Miss Adventures in the Garden of Tango

After an eternity of spending every night out in hats and scarves stuck broiling under the heaters outside Picasso bar like a sardine sizzling on an espeto, yesterday gave us the first warm, balmy evening in forever. It was a night that promised music! Romance! The soft breeze encircled my shoulders, brushed my ears and whispered adventure! In any case, I was free and alone, I didn’t have to get up for work in the morning, I didn’t just want to go home, so I just wandered around the city wherever my feet took me.

After tapas and red wine at BodequitaEl Gallo on Calle San Agustin (meatballs in a peppery almond sauce, little sausages steeped in white wine and garlic, cobbled stones and a view of the cathedral on the prettiest little street in Malaga); after drinking a bowl of red wine for a mere 1.30E while listening to a hipster guy with a beard playing beautiful classical Spanish guitar at Casa Diego on Calle Santa Maria  – I found myself drifting past the cathedral along Calle Cister, past the saxophonist and his long lonely notes of ‘La Vie en Rose’ alternating with ‘Strangers in the Night’ for all eternity, past the gardens of orange trees and statues until I arrived at El Jardin, where I opened one white wooden door, slipped inside and was magically transported to the 1930s.

Inside was an elegant hall with long rose-pink walls, French windows, dark wooden fans and a long trail of leaves dripping from the ceiling. In the midst of this were at least fifteen couples moving across the floor to heartbreaking old tunes in a dream of tango. I perched myself on a stool at the end of the bar with a glass of red, studiously avoided making eye contact with the guy with the giant afro opposite and fell into a sentimental reverie with a huge glazed smile on my face.

Who could I share this place with, who? It occurred to me that I didn’t know a single person who would appreciate the place as much as I did. I wished I could whizz back in time and find my 21 year old self, chain-smoking on a park bench in East Finchley in a see-through petticoat worn as outerwear and a brown fake fur coat, and whisk her here to share a drink with me. She would love it! Then I looked at all the men and women rotating slowly across the floor. Where did the women find these marvellous men, these men who despite being bald and pretty ordinary-looking, knew how to hold a woman in their arms and lead her across a dancefloor? Why hadn’t I ever found a man like that? Why was my life so devoid of romance and mystery and sexy Argentinian dances? My sentimentality was wobbling towards maudlinness. Then two English girls came in with a Spanish guy and their attention was caught by something above my head.

‘Mira! Esta Grant y Phil Mitchell!’

‘Ahh! Estan muy famosos en Inglaterra!’

I turned around to discover that I had been having some kind of sentimental meltdown (a sentimeltdown!) under a framed photo of the Mitchell brothers. This brought me down to earth a bit. 

But, Eastenders icons notwithstanding, the evening still had the feeling of being enveloped in a lovely dream. If you ever want to dance the tango, time travel to the 1930s, or to check out a fetching portrait of Walford’s favourite twins, then visit El Jardin from 21.30 todos los jueves, ladies and gentlemen.