I’m not a tourist, I live here. I saw that written on a teeshirt in Washington, D.C. Believe me. I know about patatas bravas. Everybody in Sarria knows about patatas bravas. The bar opens at 12:00 today and that’s when we arrive. It’s already filling up. When we leave, there’s a crowd outside. They don’t care how long they have to wait. They can already taste the sauce. Where does Tomas get these potatoes? Do they grow them? They must! They never change! They’re fried. They’re soft. They’re crispy. They melt in your mouth. As Fran Dresher the Nanny once said about Chinese food— “Extra grease, extra flavor!”—I will say about the Bar Tomas!
An Italian woman, big and blonde and smart, sent me here to Sarria to drink the best coffee in town. I took a book! I finished it!
Sarria smells like roast chicken on a spit! I didn’t see a single one, but the aroma drifted up to the church. A fancy Avenida shop sells sneakers. They actually use that word. Expensive, elegant, chic. We bought pumpkin pie! Everybody looks good. I’m blinded by the sun— and the women! Good shoes. Good jackets. Classy platinum blondes in black. Baby carriages, mothers and preppy dads.The street is chic cutting edge. I’m happy! I sit down in the sun!