hard cock cafe

Hard Cock Cafe
Be careful what you put in your mouth

By Brett Allan King
GettingIt.com, October 7, 1999

While Planet Hollywood pawns G-rated fare,
the XXX crowd have it their way in Madrid’s
“erotic restaurants.

Three competing mom and pop-a-cherry outfits wage
culinary cockfights for your oral pleasure as servers
fill deep throats with sculpted “Virgin Clit” and
“Intrepid Pricks.”

Like Jacques Cousteau diving for Julia Child’s
G—spot, I venture behind the green door (OK,
red) at La Olla Caliente (“The Hot C(r)ock”).
Tonight’s special: “Dwarf Dick.” My salivary
glands hardly pulsate in anticipation, but I
seek the recipe to “Passionate Fucks” and
“Orgasm Under the Sea.”

The facade has the grace of a skid-row peep
show. Florencio Del Pozo, the amiable manager
in the faux leopard-skin vest (“This used to be
an Argentine Barbecue. I dressed as a
gaucho…”) resembles Fred Flintstone.

I follow him down the mirrored stairwell to the
smegma-free basement dining room, where
busty, cartoonish love—murals and pastel green
rock walls scream Pebbles & Bam-Bam
Bachelor Party. In the kitchen, a stainless steel
window ejaculates snacks on demand.

“One clitoris!” a leopard-wench yells over
clanking plates.

“Gimme a chocolate dick!” comes a spotted
waiter.

Florencio whips out Wonder—Bra Bread —
double rolls with nipples. “And this is a dick…”
He drops the Pilsbury Doughdong, severing
scrotum from shaft. “… a broken one.” Fast-
paced cookery turns the “Horny Tribesman’s”
symmetrical mashed—potato testicles and
formidable venison into amorphous lumps of
spud and pud. In kitchen haste, “Virgin’s Lips”
become Fiona’s Flaps. The erect ice cream
penis emerges splotched with whipped cream
on an oval platter. Higinio Rufo, a moustached
waiter and would-be Willy Wonka in Panthera
pardus sportcoat, presses it against his crotch.

At the bar, a sixtysomething reincarnated
gaucho prepares “aphrodisiac” cocktails and
flirts with waitresses. “Manolín, show him the
milk dick,” orders Florencio. He whips out a
twelve—inch-plus ceramic trouser-snake with
dilated urethra. “We use this for café con
leche.“

La Olla’s old locale was a bone’s throw from a
live sex/strip joint. It now abuts an X-rated
cinema. Loitering geriatric wankers convening
for the flick Megatits may inspire suspicions of
dubious recipes for the special sauce, but
Florencio says the adjacent business is
“completely unrelated.”

Meanwhile, over at competitor La Almeja
Picante (“The Spicy Clam”), the window display
resembles a sex-shop vibrator collection — but
with frosting. Penile pastries and T&A tarts
make for a veritable patisserie of the
perverted. The restaurant’s bouncer summons
a well-painted blonde in corseted purple
evening gown:

“My father will see you now,” she announces.

Behind the curtain, violet-lit darkness conjures
thoughts of sweat and estrogen as “exotic” lap
dancers grind against fire poles. Pubic apron-
wall hangings and decorous erections, kitschy
prints of busty women in marine settings — it
all reeks of false elegance and forced irony. I
penetrate the deep and narrow Clam. At the
back of the establishment, proprietor Eugenio
García stops eating to offer a semiotic
deconstruction of “eroticism” and
“pornography.” Seemingly irritated, he shows
me an adventurous skin mag pimping his
establishment. “I don’t want this filling up with
gays and lesbians and drag queens,” he says.
“I don’t have anything against them, but this is
a normal place. And we want to keep it that
way.”

“I need two orgasms!” his daughter yells to the
kitchen.

“Forty percent of my clients are repeat
customers,” he insists. “Why? Because food is
first. I serve a 750-gram sirloin.”

Neighboring establishments may offer similar cuts,
though waiters in penis-horned viking helmets
serving “Redbeard’s Condom” are rare. García
escorts me to his phallus palace door and,
enthusiasm ended by his culinarius interruptus,
I limply return to La Olla’s strip show.

The gaucho—cum-Flintstone orgy of rowdiness
gets going around midnight. Chomping on
“Avenger Cock” and “Insatiable Widows,”
soused salt—of-the-earth diners howl from atop
chairs, waving dick bread and orange napkins
at “Los Top Boy’s” and “Las Susi Girl’s.” [sic]
The spectacle is genital—and-penetration—free
(“We’re erotic, not pornographic,” says
Florencio). Flirtatious patrons find intimacy
jumping from table ‘to table. “Here you’ll find
patrons parading around in their underwear, be
they age fifty or fifteen,” says ’Rufo. “Twenty,”
Florencio corrects.

Purveyors to perverts are spreading across
Spain. Seville now lists eats on its sex circuit.
Barcelona has an erotic baker. Randy restaurateurs
demand reservations and deny culinary cunnilingus
to hundreds of patrons
nightly.

And salivating investors see the best thing
since Spanish fly.