Boys Skate & We All Eat Chicken

It's been colder, but for Madrid it is a cold Sunday.  The sun tricks you into thinking it is warmer than it is, but then you get caught in the shadow of a building - or later when you're at the river, in the shadow of a tree - and it is cold.  If the wind happens to be bellowing past at just that moment, you'll swear you're freezing.  The boys claim they don't feel the cold.  They are lightly dressed with sweatshirts and light windbreakers.  Their mother, like me, is bundled against the elements.  We have gloves and scarves and beanies.  The boys, none of it.

They, the mother and her two sons, often come to the banks of the Manzanares, where in recent years a park has been developed.  Runners, cyclists, and skateboarders pass the walkers on the asphalted pathway.  Madrid's apprentice of a river trickles by below the rocks that demarcate the river's banks.  I've not been to this part of the Manzanares.  Years ago this part of town wasn't on my radar screen.  Now it's only because the mother brings the boys to skateboard here that I have learnt that there is some local appreciation for the revamped community outdoor space.

I see the Vicente Calderón stadium in the distance nestled in right up against the edge of the river.

So that is where Atletico Madrid play.

I comment on Real Madrid's local rival.  The boys inform me that the team is moving.  They'll be playing somewhere in the north of the city.  The stadium is going to be converted to something.

Or demolished and the space used for something already defined?

We make our way to a landmark - it might be a tree or a big stone or one of the various play areas - at which point the mother and the boys have agreed that we will turn around to make our way to find food.

We make our way to an institution:  Casa Mingo.  It doesn't look the way I thought it would.  The name conjures up images of cartoon character chickens and 1950s fast food joints, but in reality Casa Mingo is far more serious than it's silly name.  It occupies a wide open space - seemingly an old warehouse - and is paneled with dark wood.  Simple wood tables - matching the paneling - fill the dining hall.  There is the general din of clattering plates and Sunday conversation.

We eat chorizo, pit-roasted chicken, and Spanish tortilla.  I have a cider.  The mother tries to pour it for me the way a real Austurian would, but my friend is a Madrileña not an Austuriana.  We laugh at her attempts to pour authentically.  I drink my cider.  The boys drink coke.  They can't get enough of the stuff.

A slow and simple (cold) Sunday.

Thanks to the friends who, even if they don't know what you need, manage to give it to you.