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National Geographic : 1950 Apr
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Speaking of Spain counter to drink white wine or beer. More pretentious are the bars, with tables and a more diverse selection of tapas (snacks), such as cold cuts, shrimp, clams, oysters, crabs, lobsters, goose barnacles, and fried squid. Most elegant of the three, the cafes proper often are sumptuously furnished, with crystal chandeliers and period furniture. Some strive for originality: in one, live songbirds fly about and perch on branches behind the bar. In Spain the aperitif means food as well as drink. People sip sherry, manzanilla, or beer while eating ap petizers of all kinds. Spaniards love sea food before meals. To see shellfish in its va riety and abundance, one must go to one of the few places in Ma drid that serve draught beer. Here the dis carded shucks of boiled shrimp rise in ankle deep pink drifts on the floor. Spaniards eat shrimp the year round and must consume hun dreds of thousands of Madrilefios Must Be Home by 11 or Be Locked Out At that hour night watchmen rap on Madrid doorjambs, warning house holders they are about to lock up. Late-comers clap hands to summon the guard, who carries the apartment, key in his leather vest. Some residents have their own passkeys (page 422). pounds annually. As an old shellfish fan, I thought I was familiar with most of these sea products, but here I found some new ones. An enormous crab I saw weighed more than five pounds (page 440); the girl who sold them said they sometimes reach double that weight, and I could see why Galicians who catch these call them "oxen of the sea." With a friend whom I had first met on the ship going from New York to Cherbourg, I went one night to the street called Echegaray. At 9 o'clock, cocktail hour in a country that dines from 10:30 to 11, narrow Echegaray Street is thronged with people. Almost every other door opens into a bar or tavern, many of which decorate their walls with brilliant bullfight posters or with regional scenes in colored tile. Natives of Madrid Called "Cats" Madrilenos (natives of Madrid for some reason are also called gatos, "cats") progress slowly down Echegaray, stopping at every well, nearly every-bar for a small glass of white wine. Most wineshops throw in a snack with the drink. This may be a fried shrimp, a bit of mountain ham, a miniature meat ball, or a hot sausage on a square of bread. In one tavern we sat on high stools at upended wine casks for tables, watching the stream of customers. A man overheard us talking and said: 419
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