It’s always a downer to see a classic de toda la vida turn over a new leaf, remodel itself into white-cube nothingness, and… poof… become modern, soulless and shite. None of that here. José may have updated the baldosas and put up a new sign or two, but the ‘desde 1944’ is there because it’s true; his father ran Palmer before him, his grandfather before that. Without clinging to his past, José rides alongside it. The cyclist paraphernalia is his, and perhaps his passion is one reason the bar is only open till 15h.
But the daytime schedule doesn’t dull things down. Nope, nope, nope. Palmer is full of neighborhood buzz from paletas beering with their bocatas (bread from Pa Serra plus great jamon equals glory), iaios served generous carajillos, and forty-somethings celebrating a friend’s birthday with a couple of candles stuffed into a magdalena. Palmer is a find and a half. Don’t go there. It’s mine. No, seriously, bugger off.