Bin Ends. A bar in Madrid

LA VENENCIA

THE BEST HOLE-IN-THE-WALL BAR IN THE WORLD

By Ken Gargett

For almost a century, the ultimate hole-in-the-wall bar has been La Venencia, a small, drab, dusty room down a narrow back alley off the Santa Ana Square in the El Barrio de Las Letras district of Madrid (‘la venencia’ is the Spanish name for the elongated tasting tool sherry producers use to take a sample from a barrel). Some years ago, an equally drab building, directly across from the bar, apparently a regular home to Gertrude Stein when she was in town, was torn down and replaced by a ritzy hotel. Sit for a moment, watch the patrons, as they hop in and out of their limos. They never notice the old bar. Feels a bit like watching the Muggles in Harry Potter, never noticing the magic around them.

Founded back in 1922, this old bar was once word-of-mouth stuff only. Then around ten-fifteen years ago, someone mentioned it in a guide for British soccer hooligans touring Spain. No one was happy – not the regulars, the place itself and certainly not the travelling fans who discovered the place only served sherry and they couldn’t even get a beer.

A Spanish friend first took me there around the turn of the century and I fell in love with the place. I visit it every time I am in Madrid. Step inside and there is an old wooden bar, one man working it, hundreds of dusty old sherry bottles on the shelves behind him and, at the end, a collection of ancient barrels. There are a couple of tables with rickety chairs and a small area up a few stairs, only used by couples preferring their own company or when the bar overflows. That is pretty much it. The walls are stained dirt brown through grime, smoke and time – the only parts not brown are where plaster has flaked away, leaving fresh wall exposed. There are a few posters celebrating Sherry festivals back in the early thirties and fifties. Presumably, they had other priorities in the interim. The floor, as with most of the place, is under untold years of dust – it is almost like the rings of a tree. What could this layer reveal?

As mentioned, the only thing you can order is sherry, plus some few very good tapas. Pressed salted tuna (mojama), great anchovies, Iberico jamon, Manchego cheese, chorizo, preserved meats, but each glass of sherry arrives with a bowl of nuts, olives or chips. All depends on which sherry. Your tab is written in chalk on the bar and at the end of the evening, the cash (only) is deposited into an ancient wooden register, worked by an old-fashioned lever.

In all my years of visiting this bar, I’ve never managed to exchange more than three words with the owner, even considering the lack of a common language. He is not rude, but makes it clear he is not there to chat. Even with regulars, he is taciturn in the extreme, rarely sharing much.

La Venencia was a popular hangout for Hemingway, although I did see one blog question the veracity of this, citing that as there were no pictures of him or any Hemingway memorabilia, how could he possibly have been there? Thereby, entirely missing the point of the place. He was known to drink here with Republican soldiers, no doubt collecting information and stories, as this was a favourite anti-fascist haunt. To the best of my knowledge, Hemingway never wrote a word about this place, nor did he ever mention it in dispatches. Some say it was because he never set foot inside; I prefer to think he was protecting his friends and comrades.

Speaking of pictures, it is strictly forbidden to take photographs, this rule apparently a relic of the Civil War, for, as one of the main places the forces opposing Franco met, any sign of a camera usually meant a spy in the midst. Another rule is strictly no tips – the Republican soldiers who frequented La Venencia saw themselves as ‘equal workers’.

My final visit this trip to Madrid. It is plus 40°C, so a Fino is compulsory. As I walk in, our friend behind the bar does not seem unhappy to see me. Did I imagine a flicker of recognition? I sit down, feel the stress run off me, and try and catch up on my notes. Oloroso. All walnuts and teak, citrus, glacéd fruit. Lovely, but the Fino is, for me, the star.

As I walk over to the bar to pay for the final time, the owner tallies the bill in chalk and says something to me. In shock, I don’t catch it, but I tell him I will be back, probably in ‘dos anos’. He smiles and shakes my hand. I feel vindication, acceptance. I feel like I have just received a Spanish knighthood. I can’t stop smiling till I reach the Chuka Ramen Bar, the best ramen in the city, next door.

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