MICHEL DOES SPAIN: BRANDY FOR BREAKFAST, GIN BY THE BUCKET AND BUBBLES AT 3AM

From wine with lunch and roadside Sol y Sombra to goldfish-bowl gin and Mrs E’s lethal Harvey Wallbangers, Spain taught Michel that alcohol can appear at almost any hour—but the Spanish and the expats drink it very differently.

When I first arrived in Spain thirty years ago, I believed I had found paradise. The drinks were cheap, the measures enormous and nobody appeared remotely troubled by the time of day.

I came from newspapers, impossible deadlines and nights that turned into mornings. I could drink a rugby team under the table, arrive back at the office before the bosses and look almost respectable after refreshing the red lipstick.

Spain seemed made for me.

Wine at Lunch and Gin in a Goldfish Bowl

Lunch was the first revelation. You ordered the menú del día and wine simply arrived. Nobody lectured you about alcohol units or suggested sparkling water instead.

Wine was part of lunch, like bread and olives.

Afterwards came the complimentary chupito de la casa, supposedly a small house liqueur, although “small” was being used in the same way estate agents use “cosy.”

The glass could have accommodated a family of four.

You drank it and returned to work. Or at least we believed we did. Our Spanish colleagues may remember differently.

At the end of the day, having survived the strain of wine with lunch, we rewarded ourselves with a gin and tonic.

A Spanish gin and tonic was not a timid British measure with a shy trickle of tonic. It arrived in a copa balón the size of a goldfish bowl, packed with ice, citrus fruit and enough gin to remove wallpaper.

The waiter poured while maintaining eye contact, then continued until you wondered whether he had forgotten what he was doing.

The tonic was almost decorative—a garnish, a rumour.

Later came pacharán on ice: sweet, sloe-flavoured and friendly until the moment you attempted to stand.

Ours arrived in something resembling an ice bucket. The drink was the size of the bucket—not merely the ice.

Spain did not believe in sending anybody home thirsty.

Brandy Before Lunch

I still chuckle at roadside cafés when I see lorry drivers and tradesmen enjoying their almuerzo, the sacred mid-morning refuelling stop.

It might involve a huge bocadillo filled with tortilla, lomo or jamón, accompanied by enough pork to concern an entire cardiology department.

Occasionally, it is washed down with Sol y Sombra—“sun and shade”—a mixture of brandy and sweet anise.

It was one of Mr E’s favourite Saturday-morning treats: brandy with Marie Brizard anisette at an hour when most British people were still wondering whether it was too early for toast.

He ordered it without whispering or checking whether his mother was watching: a respectable breakfast followed by a drink capable of sterilising surgical instruments.

In Britain, brandy at ten might prompt an intervention.

In Spain, it may simply mean you ordered the large bocadillo.

The Baileys Breakfast Club

I cannot remember the last time I made morning coffee for a visitor without adding a generous dash of Baileys while the machine was still percolating.

It is not really drinking. It is enhancing the coffee.

We learned it in Alaró, Mallorca, when we opened the newspaper there.

On market day, everyone around the square appeared to be quaffing enormous Baileys while treating the accompanying brandy with more reluctance.

Naturally, we embraced the custom. We have always believed in integration.

Ask Mr E whether he wants an iced coffee and he would be horrified if it did not contain half a litre of that creamy, innocent-looking liquid.

Without Baileys, it is merely cold coffee.

With Baileys, it becomes breakfast, dessert and a temporary loss of motor function.

Mrs E’s Harvey Wallbanger

Sunday in the Euesden household would not be Sunday without one of Mrs E’s infamous Harvey Wallbangers.

Mine must be made with vanilla vodka. Nothing more. Nothing less. This is not open to public consultation or amendment by royal decree.

Then comes orange juice and a super-large measure of Galliano.

In a conventional Harvey Wallbanger, the Galliano is floated delicately across the top. Not in my house.

Mine is less of a float and more of a golden tidal wave.

Then comes my secret dash, taught to me in my younger years by the butler of Anouska Hempel—a name younger readers may not know, but one that once represented the height of glamorous, theatrical London style.

The secret remains between me, that butler and several people who can no longer remember drinking it.

From wine with lunch and roadside Sol y Sombra to goldfish-bowl gin and Mrs E’s lethal Harvey Wallbangers, Spain taught Michel that alcohol can appear at almost any hour—but the Spanish and the expats drink it very differently.

Every household needs a state secret.

A Mrs E Harvey Wallbanger looks cheerful and tastes like orange juice. It arrives with the innocence of breakfast, then attacks from behind.

People sip the first and say, “Oh, this is lovely.” Halfway through the second, they share secrets. By the third, they are dancing with a standard lamp.

They have been known to blow the socks off hardened drinkers—and occasionally remove their shoes without them noticing.

Meanwhile, I remain sober, preventing somebody from putting the television remote in the fridge.

Gin: The Ruin of the Xpat

It did not take me long to realise that gin was not necessarily the ruin of the mother.

It was the ruin of the xpat.

There is something about arriving in Spain that makes otherwise sensible British people behave as though they are permanently enjoying the final afternoon of a package holiday.

One glass of wine at lunch becomes two. Two become a chupito. The chupito becomes an afternoon gin, followed by:

“Shall we have just one at ours?”

Nobody in the history of expat Spain has ever meant one when saying “just one at ours.”

A celebration requires alcohol. Bad news requires alcohol. Good news requires better alcohol.

A five-minute visit requires cava and cancelling the rest of the day.

The Spanish can make one small beer last through an entire conversation, three political arguments, two football results and an assessment of everybody walking past.

The British expat sees the same beer as an administrative inconvenience standing between them and the next one.

Spanish drinking sits beside food, family and the glorious sobremesa, when nobody leaves because everybody is still talking.

Expat drinking can sit beside sunburn, poor decisions and the belief that karaoke is a competitive sport.

At one table, an immaculate Spanish gentleman sips a small brandy, entirely composed.

At the next, a British holidaymaker wears one flip-flop, hugs a traffic cone and shouts that he has always loved Benidorm.

Same sunshine.

Same alcohol.

Completely different afternoon.

I Gave Up the Drink, Not the Party

Eventually, just as I had with my sixty-cigarettes-a-day habit, I stopped drinking overnight.

No farewell tour. No ceremonial gin. I simply stopped.

My new addiction is coconut water, delivered by my best friend Amazon in quantities suggesting I run a tropical hotel.

When I feel wild, I order a Red Bull Light on the rocks.

I never feel I am missing out. I stay after my companions’ eyes begin travelling in different directions, remember everything, drive home and locate my handbag.

Although I no longer drink, I still spend an extraordinary amount of time buying alcohol, chilling it, opening it and serving it.

In the Euesden household, bubbles may be opened civilly at any hour.

Three in the afternoon? Perfectly acceptable.

Three in the morning? Clearly something has happened.

Fetch the glasses.

Spain taught me that you do not need alcohol to make an ordinary afternoon feel like an occasion.

I gave up the drink, but never the people, laughter, music, long lunches or noisy tables.

The Baileys still flows. The Harvey Wallbangers still remove innocent people’s socks.

And I still dance longer, laugh louder and stay later than most of those drinking them.

The expats may arrive intending to drink Spain dry.

The Spanish know better.

Spain is not a shot to be knocked back in one. She is a long lunch, a noisy table and a story that improves with every telling.

I no longer drink Spain.

I drink her in.