There are about 14,000 restaurants in Madrid, and while you can find any kind of ethnic eatery, from sushi bar to a biergarten, the vast majority are Spanish and very traditional. As I’ve written in other articles, the city also has a cutting edge fine dining segment in restaurants––many with odd names,  like DiverXo,  DStage and Smoked Room––but I find it hard not indulge my appetite for the true classics Madrid offers in profusion, from Iberian hams and roast baby lamb to paella and suckling pig.

    And despite being landlocked in the middle of Spain, there are many good seafood places that draw from the huge Mercamadrid market—second only to Tokyo’s in size.

    There is another market, Mercado de San Miguel (among others) that is an exhaustive education in small plates of food, including myriad tapas, with eighteen different sections and counters spotlighting charcuterie, baked goods, chicken, seafood and paella. It would take a week or more to eat your way through everything, which is always thronged, now with more tourists than ever.

         A new discovery for me (though it’s no news to the city’s gourmands) out in the Retiro neighborhood is LA CATAPA (Calle de Menorca 14),  on one side a very popular bodega tapas bar and to the left a small, eight-table restaurant with tile floors, burgundy banquettes and white stucco walls (right) Chef-owner Miguel Angel Jimenez is well worth consulting for the night’s specials and a wine from the impressively deep  good list.

Begin perhaps with the cured tuna belly and don’t miss the “famosa” egg tortilla with potatoes. There’s oxtail with its marrow,  and a plate of rice and mushrooms.   At least eight seafood dishes are on the menu, including mussels in a red curry broth, and navajas (razor clams) grilled a la plancha. The beef is very good here, available as  steak tartare “La Catapa.” 

 

 

MARISQUERIA RAFA (Calle de Narváez 68) was opened in 1958 by brothers Rafael and Rodrigo Andrés, first as a small bar, and today, it is a large establishment managed by their sons Rafael and Miguel. You should begin with some white anchovies in olive oil or fried crunchy Andalusian calamari with tomato. Then have the wild rodaballo (turbot) seared on the plancha grill or the bogavante lobster. Finish with bizcocho borracho, a dessert of “drunken biscuit,” soaked in rum. 

 

Tapas bars are rife throughout Madrid and to choose one over the other merely means you are walking through one neighborhood or another. CERVECERIA SANTA ANA, set on the Plaza de Santa Ana, was once a convent to Carmelite nuns, and has been a cerverceria since 1985. Its tapas selection is broad and varies, but I also like that there is a good menu of heartier plates of food, like the tripe stew. For more squeamish tastes there’s a platter of sweet green peppers cooked in olive oil  and baked ham cut thick and covered with boiled potatoes. For dessert the

pastelito of torrone meringue and hazelnuts is light a delicious. The place stays open till 1:30 AM. (By the way, Santa Ana is two doors down from the tourist-flocked Cerveceria Alemana made famous by Ernest Hemingway and his matador friends.)

 

One of the great pleasures of outdoor dining in Madrid––provided it’s under an umbrella in the scorching summer heat––is to sit at one of the restaurants than ring the gorgeous Plaza Major. They are all large, have much the same menu and I wouldn’t be surprised if the same owner ran several of them. You do have to ignore the hawkers outside, nut once you sit down, whether it’s for a glass of sangria or a full meal, you’ll be satisfied throughout the afternoon or evening––especially if there’s a moon rising. I went alone and enjoyed watching the throngs in the Plaza from CERVECERIA TINEO, beginning with a cold beer and a plate of grilled langoustines and following with a paella a la Valenciana (left)   The bill came to 45 euros.

        I mentioned that you can get any kind of food in Madrid, and, having gone six days without any pasta, found a delightful Italian place named LA TOSCANA, just off the Gran Via (No. 59)in the theater district. It was a handsome, two-level spot with very friendly staff where my friend and I enjoyed cannelloni with two sauces and a very welcome, multi-layered lasagna.
  They also offer more than two dozen pizzas and a good Italian wine. 

