The Travel Critic

Madrid is a marvel. A proper capital city with all the grandeur and energy, but without the relentless tackiness that afflicts so many of its European counterparts. Sure, there are tourist traps, but even they seem to have retained some dignity, a bit of authenticity. And nowhere captures the soul of the city better than its tapas culture—no nonsense, no ceremony, just great food, cold drinks, and a bar to lean on.

Which brings us to La Casa Del Abuelo, a place so perfectly, unashamedly old-school that you half expect Hemingway to be lurking in the corner, chain-smoking and brooding. The walls are worn, the air thick with the scent of sizzling garlic prawns, and the beer ice-cold—the way it should be. You walk in, squeeze into a space at the bar, order without thinking, and within moments, you’re handed a plate of gambas al ajillo, still spitting and hissing in their little dish of olive oil and garlic. You stab at one with a toothpick, burn your fingers, wash it down with a gulp of something refreshing, and suddenly, life makes sense.

This isn’t a place for leisurely, drawn-out meals. You stop in, knock back a drink or two, demolish some prawns, nod your appreciation, and move on. It’s perfect. No unnecessary theatrics, no modern reinvention—just a slice of Madrid, unchanged for a century, and hopefully, for a century more.