Postcard from Madrid – Lunch at the oldest restaurant in the world

Madrid is not a city that embraces its past. It is a well-known fact that builders destroy period features. The name of any Spanish monarch can be forgotten by tourists.

Madrid’s entire brand is living in the present. Come for the mornings spent in the gallery and the afternoons spent in the plaza. The evenings are spent in the stadiums, bars, and stadiums. The past centuries are too complicated: the history museum of the city ends abruptly in the year 1930, right before the civil conflict.

Which makes Botín incongruous. This restaurant is just a couple of steps away from Madrid Plaza Mayor and has been recognized by Guinness Book of Records for being the oldest restaurant in the world. It celebrates its 300th birthday this year. Its façade is dotted with enough Guinness certificates that you might mistake it for a peculiarly quaint Irish pub.

The website informed me that there would be a table available in three weeks. But I wondered whether the title of “world’s oldest restaurant” might be like the title of “world’s oldest person” — the harbinger of bad news. Can a restaurant survive with such a heavy tradition without becoming consumed by it.

Botín, the story goes, was set up as an inn in 1725 by the nephew of a French cook Jean Botín (its full name is Sobrino de Botín — Botín’s Nephew). Atocha was a monaster, not the world-beating train station it is today. At that time, Madrid had no sewage system or street lighting. The Prado Museum was never built and the boulevard on which it now stands, was a mere gully. On old maps, you can see Botín’s home, Calle de Cuchilleros (Cutlers’ Street), curving just as it does today: it’s too central to have been bulldozed.

Some restaurants fail due to wars or pandemics. Others go under because private equity is involved, the owner hasn’t stuck around, or their food doesn’t suit. If they can avoid these pitfalls and their leases are up, or they have bigger ambitions, they will move. But Botín has operated on the same site in Madrid even as Napoleon, Franco and Covid-19 came and went. Goya is said to have worked as a dish washer in 1765. This was thankfully before his dark days.

For Botín’s first century, Spanish law dictated inns could only cook food that visitors themselves brought. The stone oven — big enough to fit 14 suckling pigs — has supposedly never been extinguished. Every day, during the pandemic, the owner would have a cook place wood in the oven. They feared it would break if allowed to cool. 

The restaurant has four floors including a wine cellar dating back to 1590. My companion and I were seated on the first, alongside blue-and-white tiles, thin wooden beams — and a lot of tourists. Spanish diners do come to Botín, but we didn’t see any. The tourist dilemma is that in the quest for authentic Spain we often end up at places where there are very few Spanish people. Botín lacks the spontaneity that locals might bring; the diners are almost playing a role.  

Spring/summer menú del día is gazpacho followed by suckling pig and ice cream, served with a drink for €59. There are baby eels for €180, but otherwise the menu is Spanish classics: roast lamb, roast chicken, fried squid. There is also sangría, the tourist nectar. This is Spain, in capitals.

Later, when I spoke to the genial head of the cramped kitchen, Rubén Manzaneque, he admitted that Botín was not a place for novelty: “It was a challenge when I started. I had to replace the creative instinct. “I’m sure we have changed two dishes, and one garnish!” He insisted that the processes, and the safety, had been modernised.

What’s more, the ingredients were good, and the coal stove — of a type no longer allowed to be installed — gave the meat a smokiness. Botín wasn’t here to win prizes, he said, although I later noticed one framed certificate by the bar: a 1991 prize from the Madrid Association of Public Relations.

Let’s be honest. The suckling piggy has touched people. When Colombian politician Ingrid Betancourt was held hostage in the 2000s, a fellow prisoner regaled her with tales of Botín; once they were free, they had a joyful evening here.

The service we received was urgent and brusque, just like on a battle field. In some Spanish restaurants, it is a tradition to serve diners the food they deserve and not what they request. A young waiter — white-blazer, black bowtie — offered us wine: when we said yes, he asked no further questions but simply brought a 2020 Viña Salceda Rioja. Some Europeans have learned their lesson after Brexit. They know better than give an Englishman any choice.

All Botín’s waiters, by the way, are men. Women chefs are permitted, but only one has left in recent years. Manzaneque said that she enjoyed her work, but found it physically challenging to lift heavy pots. Traditions are not only for the rich.

My gazpacho was a dull shade of sunburn. But the garlic and egg soup was better, my companion assured me, and the dessert — a variation on Basque cheesecake — was well-made. Overall, I’d say the overall score was a success.

Botín’s ruling family since 1930, the González, once opened branches in Miami, Mexico and Puerto Rico; all failed, and you can understand why. Without the history and décor, Botín would lose its charm.

It is possible that the restaurant will not be able to hold on to its name forever. Located in Madrid’s northern outskirts, on the old road to France, Casa Pedro claims to be older than Botín — founded in 1702 by the same family that runs it today. Unfortunately, any records were burned during the civil conflict. It has hired an historian. Its location is a reason why it has few tourists for now. “We have to fight every day,” its current manager Irene Guiñales told me.

Back at Botín, I stepped out onto the pavement, and heard a tour guide explaining that Ernest Hemingway himself had visited the restaurant. The guide laughed and said, “OK, Hemingway went everywhere.” Opposite us was a shop selling official Real Madrid shirts — each one more expensive than our meal for two. In the market for hype and authenticity, Botín did not seem an unreasonable option. It deserves some fame if it encourages Madrid’s visitors to think about the past.

Sobrino de Botín is at Calle de Cuchilleros 17; botin.es

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