Madrid: Wheelchairs, Martinis and the Great Five-Euro Crisis

Best Cheese Cake Ever

Birthday Girl

A decent Martini

2 Slices of perfect Tomato

Confit of Artichoke

Mushrooms if you know to ask for them

Piquillo Peppers

This has been quite a day.

After checking out of the hotel, we headed to the airport. Ours was an inter-EU flight, and the terminal was bare bones. No club room. No anything.

Cathy had requested wheelchair assistance, and it was different from anything we had previously experienced. They wheeled her, with me tagging along, to a very unusual-looking vehicle. It drove out to the plane and parked on the opposite side from the stairs. Then the entire cabin of the vehicle rose into the air until it was level with the service door of the plane. The door opened and we simply walked onto the plane. No stairs. No struggle. We thought it was quite ingenious.
When we landed in Madrid, things didn’t work quite as smoothly.

We assumed—incorrectly—that wheelchair pushers would be waiting when we exited the plane. Cathy would plop into a wheelchair and off we would go to collect our luggage.

Wrong.

We walked down a very long ramp looking for wheelchair pushers. None. We kept walking. Still none. By now this was becoming quite a hike.

I happened to look back through the windows and saw one of those strange vehicles approaching our plane. It suddenly dawned on me: we never should have gotten off the plane. Of course, nobody had bothered to tell us that.
So we walked all the way back and boarded the plane again, just so we could get off the plane again—this time through the service door.

The vehicle lowered us to ground level, where we were transferred to yet another vehicle. This one seemed to drive endlessly through tunnels underneath the Madrid airport. I began to wonder if we were actually being driven to downtown Madrid. Eventually we emerged somewhere near baggage claim.

I’m skipping parts. Trust me, you’re welcome.

By the time we finally collected our luggage, escaped the airport and found our driver, we were exhausted.
We arrived at The Principal Hotel, where we have stayed many times. At reception they asked for all our details. I explained that they should already have them.
“They changed computer systems and lost all their customer history.”

Wonderful, we were chopped liver.

This was beginning to be not quite the Madrid arrival I had envisioned.

They showed us to our suite. Unfortunately, it had two single beds. It was Cathy’s birthday, and I was not going to let her sleep alone on her birthday.
I called downstairs. “You need to move us. We want one large bed.”

They called back and explained there were no other suites available. But not to worry. Go out to dinner, they said, and while you are gone we will replace the two beds with one king-size bed.

Really?

When we returned, there it was: one large bed. How in the hell they did that I have no idea, but as far as I was concerned the hotel had redeemed itself. And just to make sure we forgave them, they had also left a bottle of Champagne and a birthday cake for Cathy.

All was forgiven.

There was still the Martini test. I have been through Martini hell in Spain trying to get someone to make me a dry gin Martini. Nevertheless, I decided to risk it. I am happy to report they produced a perfectly decent Martini.

Then came the Great Five-Euro Crisis. I only had €10, €20, €50 and €100 notes, but I wanted some €5 notes for tips. I asked the front desk for change. They didn’t have any.
So I devised what I thought was a brilliant plan. Rather than charge my Martini and Cathy’s wine to the room, I would pay the waiter with a €50 note. Voilà! Smaller bills as change. The waiter took my €50 and disappeared.

And stayed disappeared.

We had dinner reservations. Cathy was hungry. Other people at the bar were looking around wondering where the waiter had gone because they wanted another drink. Apparently my attempt to manufacture €5 notes had brought the entire bar operation to a halt. My clever plan was not playing particularly well with Cathy. Finally, I gave up. I told the receptionist we had dinner reservations and had to leave. She explained that the waiter was still trying to find change and promised they would leave it in our room. When we returned from dinner, there was my change, waiting for me on our dresser.

More kudos to the hotel. But I still don’t understand why it is so damn difficult to get a €5 note.

Dinner was at Roostiq. If Roostiq were in Los Angeles, we would be regulars. They have their own farm and raise their own pigs and vegetables. They bake their own bread, which has one of the greatest crusts ever created. We have eaten there several times before, and this visit was every bit as good. God, I wish they were in LA.

I won’t list everything we ate because it was a lot, but there were incredible artichokes—and who would have thought we would get excited about artichokes, although we had eaten them here before—tomatoes from their farm, chicken, Iberian pork, mushrooms that weren’t even on the menu but that I asked them to prepare anyway, and what I consider the best cheesecake ever. I hope you get the idea Roostiq is a must if you are ever in Madrid.

And one final observation: the entire bill, including a bottle of one of our favorite wines, was about half of what we had been paying for dinner in Paris.

We love Paris, but Madrid is making a very strong case for itself as a dining destination.