By: Becky Blake
When: Thursday night, 9:00 PM
Where: El Xampanyet in El Born
Who: 3 French-Canadian visitors and me
What: Tapas and a surprise evening of opera
How it Happened: I’d been wanting to go to El Xampanyet for a while, but it never seemed like the right time to dive into such a crowded, chaotic space. That particular night however, I had three friends visiting from Montreal and they were itching for a traditional tapas experience. We stood outside the bar for a minute contemplating the dense wall of people at the door, then decided to take the plunge, wiggling our way in through the crowd and up to the bar.
An elderly bartender raised his gigantic eyebrows at us. I didn’t know where to begin. “Um, como funciona?” I asked a little sheepishly. How does this work? “Funciona muy bien,” he answered with a broad smile. “Basically, I bring you food until you tell me to stop. Does that sound okay?” It certainly did.
A minute later we each had a glass of house cava in hand, and, as usual, the bubbles made everything better. He then brought us pan e tomate, some salty fish, cheese, olives, sweet stuffed peppers and of course, the ubiquitous Spanish ham. Pop! Another bottle of cava and we soon found ourselves sharing tapas with our neighbours, two well-dressed Catalan men, their god-sons, and a visiting couple from Italy.
One of the Catalan men was an elegant white-haired gentleman who was fluent in French and was soon laughing at my friends’ Quebecois accents. Over dessert tapas (a thin almond biscotti), the men told us they were on their way to an evening of opera in a medieval castle.
“You must join us,” said the second man who was wearing a colourful tie with musical notes running up and down its length. “It’s very special.”
Opera wasn’t exactly what we’d had in mind for the rest of our evening, so we all tried in various languages to graciously decline. The white haired gentleman insisted that we would change our mind if we could just see the venue, which was right next door. One by one, he took each of us out into the street and through a wooden door that led to a courtyard and then into a beautiful medieval dining room where tables of well-dressed patrons were waiting for the show to begin.
While each of us was impressed by the surroundings, we were still divided about whether or not to splurge on this unknown experience.
“If it’s a question of money,” said the man with the tie who had by this time identified himself as a lawyer, “we are inviting you.”
With all financial implications banished, we agreed to join our six new friends, increasing their group to ten. The wooden door was just about to close when we squeezed through and hurried inside to find some seats. The lights dimmed and four opera singers began to circulate slowly through the room, taking turns singing famous arias and duets from different operas. The proximity of the singers, combined with the high-ceiling acoustics and another glass of champagne left me feeling completely content and smiling stupidly.
At intermission, the white-haired gentleman leaned towards me and said, “Promise me that you’ll come to my office after the show.” Ah ha. I felt my face harden into my more normal experienced-woman-in-the-city mask, and was about to make up an excuse when he added quickly, “I just want you to hear something – that’s all. I promise.”
I still wasn’t sure of his intentions, but after the show, as I was trying to discreetly confer with my amigas, the lawyer explained that the white-haired gentleman wanted to take all of us to his office because it was filled with some kind of super-duper sound equipment.
“He just wants to play you some more opera,” he said. “We’re all going.” He swung his finger around to include the innocent-looking teenage godsons, and the visiting couple from Italy. We decided we couldn’t get in to too much trouble with this particular group so we agreed to tag along.
The office was a loft-like space on the upper floor of an old building in the Gothic quarter, and included a comfortable sectional couch that was surrounded by futuristic-looking speakers. There was a screen at one end of the room. After opening another bottle of champagne and setting a box of expensive chocolates on the table, the white-haired gentleman dimmed the lights.
“This,” he said. “Is the world’s best soprano and tenor singing my favourite duet on the world’s most expensive speakers. Enjoy.”
And we did. As the music filled the room and spilled out into the night, I found myself, once again, unable to stop smiling. Outside the window, the jagged fingers of the Barcelona skyline were beckoning me like old men with secrets. I silently promised I would lean in and listen, just as soon as the song was finished.
An elderly bartender raised his gigantic eyebrows at us. I didn’t know where to begin. “Um, como funciona?” I asked a little sheepishly. How does this work? “Funciona muy bien,” he answered with a broad smile. “Basically, I bring you food until you tell me to stop. Does that sound okay?” It certainly did.
A minute later we each had a glass of house cava in hand, and, as usual, the bubbles made everything better. He then brought us pan e tomate, some salty fish, cheese, olives, sweet stuffed peppers and of course, the ubiquitous Spanish ham. Pop! Another bottle of cava and we soon found ourselves sharing tapas with our neighbours, two well-dressed Catalan men, their god-sons, and a visiting couple from Italy.
One of the Catalan men was an elegant white-haired gentleman who was fluent in French and was soon laughing at my friends’ Quebecois accents. Over dessert tapas (a thin almond biscotti), the men told us they were on their way to an evening of opera in a medieval castle.
“You must join us,” said the second man who was wearing a colourful tie with musical notes running up and down its length. “It’s very special.”
Opera wasn’t exactly what we’d had in mind for the rest of our evening, so we all tried in various languages to graciously decline. The white haired gentleman insisted that we would change our mind if we could just see the venue, which was right next door. One by one, he took each of us out into the street and through a wooden door that led to a courtyard and then into a beautiful medieval dining room where tables of well-dressed patrons were waiting for the show to begin.
While each of us was impressed by the surroundings, we were still divided about whether or not to splurge on this unknown experience.
“If it’s a question of money,” said the man with the tie who had by this time identified himself as a lawyer, “we are inviting you.”
With all financial implications banished, we agreed to join our six new friends, increasing their group to ten. The wooden door was just about to close when we squeezed through and hurried inside to find some seats. The lights dimmed and four opera singers began to circulate slowly through the room, taking turns singing famous arias and duets from different operas. The proximity of the singers, combined with the high-ceiling acoustics and another glass of champagne left me feeling completely content and smiling stupidly.
At intermission, the white-haired gentleman leaned towards me and said, “Promise me that you’ll come to my office after the show.” Ah ha. I felt my face harden into my more normal experienced-woman-in-the-city mask, and was about to make up an excuse when he added quickly, “I just want you to hear something – that’s all. I promise.”
I still wasn’t sure of his intentions, but after the show, as I was trying to discreetly confer with my amigas, the lawyer explained that the white-haired gentleman wanted to take all of us to his office because it was filled with some kind of super-duper sound equipment.
“He just wants to play you some more opera,” he said. “We’re all going.” He swung his finger around to include the innocent-looking teenage godsons, and the visiting couple from Italy. We decided we couldn’t get in to too much trouble with this particular group so we agreed to tag along.
The office was a loft-like space on the upper floor of an old building in the Gothic quarter, and included a comfortable sectional couch that was surrounded by futuristic-looking speakers. There was a screen at one end of the room. After opening another bottle of champagne and setting a box of expensive chocolates on the table, the white-haired gentleman dimmed the lights.
“This,” he said. “Is the world’s best soprano and tenor singing my favourite duet on the world’s most expensive speakers. Enjoy.”
And we did. As the music filled the room and spilled out into the night, I found myself, once again, unable to stop smiling. Outside the window, the jagged fingers of the Barcelona skyline were beckoning me like old men with secrets. I silently promised I would lean in and listen, just as soon as the song was finished.
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