Moorish Andalucia

I’d come to Granada for one reason: To eat. Paper-thin slivers of salty, cured ham; steaming stews of pork and beans; the spicy kick of patatas bravas; sherry-soaked clams and fried salt cod. I’d been chewing them around in my mind in the years since I last visited as a wide-eyed student. I was underfunded for most of my travels, yet in Granada, I was a king. I ordered a beer (there’s always enough money for a beer) and a plate of olives would appear — on the house. Order another, and a ham and cheese sandwich is unceremoniously plonked down. By the third beer, the grumpy dickie-bowed waiter with a tomato sauce stain down his whites would be offering a charcuterie platter. It was, again, free. A succession of ever more interesting dishes arrived with each drinks order. All for free. It’s one of the only places in Spain tapas is still given gratis. I loved Granada.

It’s the food I remember from Granada. I’d rave about it at every opportunity, boring dinner guests with lists of free food: “Oh! those aubergines drizzled in honey”; “The picante chorizo kebabs — I asked them for the recipe”; “That pork loin — the best I ever ate.” In short, I’d become a Granada bore. (I’m convinced I have a disproportionate number of friends who have now been to Granada — each also becoming a Granada bore.) Somewhere in the list between cheesy croquetas and hummus I’d mention the Alhambra, an 800-year-old Moorish palace and one of the most celebrated pieces of architecture in the world. On this trip I would make the effort to see the Alhambra — paying €13 was no longer offset against the price of a beer.

Inside the red fortress
After a stopover in nearby Malaga (the nearest airport), my wife (who had been unfortunate to hear me raving endlessly about the city over a bone-dry Manzanilla sherry I insisted on drinking when I was longing for Granada) and I catch a bus to Granada — over the arid foothills of the Alpujarras mountain range, past fields of olive trees lined like marching soldiers, across bridges spanning deep valleys.

After a couple of hours, Granada appears out of the desert. And its setting is as majestic now as it would have appeared to the sultans from North Africa who decided to build a fortress here as they conquered the Iberian Peninsula. They named the region Al-Andalus — Andalucia.

Geography, as always, played its part in positioning the Alhambra. The fortress is built on a hilltop with vertiginous falling along three sides — perfect for fending off marauding Christians. However, I prefer to paint the Moors as a romantic bunch: They built the Alhambra here because it’s one of the finest settings of any place on the globe. It was Sultan al-Ahmar, founder of the Nasrid dynasty — the last Muslim dynasty in Spain — who resurrected the fortress in 1238, building his court and residence here. Even victorious warlords like a room with a view.

The Alhambra has been a work in progress for most of its life. It’s been a fortress and a palace, a government seat and a citadel. And it’s the latter that can be most clearly seen. Despite its relatively small size, increasingly fortified gates lead to the inner sanctum reserved only for those with the highest prestige.

When al-Ahmar first decided to resurrect the ruins on the hill in 1238, he began a building program that continued, at the behest of many rulers, until the 1800s, adding offices, armouries, guard houses and homes. It's a palimpsest: Among the hotchpotch of building styles, there are ghosts of lost buildings. 
 

The scars of a turbulent history remain; the shadows of rulers lay long across the Alhambra.

The palaces, designed by Muslim Moors, reflect the great cities to the east — notably Istanbul and its Byzantine influences. The intricate patterns, domed arches, mirror- still pools and lively fountains are almost shocking in their detail.

When the Christians regained control in 1492, many of the characteristics were painted or defaced. Charles V (1516-56) continued its development, with a fashionable Renaissance style. By the 1700s Philip V was adding Italianate touches. A century later, the court realized its mistake and started a restoration process that continues to this day.

Far from being staid palaces, the Alhambra is like a Spanish onion. Whereas the inner layers of the palaces are eye-wateringly beautiful, the outer layers have their distinct flavour. Outside the palaces is the Alcazaba, the military zone — this was the last line of defence for the kings, generals and emirs. Beyond those walls, for the hoi polloi, was the medina — the labyrinthine quarter recognized from across North Africa. Beyond that, the stunning gardens of the Generalife, the recreational gardens, woods and parks. Walking its walls is a beguiling experience. Its views over Granada are exquisite, especially at sunset when the outline of the Alpujarras darkens. If it sounds beautiful, it is. But to see the sun setting over the Alhambra is even more spectacular.

