Barcelona, Spain – A perpetual motion machine twists behind the thin, marble bar at La Plata.
Something's fishy.
He smiles, spinning the spigot of a barrel set atop the fridge.
Without so much as a splash, house-made red wine falls in a graceful arc into thimble-sized glasses. It's a perfect dive.
As he has for 50 years, Pepe Gómez moves effortlessly, serving small plates of fried anchovies. Washing glasses. More anchovies. Wiping down the counter. A plate of sausage. Tossing out smiles and jokes with regulars.
And mentally tabulating bills of the growing crowd, which spills out onto the darkened street.
Based on faded photos on the wall, it seems little has changed since the small, corner establishment opened in 1945. It feels like you could be stepping into any one of them.
Still six tables. Still four tapas on the menu. And still a crowd celebrating the end of the day.
Set amidst the wallpaper of tourist shops hawking cheap trinkets in the Gothic Quarter, a moment of authenticity.
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