A Table Down the Street: The Rain in Spain

“A Table Down The Street” follows Howie Southworth, author of "A Taste of Alexandria," one local barstool at a time.

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Food & Dining

“A Table Down The Street” follows Howie Southworth, author of "A Taste of Alexandria," one local barstool at a time. No reviews. Only encounters. The bartender chasing perfection, the chef with a story, the regular who swears this place was better before you found it. Food and drink may be the excuse. People are the point. A corner seat can tell you everything.

We go looking for Spain and find it at the end of a dock. The river getting a tan. Umbrellas doing their best impression of permanence. The low buzz of a place that has already decided to lay back. At first glance it’s the version of Spain everyone thinks they know. Sunkissed. Open. A little theatrical. Already smiling for a photograph. Close enough.

We step up to the crowded bar and pause just long enough to be pittied. “Old friends! Please, come join us,” Dareen says, liberating two stools like we were expected all along. Guess we look fun. John gives us a nod, already committed to the ruse. To the staff, it plays perfectly. To us, it’s an invitation. 

So we sit with our “old friends.” This is what going out in Spain should feel like. Not planned or reserved. Not negotiated. You arrive, and you somehow belong. We talk with the pair like that’s always been true.

My drink takes a second to come to mind. A red enters first. Something bold. Something that feels right in any tavern in Madrid. But the sun is doing its work, and the water is brighter than expected. White wine crosses the mind. And fades quickly. Sangria gets a laugh from our friends, “No one serious orders sangria in Spain.” I agree. That’s something you make at home when the fruit goes soft. I kid.

“Tinto de verano,” Dareen says, like she’s been waiting for the question. The red of summer. The 1970s version of me would call it a wine spritzer. Rafa, behind the bar, hears it and gives a thumbs up. He’ll take care of it. 

Rafa and I enjoy a light disagreement. Sprite appears in his hand. I raise an eyebrow. A proper madrileño, I suggest, might reach for a lemon Schweppes to mix with the Rioja. I cave. Rafa smirks the way a man who has hiked the Camino de Santiago earns the right to smirk. He did it with a full backpack, all the way to Galicia. Talk shifts to walking, eating, and the human need to keep moving.

The group chimes in on the north versus Andalusia. The politics of bullfighting. The way Spanish cities carry themselves depending on the weather. At some point John and I compare notes on hotel pools in Spain and the occasional oligarch holding court. Catalonia’s briefly debated. Language. Then food, wine. We talk Hemingway because of course we do. Somewhere in there, the drink arrives.

That’s how Spain conversations go. 

The Tinto de Verano is bright without being sharp. Light beyond reason. Plain fun. Built for afternoons that last into something else entirely. The kind of glass you don’t think about too much because thinking would be work. The drink does it for you. And it embodies Spain. Except for this lime garnish. Thanks, Rafa.

Barca’s tapas follow the same logic. Stuffed piquillos I’ve had here before. Reliable and reminiscent, Pamplona on a plate. The kind of dish that lets you know you’re in studied hands. Today there’s something else on the menu that pulls a little harder. Spain doesn’t get enough credit for what it does with tuna. It should. It’s the kind of thing that surprises people. 

The tartare arrives as a perfect disc. Ruby and clean, topped with just enough crunch to remind you this isn’t precious. There’s a tangy cream underneath, doing its job quietly. No bread. No obvious vehicle. For a second, it feels like something is missing. Then it doesn’t. The toasted panko on top does the work. Texture just where it comes in handy. 

As the last bit of tartar de atún leaves my fork, the sky changes. We’ve noticed the black cloud for a while now. Commented the way people do when they think it's not coming for them. The kind of casual awareness that feels like control. It isn’t. The rain comes fast. A little early for a summertime roller. Direct hit on the dock.

The awning above the bar holds steady. We stay dry. The bar tightens slightly, weather-related intimacy. Bodies leaning in now. The water darkens just enough to look serious. And somewhere in the middle of it, the phrase lands fully formed and entirely useless.

The rain in Spain falls mainly on the dock.

The drink finishes. The plate is clean the way a plate should be if you’ve done your job. There’s a moment where we could wait it out. Order another round. Let the storm pass like it always does.

We don’t. We step out into the torrent and head home down the dock and across the bridge from our little Spain back to Alexandria. For a minute we think we can take the rain in Spain with us. It doesn’t make it past the first block.

Howie Southworth is a seasoned denizen of Old Town Alexandria and the best-selling author behind "A Taste of Alexandria: Modern Restaurant Recipes That Echo Our City's Past," published by Alexandria Living Magazine.

Southworth is also the author of a new book, Hemingway’s Spanish Table (Insight Editions), released March 17. 

Past works include "Chinese Street Food," "One Pan to Rule Them All," "Kiss My Casserole!" and "How to Cook Anything in Your Dutch Oven." Howie is also a regular essayist for Salon.com.

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