Bar 2

No pictures to see here.  None because there are signs that say no pictures.
One of four bar rules

A few months ago I write an email to an author of a book about Sherry.  I had gone to a Sherry tasting and to her talk about the book a year before. I buy her book of course.  She lives in NY now but grew up here so her parents were at the book event.  I spent quite a bit time talking with them.  She now is the publisher of a magazine about alcohol.

So the email was something like.  "Heading to Spain for a month, done the Sherry triangle already so will be heading to other parts of the country.  You know a good bar I should hit?"

Her reply was something like.  "The answer is yes.  It's one of my favorite bars in the world, hands down.  It's all about the vibe there."

Apparently it was Hemingway's favorite bar as well.

Did the month in Spain and decided the very last thing I do, before getting on the plane to come home, is this place.
Kept my expectations on zero.  Walked in as MU as I could.

Walk in and you're in another world.  The aroma, oh my god, the aroma.  The aroma that comes from 70 years of Sherry in barrels that line a portion of the backbar.  Barrels black as a crow.  The aroma that only comes from Sherry.  If you know Sherry then you know the aroma I'm talking about.  If you think Sherry is that cream sweet stuff then no, you won't know what I'm talking about.  Sherry is the driest wine in the world.
Dusty dry, it lays on your mouth and sticks to the hairs in the nose.

Hundreds and hundreds of Sherry bottles on the shelf.  The bottles are covered in dust.  Really thick dust like these things hadn't been handled in decades.  The floor, the walls, the chairs all look like came with the opening of the bar.  It just feels like nothing is different for the past 70 years.
Really like stepping into an almost real-er form of reality if that makes any sense.

Or maybe an older reality.

Older because that's what Sherry is...it's old.  For the uninitiated, Sherry is matured in a solera system. Picture a pyramid of barrels.  New stuff is put in the top barrel, and at a point is transferred to the older row below which has a portion of each of those barrels transferred to the even older row below.  And so on. The bottom row, the oldest, has a portion finally put into bottles.  The oldest barrels can have minute portions of when that particular solera started.
A bacteria bloom is allowed to form in the barrels.  That's what gives Sherry that distinctive taste.
It's a flamenco of dry dusty earth and yeasty grassy hay foam.  And sea salty in the manzanillas that come from near the coast.

From what I could tell they serve 5 Sherries that come from bottles that are filled from the barrels.
Two finos, palo cortado, amontillado and oloroso.
That's it.
My Spanish is nearly non existent so there was no way I could ask if the finos were "en rama" (not filtered)
From what I could see, regulars that come in are handed a bottle of their favorite and they go to sit in probably what is their regular table.

The barkeeps aren't there to listen to how you can't stand your boss or to fix your relationship problems.  They're not there to talk sports or politics or to put the move on the ladies.  No, they're there to pour your drink and hand it over to you.
They keep the tabs on what you ordered by writing on the bar with chalkboard chalk.  At the end of the night, they add up La Cuenta right there in front of you.  You can see the math right there in white chalk on black bar top.

You can't tip the barkeeps.  That's another rule

Don't spit on the floor. Rule three.  And the last is you need to hold the Sherry glass a certain way or you'll identify yourself as a spy for the fascists.
The rules came to be during the Spanish Civil war.  The bar was a haunt for the Republicans.  No photos because they could be used to identify sympathizers in the bar.  No tipping because we are all workers of the world, and no spitting cuz it's not hygienic.

Not going to tell you the name of the bar.  Because Porto is fucked. Porto is also a wonderful beautiful city beyond words as well.  Last time we went to Porto, it was ours.  Early March 7-8 years ago, we walked down the street in front of the Port houses and caves across the river and were alone.  This trip in early Feb, it was overrun.  Last time the tourist boats that people take as an amusement ride up and down the river were covered for the season. Not one running.  This time the river was crowded with them.  Porto is fucked from the word getting out.  I know everything changes, doesn't mean that it doesn't make me run away from it when I see it.
You should go to see Porto.  Really.  A UNESCO world heritage city.  Go. See it.

The bar is not in Porto by the way.  It's not in Portugal at all.  Spain.

It's what you say when you see something written about something behind the mainstream matrix in the NYTimes Sunday newspaper.  "Oh shit.  Call something paradise, kiss it goodbye."
So, it's not that hard for you to find the name of bar 2 on the internet, but it won't come from me.
Why am I writing about a bar without telling you the name.  Because you should go and find this bar.
Just don't tell anyone else.

We walk 30 meters down the street into a shop and buy a Sherry with an average age of 50 years in the barrel.