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La Peñita Gourmet was a small bar in the Calle Reale, a cuadra up from the Plaza Meyor. It was early evening and the bar was a little triste. Its owner was a portly señora of sixty or more, who had gained local fame as a breeder of champion goats with the souvenirs of her past triumphs, in the form of dusty trophies and yellowing photographs, decorating the bar.
A little lost in ordering something to eat, a Colombian wearing a grey straw Frank Sinatra style fedora came to his help. Once the menu was cleared they started talking together, it was a little complicated because neither was very practised in the language of the other. The Colombian introduced himself as Emilio. He was about fortyish; his face kind, exuding an air of patience, encouraging Barton whenever he fumbled his words. Emilio, an actor, ran the town’s cultural centre: teaching theatre and acting, organising cultural events and promoting traditional performing folklore.
After a couple of beers, a friend of Emilio’s appeared, an amiable flower-power hippy throwback, who introduced himself as Juliano, an Argentinian, who had settled, at least momentarily, in Barichara. Once Barton had finished his meal, Emilio invited him to join them to a poetry evening at El Pueblo, another of the town’s bars.
When they arrived a small crowd had already gathered in the smoke filled bar and Emilio made the introductions starting with Alfonso, an architect, then Muriel a French designer who had set up her atelier in the town, followed by many others whose names Barton lost in the happy clamour. It was late when Barton finally found his way back to La Candillaria, where his new friends wished him a noisy good night.
It had been a long time since he had enjoyed himself so much surrounded by people whose only goal was to enjoy their evening in pleasant company, exchanging stories with Emilio’s guest and vying to show him the region and its sights during his stay in Barichara.
Cornucopia Page 62