Like most places on the island the coffee in the hotel was unpalatable. I don’t mean ‘not good’ or ‘it was alright’ and nor do I mean ‘could have been better’. It was simply undrinkable. Mission Control thinks I get snippy when I don’t have coffee in the morning and I dispute this in the strongest terms. Nonetheless, she was hesitant about getting in the car with me and embarking on a journey that would take us along precipitous and dangerous [according to the concierge] mountain roads without me getting a caffeine fix beforehand. She hasn’t yet accepted that all men complain about women’s map-reading and that it is not an idiosyncrasy relating to a lack of coffee before the trip starts. I’ve never been able to convince her of this and couldn’t convince her then so we walked the few kilometres across to Los Abrigos in the hope of finding somewhere that could deliver. One restaurant proudly displayed signs indicating that it was in the Michelin Guia Roja and that it did, indeed, offer good Italian coffee. But it opened only in the evenings so we tried the local bar on the main road, which was open, busy and looked a likely candidate.
Well, we did get coffee that was drinkable. The dark-eyed but grim-faced beauty who was serving listened intently with disinterest to our pleadings for an excellent drink and tried to impress us by capping the grey-coloured offering with cream from an aerosol. We stopped her just in time. It wasn’t enjoyable and, once again, you have to ask yourself why a country with such a sunny climate has so many freaking tables dotted about on pavements, under sunshades, surrounded by potted hedges and otherwise perfectly located when it can’t produce a decent cup of freaking coffee.
How did Spain get in the European Union?