Have you ever had an experience so amazing, so surreal, so astonishing, that you cannot believe it is actually happening? Our last full day in Spain will forever be embedded in our memories as one such day.

It was meant to be a quiet affair comprising a stroll to the city, a nice restaurant for lunch, perhaps a sneaky glass of wine on the way home at La Tizona (Bob: Tits On ‘er), a light supper at home, then early to bed before our big travel day to Italy.

Irene had tried to book three different restaurants for lunch, none of which could accommodate us for various reasons. So, our fourth and final option was Casa Alberto (La Bodega Del Cantinero = the bartender’s cellar). https://www.labodegadelcantinero.com/

On our walk to Alberto’s, Irene and Bob recounted the last time they had been there, a night of live music with Flamenco dancing. However, at their far table on the terrace, they could barely see or hear the action, which was predominantly inside the restaurant. At the mention of Flamenco dancing, Irene grabs the hem of her blue spotted dress and starts swishing and turning her way down the street in the Flamenco style (or more accurately in the style of a wee Scottish lass).

‘Oh Irene’, says Bob, ever the conservative one of the pair, “you must promise not to do Flamenco dancing at the restaurant”. Irene, looking contrite and mortified, responds that of course she wouldn’t….

To the surprise of absolutely no-one, a mere 2 hours later, Irene was twirling around Alberto’s terrace, the hem of her dress clutched in fingers, head thrown back and knickers flashing in time to the staccato beat hanging in the still, afternoon heat. Bob, shaking his head tells us how much he loves her. She’s the love of my life, he says. This, we already know. I wish I’d had taken a photo of Flamenco Irene, but I was too busy trying to ensure her knickers remained hidden from view. Yes, I failed.

As we approached Alberto’s, we could hear the typically Spanish crescendo of animated conversation which occurs at a full restaurant. We were glad of our reservation and took the only empty table on the terrace. On the table next to us, were six men, aged in their late 50s, perhaps older, conversing in the vivacious and loud Spanish way with exaggerated hand movements and raucous laughter.

Alberto, as he brings us water, perhaps concerned about the noise, stage whispers that one of the men is a famous flamenco singer. ‘Do you think he will sing for us?’ Irene asks. No, Alberto says, shaking his head.

But Alberto was wrong. So wrong.

By the time ENTREES had arrived, the men had all taken a turn at singing short, emotive songs in the flamenco style while the other men set the beat with clapping hands and rapping knuckles on tabletops. We were gobsmacked, and surreptitiously took video footage.

By MAIN course, the singing was near continuous, and we were openly taking photos and videos, applauding and giving praise in Spanglish. This encouraged them more, and one man after another performed a highly-expressive, solo dance, with percussive footwork, and intricate arm and body movements. The noise was deafening as it echoed around the tiny terrace. We loved it.

By the time DESSERT was served, we were part of the flamenco party, and Alberto was opening bottles of cava (Spanish champagne) with a large, shiny stainless-steel sabre (an act undertaken with much fanfare, called ‘sabrage’).

Whilst our food consumption was over, the party most certainly was not. Rosco declared that he would not be leaving this place while the flamenco guys were still there. So, we stayed. We drank cava, we clapped, we rapped our knuckles on the tabletops, we applauded and called out Spanglish words of encouragement that no-one, including ourselves, could really understand.

I guess the Australian equivalent would be turning up at a small restaurant in a regional town, and being seated next to Jimmy Barnes and his mates, and for them to start belting out a repertoire of Cold Chisel’s greatest hits.

Potential customers looking in from the street at the ruckus, tried to book tables to join the fun, but Alberto turned them all away. It was well past 5pm at this stage, and the restaurant normally closes at 4.30pm. Alberto showed no signed of making anyone leave. He too was clearly enjoying the celebrity of the famous singers. I guess the extra cash was welcome too, as round after round of red wine, gin and whisky arrived at the flamenco table.

And then finally, after many hugs, double-cheeked kisses, handshakes, and other goodbyes involving hands on hearts, our flamenco group left. One of them, the famous one, was performing at a flamenco festival in a nearby town that night. I’m so glad we got to see the warm-up act.

The four of us walked home, chattering like school children about how lucky we all were. We put on some disco music and sang and danced around the lounge room, followed by Rummykub championships, and finally into bed at 1am.

When the alarm went off for our 5am wake-up, we threw everything into bags, then into our hire car. How we didn’t leave anything behind will remain one of life’s greatest mysteries. It was a big day: a six-hour drive to Madrid, a three hour wait at the international airport (with us mentally prepared for the flight to be cancelled, as had happened to scores of other flights that weekend), a two-hour flight to Italy, the taxi to the city, and the tedium of communicating with and waiting for our Airbnb host.

But we made it. And we wouldn’t change a single thing. Viva España

#Spain #ILoveSpain #CasaAlberto #Flamenco #cava #SanPedro #friendship #BobandIrene