Hotel nights

I found a place to eat that suited me and went most nights. It was the restaurant of a large hotel, a cavernous space with ugly strip lighting and a freezer in the corner that hummed and rattled like a tractor. I was the only client and my company the ubiquitous television but the mournful woman who worked there served me up a range of delicious food – picante de pollo, spicy chicken served over the local yellow potatoes, kid stew, locro – and glasses of rough red wine for 40p.