Subverting Brexit with Negronis and Spontaneous Bhangra Sessions
Subverting Brexit with Negronis and Spontaneous Bhangra Sessions
Negroni in Barcelona
Of course I’d learned how to order a drink in both Catalan and Spanish, just in case. “Make me your best drink!” I shouted to the bartender over Beyoncé. I recognized the quizzical expression and tried again, this time louder, slower, and in Spanish.
“I make a great Negroni,” comes the reply in thick Liverpudlian. This was simultaneously a relief and an annoyance, but I nod. He sets about making it slowly with the kind of seriousness that inspires confidence in the drinker.
Betty Ford’s—named after California’s famous rehab clinic—is tucked away in El Raval, a neighborhood of Barcelona close to the port. If there was a time when the bar was hip and counter-cultural, this has long since passed, but it’s still a nice mix of diner and gay bar. On Thursday night, the narrow room is busy, but not full, with music videos projected onto the wall making it seem livelier than it is.
Just off La Rambla, Betty Ford’s is more of an obvious gem than a hidden one. Every now and again servers appear from behind the bar laden with oversized burgers and fries, which I am told are some of the city’s best.
The Negroni comes strong and thick and bittersweet, with a perfectly curled piece of orange zest crowning it. Sitting at the bar I can spot all kinds of life happening around me, from first dates to weary tourists who’ve spent 12 hours walking around looking at Gaudi. My attention though, is caught by a movement just within my gaze nearby at the bar.
Three people have sprung up from their stools, hands raised to screw in invisible lightbulbs. I instantly recognize bhangra dancing—the apex of my parents’ cultural heritage—which, thanks to Punjab’s huge and highly dispersed diaspora population, seems to pop up in the unlikeliest of places.
Spotting my bemused brown face, behind the two locals he is teaching, I’m beckoned over by the chap who happens to be another brown Brit.
We work our way through the leg-to-leg hop, and the shoulder-shake too, as well as several of the bar’s cocktails; from a sweet-spicy Apricot Sour to the sake-laced Blue Oyster. Our host, now five years away from Liverpool, feels pressed to join too. He has his own views of how one of the UK’s national dances should be performed. I feel a bright glow from the rapid movement, the projector, and the drinks—but also from our small subversion of the Brexit story.