Plaza de los Naranjos, Marbella, Churrería Ramón. Since 1941, they have been making and serving churros. They close at nine and open at ten. In between, tons of churros. Churrería Ramón doesn't care that there are people who don't like churros or that all churros look alike.
Today, Sant Jordi day, books and roses are sold, but there are those who would like to sell the same churro to millions of churro addicts. Actually, there are publishers that do. Characters who write or write their churros. Who packs them and sells them like baked sea bream.
Writers are paid partly in money and the rest in vanity. All writers think they are better than the rest, although they self-injure grudgingly accepting that each author is each one. Hence the armistice and false modesty. It is the swollen, badly injured, humiliated or stimulated ego that makes it impossible to go down Rambla Catalunya today.
Among those writers there are some who make a churro over and over again. Bad, oily, with a lot of sugar, which when cooled is a paste. Some sell a lot of churros and, because of that – their bosses, their readers – cheer them on and call them genius, Stephen King, trend, agitator, best seller or presenter.
Unlike in Churrería Ramón, there are standard churros and churros with airs. The latter are full of sexual traumas, generational messages, infallible shamans, children lost in the woods, prostheses and returns to the countryside, pedophile priests, dogs and absent parents, bicycles and plumber rapes, recipes and quotes from bands in English. These churros sell less than the others, but their makers have scholarships, awards, and a couple with a real job.
And then there are the rest of the writers. They will recognize them because today, in their cubicle, they will pretend to look at their mobile. They tend to be disheveled, dream of churros and pretend to be called Ramón.
