The message came via Paco. Which means it wasn’t so much an invitation as a grunt, followed by “mañana” and a vague arm wave toward the hills.
Carmen translated. “You’re going to a men’s lunch.”
I blinked. “What does that mean?”
She shrugged. “Meat. Wine. Shouting. Possibly cards. Possibly guns.”
She was joking. I think. The seasonal calendar here is so full of surprises so, why not?
The cortijo was miles off any road I’d trust.
No signal. No signposts. Just dust and rocks and a rickety gate held closed with what looked like an old dog collar. Paco drove. Didn’t speak. Just chain-smoked and muttered about “El Manolo” like I should know who that was.
Spoiler: I didn’t.
We arrived to find six men already there. One had a machete. One wore a vest that hadn’t been washed since the mid-90s. One was asleep, loudly.
They nodded when I arrived. Not one smile. Just nods. And then they went back to what they were doing—grilling chorizo over a homemade brick firepit, arguing about olive prices, and pouring something dangerously brown into mismatched glasses.
I sat on a log. No one told me to. It just felt like the safest option.
Ten minutes in, I genuinely thought a fight was about to break out. The shouting. The gesturing. The slamming of hands on the table. It was all there.
Turns out, they were talking about Real Madrid.
Paco passed me a chunk of meat straight off the fire. No plate. Just meat. Burning hot. Greasy. Absolutely divine. I burned my fingers pretending not to burn my fingers.
Then came the initiation.
Not formal. Not announced. But it happened.
One of them—Miguel, maybe—asked me where I was from.
I said “Londres” like I always do.
He said “Frío” and then laughed like he’d made the joke of the century.
Another one, possibly El Manolo, offered me a shot of something he called “el veneno.”
I took it. Against all known medical advice.
It tasted like regret and licorice. My nose ran for fifteen minutes.
But they laughed. Clapped my back. Someone called me “el inglés valiente.” Brave Englishman. I’ll take it.
And for one surreal hour, I belonged.
I couldn’t follow half the conversation. The dialect spun too fast and the words blurred into each other like a flamenco solo. But the rhythm, the food, the laughter—I got it.
Not in the mind.
In the ribs.
And when Paco stood to leave, I stood too. The others nodded. One raised his plastic cup toward me. Another gave me a slab of blood sausage wrapped in newspaper.
“You come next time,” someone shouted.
I didn’t say yes. Didn’t need to.
I’d passed the first test. Whatever it was.
On to Sundays, a whole different kind of tradition!