Part Eight: The Paco
Disclaimer: A Curve Across The Pond has nothing to do with Los Angeles, other than the fact that it is written by an Anjealeno.
Here we are now having the time of our times back at The Paco. This time it’s packed to the Paco. I’ve never seen a bar so small and yet somehow people continue to stream through the door and manage to get drink service in a normal amount of time. Oye, Paco! Ambassador of greatness in yon Catalonia.
Allow me to describe the physical size and autentico vibe of Paco. If I can. What’s the smallest bar in LA? Anyone?… Tiki Ti? There’s gotta be something smaller. You take the Ye Rustic Inn in Los Feliz – same neighborhood. Now take just the first room of Ye Rustic Shithole. Now chop that room in half and you basically have the size of Casa Paco. The place is packed to the gills with locals, a few Frenchies, few Brits and a few creepy older guys (present party excluded) thrown in for good measure. The DJ is off the hook at present. Soundlessons vibe. Tiny cramped joint. Basically a dump with a killer sound system, great DJs and cheap drinks. San Miguels are going for 2 euro a throw. Through the dingy, smoke-infused window one gets an occasional glimpse of the comings and goings at Pizza Paco, the newer breakaway venture directly across la plaza.
Paco! Three nights ago I was in this same joint, early evening. Chilling. The power went out. Three of us sat at the bar in total darkness, laughing, as the bartender deftly ran to the front, flipped a switch, and had the music cued to the precise spot it had been knocked out within 30 seconds’ time.
Paco! Some guy vaguely resembling Michael Jeter is balls drunk. He drinks from a glass of pure booze, leers at everybody in sight and fiddles with his mustache. He strokes his mustache and then strokes the goatee of a half-horrified-yet-largely-amused hipster seated next to a girl. All three are leering, giggling and chattering in Spanish. Now Jeter’s twiddling mustaches. Jeter’s stroking legs. Jeter nearly spills his glass of pure booze. Jeter returns to his own waxed mustache and champions it. Jeter chastizes hipster for not having stronger mustache. Jeter runs finger down hipster’s cheek and beneath his nostrils. Hipster freezes up, shivers, turns to girl and deadpans, in perfect English, “Fucking Christ! Fucking touched my face, yeeeeeieeh!” All three laugh.
Easily my favorite bar in Barcelona, though it must be said the one in the Raval with the gasoline can light fixtures screening Blue Velvet to a dubreggae soundtrack runs a close second.
The evening progresses…