An afternoon in Madrid

The most obvious — but far from the only — author to read when in Madrid must be Ernest Hemingway. For a man so fond of the laconic line, his rambling, enduring presence in the city is at once ironic and misplaced. It’s not only the guidebooks which are directing me to his erstwhile favourite watering-hole in the north, south, east or west of the city; it’s as if he left a tangible reminder of his presence — an extra shiny spot or cigarette burn burnished into the leather of an armchair — in each of the now rather shabby-chic establishments.  

One such haunt is the Gran Café de Gijón on the Paseo de Recoletos, a busy main road that culminates in the fountain-topped Plaza de Cibeles, where Real Madrid fans flock when there’s reason to celebrate. The café itself apparently nurtures instead its historic tradition, promoting itself as a high-end, gourmet retreat for writers and artists.