The next evening we climb to the El Mirador, a viewpoint on an adjacent hill. I'd speculate the weaving paths of Granada are based on donkey footsteps. A wobbly donkey. To reach the El Mirador, we thread our way through the neighbourhood of Albayzín. It's the site of the ancient city of Elvira. Today, the houses are whitewashed and clean, but the streets are cobbled. Climbing higher, we reach the Plaza de San Nicolás. El Mirador is no secret. The plaza is filled with dreadlocked wanderers playing Manu Chao songs, lovers canoodling against the reddening sky, children more interested in a half-deflated football, tourists with digital cameras and a handful of nuns contemplating this spiritual city. For the first time we can see the profile of the Alhambra. Alhambra is literally translated “Red Fortress.” Although it seems likely this related to the red clay cliff that supports it, as the sun lowers, its towers and crenellated walls turns the red of a Chesterfield sofa. The hubbub of the amassed guests pilfers out as the crimson sun gives us a last wink.

Toasts and tapas
Granada, like most Spanish cities, is just waking up as the sun sets. At El Mirador, the guitars and drums begin again as more litre-bottles of Cruzcampo and Alhambra beers open. Beyond Albayzín, further into the mountains, is the neighbourhood of Sacromonte. This is known as the gitano (gypsy) area. In the 19th century, the gitanos reportedly lived in caves carved out of the cliffs. A cursory wander offers a couple of bars, unlit paths and no hint of the flamenco we were told could be heard (way too early). Instead we walk back into the centre of Granada to the tapas bars.

The origins of tapas are wrapped in lore. Literally tapar means “to cover.” One theory is that pieces of bread were supplied to cover the beer to fend flies off the sherry. Another I prefer to believe is that an ill 13th-century king was fed small bits of food. He liked it so much, he passed it into law that everyone should eat snacks with wine. Or perhaps wily tavern owners recognized that salty foods make you drink more. Either way, tapas are Bacchus’s gift to thirsty patrons.

We start our tapas crawl in Bodegas Espadafor, a quintessential bar. The interior, clad in Andalus tiles, is filled with the kind of ephemera you’d expect: Bullfighting and flamenco posters feature heavily. Hams hang from the ceiling, little plastic cups catching the slight drips of fat. This bar is well-known for its sherry — after beer, the main drink in Granada. I opt for a tongue- shrinkingly dry fino. Served fairly cold and in a large wine glass, it’s clean and elegant. With it comes several slices of ham — juicy and thick, cut directly from the bone. (Each bar usually has a different primero, or first plate.) We chat with the smartly dressed barman until the place becomes busy, very busy. A struggle to get to the bar to order another, so someone else shouts out our request. It appears with a plate of patasa lo pobre, fried potatoes with onions and peppers and a quail’s egg on top. Somehow we sort the bill out — again by passing money through several friendly customers — and break out into the street for air.

We wander through the lively streets, the sky now dark. Families and groups of youngsters walk arm-in-arm and chat animatedly. We barely notice we are walking under the grand buttresses of the Cathedral. From street level it loses its dominance of being the centre of the city, the view from the Alhambra alluded to. Across a wide boulevard filled with those standing statues, more guitars, hawkers selling neon lights and paper planes that return to their hands after a loop-the-loop.

The guests of Los Diamantes spilled out into the narrow cobbled streets hours ago, filling every porch, side alley and doorway. At first traversing the narrow bar, filled with drinkers — arms flailing assisting animated conversation — seems daunting. But here it is famous for its sherry-soaked clams and boquerones (crispy, deep-fried anchovies). I persist. After meeting several new friends I make it to the bar. There is no bullfighting poster, no Spainiana (to coin a phrase), just tiled walls, a till and bottles of alcohol. I order two sherries, and the clams arrive instantaneously, and I order a side of boquerones from the menu (perhaps man cannot live by tapas alone). Squeezing back out into the midnight air, we loiter on a doorstep and watch Granada at play. • 


Photo by Daniel Neilson