might sound sinister to some. It’s far from it. It’s a harmless, free,
victimless pastime that can provide endless fun, pleasure, topics of
conversation and content for self-indulgent blog posts. Wear sunglasses if
you’re afraid of upsetting anyone.
**** Moors
are not a single or distinct race. It was/is a term used to describe Muslims in
general, but especially those of Arab or Berber descent.
***** I am acutely and constantly aware that I am one of these things, at least
when not in València. I’m not here to tell anyone how to behave, but some of
that self-awareness may be a benefit in some cases. Just sayin’.
We saw several modest, rather understated*** church processions in the old town. One
in the Barrio del Carmen brought to mind a stark juxtaposition once again, most
acutely felt on an Easter visit to Málaga back in 2022. There, the contrast
came between the ancient rituals of Catholicism and the neon commercialism of
centro. On this Vàlencia occasion, it was the same solemn religious observance set
against the noisy crowds and clinking glasses of the Plaza de Sant Jaume. In
fairness to the revelers, almost everyone fell relatively silent as the solemn
procession passed, even a particularly boisterous group from the Emerald Isle.
Reliable, convenient, cheap, good quality venues like this are one of the
reason why the Spanish live their lives outside, congregating on café terraces,
irresistibly gregarious, friendly and inclusive.
The plan for Easter Saturday was a little cultural. Reasonably close to the
apartment, a little way along the riverbed park of the Jardin del Turia sits the Museo de las Bellas Artes de
Vàlencia, majestically housed in an imposing 17th century building
with a glittering blue dome. We had (unforgivably, to be honest) never been to
the fine art museum. We spent an enlightening couple of hours with Sorolla,
Goya, Velázquez, El Greco, Murillo, Van Dyck and Bosch, and they were delightful company as well.
After a cold beer under the flying buttresses**** of the science
museum, we headed for the new Line 10 of metrovalencia and back to town, and
lunch.
Stepping from the Tranvia at La Cadena, we moved with other early crowds
towards the northern end of Calle Reina. Seats had been moved out of the achingly
attractive tiled houses and onto the pavement, but it was early yet, and they
were unoccupied. Moving up the long, straight stretch of Calle Reina, people in
their parade costumes went in the opposite direction ready to join the start.
The crowds swelled a little as we made our way south, and the cafés and bars
filled quickly. We ducked one block back to find a quieter café, but they were
all full.
Joining the line for service in a packed place, we could see that this café was
99% filled by the members of one marching band. Trombones and saxaphones were
laid on the tables amid the plates and glasses, and the over-stretched staff
were bring out bocadillos, chipirones and calamares without any end in sight.
As a result, there was a queue at the bar, which is unheard of in a Spanish
café. The staff had perhaps never seen a queue at a bar before, so they
tended to ignore it, and hoped it would go away. It didn’t. It had become beer o’clock by the time we got to the front of this queue, I
grabbed a couple of dobles and we gratefully headed outside, out of the greasy
heat, feeling like the smell of deep frying would stick to us forever.
To the delighted shouts of “GUAPA!!” from the crowd, the costumed paraders
throw flowers, and these are collected by everyone, and dutifully handed to
mamas and abuelas to add to the growing collections in the baskets at their feet. 
After enjoying much of this spectacle, we realised the time for Easter Sunday
paella was upon us. It can’t go unnoticed that our regular venue of choice at
Las Arenas is becoming a little touristy, but the vast dining room has not lost
any of it’s buzz and theatre, and the paella was once again an unmissable
treat. A great way to tie up a great week.
* For the
2026 edition at least. I’ll concede that this hasn’t always been the case.
