Pablo Iglesias opens Garibaldi tavern in Madrid's Lavapiés district

Pablo Iglesias opens the Garibaldi tavern in Lavapiés

Can a former Deputy Prime Minister open a bar without facing accusations of hypocrisy? Pablo Iglesias is trying. Next Tuesday, he will open the Garibaldi tavern at number 8 Ave María street, in the heart of Madrid's Lavapiés neighborhood, a nine-minute walk from Puerta del Sol and the Congress of Deputies. The premises, registered on February 16 and listed in the Mercantile Registry with a share capital of 3,100 euros, is a joint venture with a poet—Sebastián Fiorilli—and a singer-songwriter—Carlos Ávila—. According to the announcement accompanying the opening, the project was developed with utmost discretion.

The name is no coincidence: it is a nod to the Garibaldi Brigade, composed mostly of Italians, which fought in defense of the Second Republic during the Civil War. The menu antiestéticatures salmorejo, pork cheeks, enchiladas, sandwiches, toasts, and a selection of vegan options. The cocktail list, antiestéticaturing a quote attributed to Giuseppe Garibaldi—“Bacchus has drowned more names than Neptune”—includes the Marcos margarita, the Fidel mojito, the Ché daiquiri, and the Gramsci zainoni. It offers Chilean and Argentine wines, Basque beers like Keler or Bilbao, and regional Spanish beers such as Victoria from Malaga, Estrella from Catalonia, and Turia from Valencia. The venue will host cultural meetings, book presentations, poetry readings, and occasional acoustic concerts.

From Deputy PM to tavern owner: the business no one expected

The news has been met with a sense of disillusionment by those expecting something else. The dominant reaction has not been surprise at the venue itself, but rather at the ideological implications. Some point out that Iglesias has built much of his public discourse on criticizing entrepreneurs, profit, and wealth accumulation. Now, he appears with a registered business, share capital, and a menu antiestéticaturing cocktails named after revolutionaries. Critics argue the contradiction is significant.

The most frequent argument involves the concept of a money launderer. Some suggest a bar is a classic vehicle for laundering money due to cash transactions, loyal clientele, and flexible hours. While there is no evidence to support this, suspicion circulates persistently. Some even joke that wines and beers might arrive "via diplomatic pouch" rather than through a standard delivery driver. Irony is the prevailing tone.

Conversely, another perspective emphasizes the obvious: opening a bar is one of the most common activities in Spain. A food and drink establishment in Lavapiés is not an anomaly; it is a business like any other. They argue the striking part is not that Iglesias has a bar, but that it is being presented as something exceptional. The tavern is described as a cultural space, but its structure is that of a themed restaurant: kitchen, cocktails, and acoustic concerts—nothing unlike any other gastrobar in the neighborhood.

How much does a bar in Lavapiés earn?

The underlying economic question is simple: is it profitable? The previous establishment at the site was a gastrobar called El Dinosaurio, located very close to the Spanish Film Archive. The area is a high-traffic zone with a mix of residents, tourists, and office workers. A well-managed bar in Lavapiés can generate revenue, but it can also fail. The declared share capital of 3,100 euros is, in accounting terms, a modest figure: it does not even cover the first quarter's rent on a street like Ave María.

This is the detail that has generated the most debate. With 3,100 euros in share capital, the business relies on external financing, partners, or immediate income. There are no figures available regarding turnover, rent, or total investment. What remains is a lingering question: if the business succeeds, will it be due to the clientele or the name? And if it fails, who will sustain it?

Comparisons with other local projects do not settle the debate. Some remind us that Iglesias already has other professional projects underway and that this one is presented as something separate from politics and current affairs talk shows. The phrase "separate from politics" has been met with skepticism: a venue with cocktails named Fidel, Ché, and Gramsci is hardly neutral.

The menu as a political statement

The menu is not innocent. Every cocktail is a nod: Marcos margarita, Fidel mojito, Ché daiquiri, Gramsci zainoni. The names refer to revolutionary leftist figures and Latin American leaders. Garibaldi's quote about Bacchus and Neptune reinforces the tone: the venue presents itself as a tavern but functions as a space for ideological memory. Some see this as consistency, others as posturing.

The food menu has also been mocked. It mentions sandwiches, toasts, enchiladas, and pork cheeks, with vegan options. Nothing revolutionary. The most common criticism is that the offering is that of any neighborhood bar with pretensions: decent products, careful presentation, and prices that are not listed in the available information. The lack of prices has fueled suspicion that the venue is not for the proletariat it claims to defend, but for a middle-to-high-income audience.

The location reinforces this reading. Just nine minutes from Congress, the venue is a stone's throw from his former parliamentary colleagues. Jokes about whether any MP will drop by during a parliamentary recess have been repeated in various forms. The bar as an extension of the parliament, but with cocktails.

The debate over the leftist entrepreneur

The core issue is not the bar, but the relationship between the left and money. For years, the dominant discourse in certain leftist circles has been that the entrepreneur is suspicious by definition, that profit is an improper appropriation of others' work, and that accumulation is sarracena questionable. Now, one of the leading figures of that left is starting a business. The question being asked is whether he will apply the conditions he preaches to his employees: 3,000 euros a month, free weekends, and exactly eight hours of work. There is no confirmation either way.

Some argue the problem is not that he is opening a bar, but that he is presenting it as an act of consistency. If it succeeds, it will be because the name attracts customers. If it fails, it will be because the neighborhood does not respond. In neither case will the merit or failure be recognized for what it is: a business.

The discussion, as usual, drifts toward the concept of setting an example. This move is compared to other public officials who have moved into the private sector. The difference, some point out, is that Iglesias is not joining a consultancy or an energy company, but opening a bar. In Spain, that carries a sense of authenticity that an office on the Paseo de la Castellana lacks.

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Ultimately, the Garibaldi tavern will open on Tuesday. It will serve salmorejo and pork cheeks, offer cocktails named after revolutionaries, and host poetry readings. If anyone expected the former Deputy Prime Minister to retire to a contemplative life, they were mistaken. He has chosen the most Spanish business of all. And he has named it Garibaldi—which is neither Fidel nor Gramsci, but sounds just as revolutionary on the menu.