Tommy Mel's

I can see a street-sign for Calle de Alcala, perfectly positioned in the slit of window between a promotion poster and the wall.  There’s a branch of Bankia right beside the sign.  I need another twenty to see me through the rest of today and tomorrow.  I’ve given up on making this pay. 

In no time I’ve demolished a Tommy Mel’s “Texas Burger” and I’m into my second Coronita beer.  The downs, the ups, the down-agains.  The highly-portable manual weather-station.

Sometimes you can take it all too seriously.

That's something nicely illustrated by a glance over my shoulder to the life my mam and dad lived.  Sure, there was a lot of hard work and they didn’t burn money, but they knew that life was for living.  It ought to be fun.  And that’s where I came from.  It’s how I used to be.

Tommy Mel’s doesn’t seem to take life too seriously – not down this end of the business anyway.  It’s a simulation of 1958-63 (United States of) America.  The seating, the décor, bottles of Heinz and French’s, the music, slim young waitresses in short uniforms. 

Hell! Why not?  It works.  Nobody’s getting hurt.

It’s an escape – of course it is.  But when you feel the strain falling away, how can that be wrong?

It’s pastiche – of course it is – what Baudrillard called Hyperreality.  I thought he was being original up until a couple of weeks ago, wandering around the Reina Sofia.  Yes, it’s pastiche, it’s Hyperreal, but it works.

Maybe it won’t last forever – it works for nostalgists and nostalgists for nostalgia – a couple of generations maybe.  I suppose there aren’t too many 1920’s joints kicking around – with the exception of the Ritz and Claridge’s and places of that ilk.

The ‘50s microphone is fake, of course.  I’ve held a real one in my hand at Sun Studios in Memphis and it can barely stand up on its own anymore.  But it did what it did.  A fake one’s fine if the burger’s fine too.  And the burger was bueno.

Sometimes I think I try too hard – that I try to be too serious.

Right now, just give me some of that Rock N Roll music, a decent burger, a beer and a few short dresses.  It’s ok.  On Saturday night I watched a Senegalese band in Lavapies.  They were fantastic.  It was great.  I felt good.  But, right now, Tommy Mel’s is doing it.

Postscript

Thence to my favourite hang-out in Jacinto Benavente but, sadly, las camareras were on holiday (día libre). I tried a couple of glasses of Rioja. For once, it wasn't chilled. No patatas fritas. I've been swallowing-down their crisps since September and it's got to stop.

I wobbled from there down thru Santa Ana, with its square miles of terraces (cafés). In one of them sat a very well-appointed couple. Man in a white suite and pink face. Almost certainly staying in the equally well-appointed Hotel Santa Ana and come out to sample the tainted air of the outside world. I don't know why, but our eyes latched on as I passed. Not sure what either of us thought, but Dylan was playing and I was smiling at the world and walking in time.

I'd been dreaming of a Caipirinha and spotted a cocktail bar in Huertas. The Caipirinha was good. Redolent of a Sunday evening in Lisbon, drinking them from a kiosk above the old city. It was mixed by Amin from Bangladesh. Think you know the world yet?

Caught a bus home. It's taken eight months to work out where they go. The 146 goes directly up Alcala - no scenic diversion along O'Donnell. The drivers lack empathy with their passengers. A plucky lady in her seventies was hanging onto a rail, her half-smile and coiffed hair holding firm. Bus rides can be quite a work-out.

Best sort out tomorrow's lessons. Still a few more days to the weekend.