The Black Bar

Bars.
They seem to be a Northern European/​American thing. The Mediterranean nations have the word, but not the place: their socialization centers are tables at cafés and restaurants, where you hang out with people you knew before you arrived. They appear not to appreciate the benefits of a drinking establishment you can patronize specifically to meet strangers.
They know that nice hotels are supposed to HAVE bars, though. That’s why in the basement of Oviedo’s Gran Hotel is a gorgeous, elegant, wood-​paneled bar with comfy chairs perfect for lounging in, and hi-​top stools perfect for chatting in: they know they’re SUPPOSED to have them. Maybe they saw it in a movie, or something.
The problem is, nobody here knows how to use it. Or if they do, they choose not to. That’s why I’m sitting here alone drinking an Armagnac, admiring the beautiful, empty room, sad that none of the (Oviedons? Oviedites?) the people of Oviedo know what a fabulous watering hole in their midst. This place would be shoulder-​to-​shoulder in NY, SF, Chicago, Boston, LA, name it.
The bartender is excellent; he comes out to check on me every three minutes or so, before disappearing into the back to resume his conversation with his unseen coworker (the chef, perhaps? An unneeded waiter?). But this place is a ghost town. It is a great shame, because a lot of work and money obviously went into making this a first rate bar.
So if you’re in town, and desire an awesome cocktail lounge, come to the Black Bar (a name, one assumes, taken from its black granite bar top). Bring all your friends — you’ll have the place to yourselves.