There are very few tavern owners left in Madrid. There are still hoteliers, waiters, franchisees, and even “gastronomic experience managers.” But the bartenders, with steady hands and lab coats, are the kind who carefully examine whether a customer needs any more beer, from Lucio to Rafa and a little bit. Just a couple of drinks. … Even further away. But it did exist until recently. And that person, or the penultimate one, is called Alfredo Rodríguez, the owner of El Brillante, a bar in front of Atocha, where the liveliness of the city passes by every few minutes.
There was no need for marble or artifacts in this place. There were steel and illuminated signs, the clinking of crockery, and the unmistakable smell of clean, well-reheated noble oil. Brillante was not a bar. It was a civic institution, a community of stranger neighbors, but it was as much Madrid as this year’s pre-election Paloma festival or M-30 traffic jams.
Alfredo inherited this invention from his father and founded it in 1951. At that time, Madrid still had the smell of coal, and hunger was no longer an empty plate. But it was the second Alfredo’s son who turned him into a legend by rising earlier than the sun and remaining proud of his work while others succumbed to automatic coffee machines. He defined himself, without shame or publicity, as “tavernkeeper by profession.” And it was true. His job was to serve and listen, always with clean gestures and careful words.
In his kingdom, Ika was a prince, patron and watchword. Pacific calamari, chickpea flour, fresh bread, and innocent olive oil. El Brillante’s calamari sandwich was not food. The first thing I saw after getting off the train in Atocha was El Brillante, so it was a sacrament, a civil baptism in the liturgy of the asphalt, when I arrived in Madrid. If you want to feel like a real resident of Madrid, just registering is not enough. There I had to eat my sandwich standing up with a paper napkin over my head, and the other I had to eat a local sausage with cheese that I took with me to stave off a hangover when the night was over.
And then there was Alfredo, who for 54 years, at the foot of Madrid’s most famous bar, wore an impeccable apron and watched history pass by. He watched stations grow, governments fall, and fashions change, and he resisted without changing the price of coffee any more than necessary. Even in the age of algorithms and touchscreens, he maintained an unwavering belief in humanity. He employed people over 50 years old, people with professions, tanned hands and dignity. “Here you work with your head and your heart,” he said, and he did just that. He then expanded his business to other locations in Lucana. There, the noisiest people stopped and gathered at the bar: taxi drivers, mangantes, fledgling office workers or soulless office workers demanding another kuvata to swallow their sandwiches.
He passed away on August 30, 2021, at the age of 67, at the discretion of those who did not need a farewell. And on that day, Madrid says that the smell of squid had diminished a little and it had a slightly familiar smell. The bar was silent for a moment, and in a rare miracle, the oil seemed to stop bubbling as a sign of respect. He didn’t quit because he wanted to leave, he left because he couldn’t take it anymore. And it’s worth remembering that neither miracles nor battles made this city great. This city exists because people like Alfredo Rodriguez believed in it. The hotelier did not leave, the way of understanding life remained. People who confuse work and vocation, service and pride, and daily life and loyalty. Last time I was there, I ran into Ramoncin behind the bar. Although Alfredo is gone, I realize that some of my best memories of Madrid are etched in this bar. Because without players like Alfredo Rodriguez, Madrid would just be a beautiful city. For them, it felt like eating warm bread and sharing their sorrows. And so it is now.
El Brillante’s calamari sandwich was not food. It was a sacrament, a civil baptism in the Asphalt Liturgy.
Today, anyone who approaches El Brillante and orders a sandwich is, without realizing it, still feeling the friendly shadow of the bartenders who still hang around the bar, adjusting trays, watching over the tips of the calamari, and smiling from the other side of time. When you bite into a piece of bread, you don’t know whether you’re tasting the taste of the ocean or a memory. But one thing is clear: in Madrid, you eat a calamari sandwich. And Alfredo Rodriguez is one of those who made it possible for us. Mayor, this is your legendary statue.
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