On a foggy Madrid morning, a humble fried-dough stick becomes the axis around which a whole city revolves.
There is a specific quality of cold in Madrid in January that seems designed, architecturally, to produce the need for churros. The fog sits low over the Gran Via; the breath of strangers mingles in the air; every door that opens exhales warmth and the smell of cinnamon and hot chocolate.
The Chocolateria San Gines has operated continuously since 1894, tucked in a passage behind Calle Arenal. The menu has not changed. The porras (thick churros) arrive in brown paper, the chocolate in a ceramic cup, the combination requiring no instruction. You dunk. You eat. The morning reorganises itself.
'It closes the loop — from Aztec warrior to Madrid foggy morning and back again.' — Koko.
Churros trace their origin to Spanish shepherds who cooked dough over open fires — no oven needed, the shape extruded through a star-tipped press. The chocolate is a later addition, arriving with the colonisation of Mexico and the subsequent European craze for cacao. The Aztec sacred drink of warriors and priests ended up in a cold Spanish morning, democratised.
Koko adds a guajillo chilli to her chocolate dipping sauce — a quiet nod to the full journey of the cacao bean. 'It closes the loop,' she says. 'From Aztec warrior to Madrid foggy morning and back again.'