         The arrest of the alleged culprits who attacked the Hôtel de la Reine and the Prince de Carignan meant that the police could now focus on the Hôtel Anastasia, which was the smallest of the three, with only 110 rooms. The police had already gone through the registry records through a process of elimination, and thus far there was no one like the Syrian or Marciano who seemed suspicious in any way. The Anastasia had a very regular clientele that included wealthy Europeans, Americans and people from the various embassies who came to Paris for meetings. It was a very quiet, very discreet place to stay.
         Katie and David made depositions with the Marseille police and promised to return for any trial that would be scheduled when jurisdiction was established. They then flew back to Paris and re-booked rooms at the Hôtel Julian, and, with Adrenalin drained from their bodies, turned in as soon as they arrived. Katie had already called Alan about the developments, asking if he wanted her to stay on the story for a while.
         As ever, Alan was delighted that she and David had been involved in a death-defying event that would make the story come alive, more personalized, as had been the case with other stories Katie had written.
         “I’m glad you two are okay,” he said. “and I hope you wrote down everything that happened.”
         “Well, the story is obviously not finished, Alan,” said Katie. “There’s one hotel perpetrator to go, the rest of the story is really what will matter. Who’s behind these three separate instances? Why put the hotels out of business?”
         “I thought you said the best prospect was Russian.”
         “That’s pure speculation at this point. I mean, the virus did come from Russia, but some other national might have bought it.”
         Alan though for a moment then said, “Okay, I’m putting your leash back on for a few more days. If they find the third perpetrator, great. Then we’ll see where, or if, we go from there, fair enough?”
         “Do I have a choice?”
         “No, just a few more days in Paris on McClure’s money. Drink the house wines.”

         The next morning Katie and David were in good spirits after helping to nab Marciano and his henchman and just plain happy to be alive after all that happened.
         “I hope if we find the third bad guy that he has bit more couth than the last one,” said Katie.
         “He was pretty much just a thug. I also wonder if he was working for the Marseille mob under orders or from someone on the outside who contacted him with the hotel job.”
         “Do you think Iacovino will get that out of him?”
         “I dunno how the police work down there. Like Iacovino said, Marciano would be handed over to other people within the Sûreté and, because it’s got an international aspect, to the French Interpol people. It’s pretty clear that whoever set the whole thing in motion didn’t want the three perpetrators to know of each other. Which points to the instigator to be one person or one entity.”
         “You mean that a group like the Marseilles mob wouldn’t have hired the other two guys.”
         “Or not even Marciano. I think this was set up from outside. I can’t imagine there would be a whole lot of money in it for the mob, but you could hire an individual like Marciano or the Syrian guy for, I don’t know, 50,000 euros maybe. I’ll call Borel and see if there’s anything new.”
         “And I’ll check in with Catherine,” said Katie, who felt she and David had very little to go on in order to continue their investigation. Y’know, it’s funny, or maybe ironic: The Syrian guy raised suspicion because of a slip of the tongue, and Marciano did too. Maybe the third one will make a mistake, talk to the wrong person, say something incriminating.”                     “Hard to believe that coincidence would occur again,” said David. “I just wish the hell we could get into the Anastasia and look around. But that’s not going to happen soon.”
         Catherine was still covering the fashion shows, which each day was more devoted to the big designers like YSL, Sonia Rykiel and Karl Lagerfeld, so she had no time to dig into the hotel crimes.
         “I know we can’t get into the Anastasia,” Katie told her, “but can we get info from the register like we did with Marciano?”
         “I can ask. I do know a guy who stays there whenever he’s in Paris.  He’s Czech, and maybe he’ll know some of the other regulars who stay there. I don’t know if he’s still in town or maybe in the hospital, but I’ll find out today and maybe we can meet.”
         That was something, thought Katie. From what Catherine had said, the Anastasia had a small, very regular clientele, so that the number of new clients who had checked in that night would be small. Catherine had already said that her concierge friend Yves at the Anastasia had not mentioned anyone suspicious.
         Later that day Catherine said that the Czech ambassador, whose name was Kōvar, had indeed been in the hospital but was due to be released the following day and had been advised to stay in Paris a few more days to be monitored. He had, apparently, been among the most helpful of the stricken guests, recalling every detail, when the virus hit, how it felt, how well or badly organized the exit was and other details many others had been too panicked to talk about. Since he could not go back to the Anastasia, he would be staying at the Czech Embassy (right). Since he himself was a junior ambassador from the Czech Republic he was based in Prague and stayed at hotels abroad.
         Catherine told Kōvar she would like to interview him at his convenience and would like to bring Katie and David along. After asking several questions about the two Americans, Kōvar said he’d be delighted to see them the following morning at the embassy, noting that he had little else to do during his recuperation. He and Catherine worked it out so that she could cover the fashion shows of the day, none occurring before eleven o'clock, so they agreed to meet at nine the next morning. Katie was sure to let Alan know.

