Nowadays, the plaza's main function is to act as a trap for unwitting tourists. Restaurants compete to outdo one another in the egregiousness of their prices, the generic lousiness of their food, and - most importantly - the surliness of their waiters. They get away with this because - you've guessed it - location, location, location!
For reasons too complicated to go into here, I could be found yesterday, at around 3:30, eating "lunch" at one of these vile eateries. It certainly fulfilled the three main requirements - shamelessly jacked-up prices, a virtually inedible calamari sandwich, and a waiter who was clearly in training for the regional surliness semi-finals. By far the best part of the meal was my café solo at the end. Hard to mess up an espresso, and the hostility of the waiter (why - because the two occupied tables were stretching him to his limit?) was almost compensated for by these characters,
who declared themselves to be "really grateful for my visit". A sentiment clearly not shared by the waiter.
Still, as I pondered my poor treatment at the hands of this surly yokel, I thought it important to maintain a sense of perspective, given my location. Others had surely endured greater indignities, right on the very spot where I was now sitting:
The music accompanying the auto-da-fé that closes Act II of Don Carlos started to run through my head. Just about then, the smell of something burning in the kitchen of the restaurant reached my table.
I paid my check, counted my blessings, and got the hell out of there.
The plain people of Ireland: You know what they say, don't you?
The management: No, but I'm fairly sure you are going to tell me.
The plain people of Ireland: Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition!
Fadeout to the sound of paroxysms of rustic laughter.
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