Albacete

05 May

Checking into the hotel in Granada a couple of days previously, the receptionist asked me where I was headed next. He hadn’t heard of Hornos but of Albacete, he asked rhetorically: “Why? Eez ugly”.

Well, it might be compared to Granada but next time, I’ll just answer: “N322” and leave it there. After Hornos, the route continues down the valley through Siles before exiting the snappily titled Calares del Mundo y de la Sima at Riopár. This is a continuation of tight and twisty roads but with enough visibility round the bends to be rewarding. But what follows is the N322 - without qualification - the best 50-mile stretch of high-speed motorcycling road I know. Completely deserted and with a confidence-inspiring tarmac surface, it’s an extended series of largely interlinked 100 Kmh plus curves. Only at Balazote does it end abruptly, with an arrow straight final 30 kilometres into Albacete.

Anybody keeping track of dates will have worked out that it’s Saturday 6th May, the coronation day of ‘Carlos III’ as the local media puts it. As a loyal subject, I set up camp in a roadside bar to watch the spectacle on iPlayer HD, courtesy of a bulletproof 5G network that seems to cover most of Spain. However, the battery of my phone and laptop cannot keep up with the demands of English tradition so I watch half of it inside the bar on Spanish television.

Regardless of language and with or without Huw Edwards’ hushed tones, none of it makes much sense to me. But as The Economist smirkingly points out, titles such as the Rouge Dragon, Croix and Portcullis Pursuivant; a Garter King of Arms; the Lords Spiritual and Temporal of the realm and His Most Godly Beatitude Theophilos III, Patriarch of Jerusalem and All Palestine really have no place in a modern democracy. The Spaniards in the bar are lapping it up though, although they seem more interested in their own King & Queen who have bagged an invitation and feature prominently, looking very regal and serene.

The Hotel Beatriz is slightly out of town and of the genre favoured by mid-market travelling salesmen: all gigantic marble lobby, power showers and air conditioning that doesn’t quite work. It’s a taxi ride into town which is a bit nicer than the Granada receptionist intimated: he’s clearly never been to Basildon. It has wide avenues with swards of green and trees up the centre with some dignified and imposing-looking buildings. It also has the single-Michelin starred ‘Ababol’ which is where I’m heading after searching for a bar on Calle de Tajares, suggested by the hotel receptionist.

‘Smash the Hops’ offers eight craft ales, all brewed in-house. A ‘Munich Red’ followed by the irresistible ‘All Hops, No Brain Greyhound’, a murky Double IPA work their magic on an empty stomach. But the minor altercation with the truck a couple of days ago still niggles… The £500 for two new mirrors and indicators was bad enough but the utter, blind stupidity on my part that caused it hurts more. Absolutely avoidable, 100% my fault and I was fortunate to escape unscathed.

I walk to Ababol and right on cue, a guy walking towards me is wearing a T-shirt emblazoned with the legend: ‘Make Your Own Luck’. As he passes, I turn and on the back it says ‘And Don’t Throw It Away’. That’s it: no more filtering through traffic for me. Every little incident and near-incident I’ve been involved or nearly-involved in has been as result of this practice so it stops now. End.

Ababol have two tasting menu’s: twelve courses or a short one that is a mere seven. As I get closer to the age when every meal is soup, my enthusiasm for gastronomic marathons is waning so I go for the second option. It’s perfect in terms of quantity and quality: ultra-light food with a focus on the freshest, teeniest vegetables imaginable. The staples of chorizo and Serrano ham make fleeting appearances but the principal dish is a local river fish. It’s expertly grilled to a light crust but the flesh left unctuous and bursting with flavour.

I break my newish, self-imposed rule of not having paired wines, explaining to the Sommelier that I’ve had too many I just don’t like. She tells me to say if her recommendations don’t do it for me and she will change them, no question, so I go for this option. Like the food, every wine is local and everyone is a winner so nothing goes back. The bill is €130 including a Manzilla to start with and a brandy to round things off. A lot of money but very fair for this quality.

So if quizzed by a Hotel Receptionist about my reasons for visiting Albacete again, I now have three: the N322, Smash and Ababol.

PS: When the Panigale went in for service in December, they noticed one of the lock stays had broken, presumably when I came off it in Almeria. A new lower-yoke and labour came to over £800 so the cost of this filtering stupidity ended up being nearly £1400. All to save a few seconds while risking death, disfigurement or disability. Nuts.