Seb's Ashes
Find me at El Pica.
When I die, I want the Pareja de Hecho to scatter my ashes on the cracked tile floor of El Pica, a tapas bar in central Seville. But not at any time of day; as my last request will stipulate, it must be done at breakfast.
I see her taking our quiet shortcut off Calle Cuna, past the restaurant patio and art gallery we probably still haven’t visited, by the barber on the corner and between the flat complex. Through gates locked only at night, she will walk down a small alley that feeds onto Seville’s main shopping promenade, where locals dressed in one layer too many will sit at tables under a canopy. She will then turn right inside El Pica.
The host out front and three men behind the bar, all clad in white shirts, will welcome her with toothy grins. Solo diners will be on wooden stools with green padding, drinking hot coffee from elongated shot glasses at the counter. Groups of two or more will occupy raised tables and barrels pressed against the wall, some choosing to stand. Crinkled pictures of a mournful Jesus or the Virgin Mary will still be displayed in brown frames. A TV from early this century will be playing rolling news. If it’s summer, the air conditioners will be on, one at the entrance and the other at the far end. Behind the bar, wine glasses will hang like bats from wooden slots. Rum, whisky and other spirits will rest on crescent-shaped shelves, awaiting the afternoon service.
The Pareja de Hecho will step forward and take in the majesty of the assembly. One of three men behind the bar will be slicing a jamon leg fixed to a wooden stand while managing the production line of bread rolls for the conveyor toaster. In the centre, the second man will fill glasses with cold water for customers to grab as they please while keeping across the washing up. The man furthest away will be on the coffee machine, handling requests for cafe con leche with few deviations beyond ‘leche sin lactosa’. They will take customers’ orders without notes and relay the information between them. The coffee will be balanced and smooth; the orange juice will be life-affirming.
In my memory, the Pareja de Hecho will ask for a jamon and cheese roll with tomato and extra virgin olive oil. She will also order her favourite, an open tortilla sandwich. When done, she will pay the €10 or so bill with money left to her for this exact task, add my sandwich to my ashes, and scatter everything on the floor. The four men who work at El Pica will understand; they will know how much I loved this place. They will smile at her anyway, say they look forward to next time, and wish her a ‘buen dia’.
El Pica deals in simplicity. A restaurant reviewer would say that the food has zero thrills. This only tells half the story; perhaps it’s because I’m nearing my mid-thirties, but breakfast at El Pica is as thrilling to me as any nightclub ever was. I would go there every day, watching, listening, absorbing.
People will debate the best local breakfast in Seville; that prize might go to Bar Alfalfa, a tapas restaurant popular with tourists, whose ‘Cordobes Breakfast’ — salmorejo and jamon on bread — I’d choose over almost anything. Bar Alfalfa has its distinct charm but isn’t quite as welcoming as El Pica, which draws you into its steeped history with open arms (not to mention it’s one of the few places going long before 9 a.m.).
For me, no perfect day in Seville could begin any other way. From there, we could plot our next move, the sights we must see, and the experiences we must have. But not until breakfast at El Pica.
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The fourth and final instalment of Tim Shipman’s ‘Brexit Quartet’ is out this week. His first, All Out War, is among the best political books I’ve ever read. His newspaper, The Sunday Times, has serialised OUT over the last two weekends. You can learn* about Dominic Cummings’ involvement in exposing Partygate, the Queen’s view of Boris Johnson, and how Rishi Sunak’s election nightmare unfolded. Or you can read with an open mouth about Liz Truss’ finger-in-ear approach to the mini-budget.
See you next week x
*If you have a Times subscription, that is.