Tales of the Lecrin Valley

A personal view of life in an andalusian village.

Carmen often uses the Corte Inglés and we have now come to a tacit understanding that taking me with her on a shopping trip is not conducive to good harmony and matrimony.  So while she shops I mooch around and see what is going on in Granada and we then meet at a pre-determined time in a hostelry close by.  The nearest is La Posada del Duende (or La Posa’a del Duende in Andaluce,) which is on the other side of the road and up a bit from the main entrance of the Corte Inglés.  It is a very traditional Spanish bar/restaurant, with loads of photographs and posters of bullfights and it has  staff and clientele to match the ambience.  The waiters are one young and one old, the older being called Pepe and the younger I know not what.  They are both very amiable and occasionally the owner, an older woman beloved by all bullfighting afficianados, makes an grand appearance.  There are nearly always three men at the bar, two sitting just inside the door and the other strutting up and down.  The Strutter is invariably nattily dressed and well groomed and talks incessantly and excitedly, waving his arms about like a windmill.   Of the other two, one is a hunchback who always has a wry smile on his face and a glass of white wine in his hand whilst he listens indulgently to his friend pontificating; and the other looks like a retired bricklayer and never speaks, just gives conspiratorial grins to the hunchback who in turn knows exactly how to keep the natty one wound up and ranting and strutting.  The food in the restaurand behind is good,  especially the oxtail.  The tapas are good if a little staid and the Rioja good.  We have been going there for years, and although we occasionally venture into the more crowded bars, always seem to end up coming back.