         That afternoon, with little that could be accomplished, Katie suggested that David might want to look for a new jacket. In the fight in the garage, he’d torn his old blue blazer.
         “I could put patches on the elbows and cover the hole,” he said. “The jacket’s only a few years old.”
         “And it gave you away as the worst-dressed man in Marseilles. Now you’re in Paris, David. You’ve got to look. . . debonair.”
         “I’m not sure a new jacket will make that happen,” he said, glancing at himself in the reflection from a shop window. “Can’t I just look . . . presentable?”
         But David let Katie talk him into it, and, armed with a couple of names of men’s stores off the tourist route of the Avenue Saint Honoré, they found a handsome store in a charming interior courtyard near the Madeleine Church where the jackets were conservatively style and not too expensive.
         David hated buying clothes—his wife had never accompanied him shopping—but he didn’t mind Katie interpreting for him and advising him on how to look more. . . debonair. Instead of just replacing his old blue blazer with a new one, he bought a cashmere-and-wool black jacket that really sat well on his shoulders and only needed the sleeves to be hemmed, which the store manager said could be done by the next day.
         David was relieved and actually delighted when it was all over, thinking that in some small way he might actually look presentable next to Katie. In Marseilles he didn’t really feel out of place—even if his clothes made Marciano suspicious—but now back in Paris he suddenly felt downright shabby and was glad Katie didn’t bring him to any high-class restaurants. In fact, he felt so good about his purchase that upon arriving back at the hotel, he tossed his old jacket on the bed and said goodbye to it. He put on a sweater that would do till he got his new jacket the next day. He even thought of not shaving, but the next morning he looked in the mirror and thought he looked like the kind of guy who would poison a hotel.
         That morning the two of them met Catherine outside the Czech Embassy—the Ambassade de la République technique—which was on the Left Bank near the Eiffel Tower on Avenue Charles Floquet. It had once been a fine mansion, with balcony windows, and now flew the red, white and blue Czech flag. The three of them were cordially greeted and brought to a large side room where Anton Kōvar was sitting in what looked like a very comfortable chair behind a desk.
         “You must please excuse me for not getting up,” he said, “I’m still a little shaky from the virus, but I am no longer infectious, so please, sit.”
         Kōvar was in his forties, slender and impeccably dressed in the ambassadorial style of blue suit, white shirt and necktie with a small print. His cheekbones were high, his nose slightly aquiline and his dark eyebrows full, set above pleasant gray eyes. His demeanor was a mix of Eastern European formalism and international manners.
         After a few moments of introduction and talk of the care at the hospital, Catherine told him they wished to know of anyone in the hotel that he either knew or saw as a stranger.
         “Well,” he began, “I do not know all the Anastasia’s clientele, but there are a large number of regular faces I recognize, and many, many Americans. I find the Americans on the whole to be quite delightful company, except for the ones who pretend to act so European and inevitably make numerous faux-pas.”
         “Can you tell us about what occurred the night of the attack?” asked Katie, turning on her pocket recorder.