It was 11:40 and the line was already snaking around the corner. This was lucky for the four of us: there’s no sign above the door and we may not have otherwise found Casa Anselma, where locals and others crowd for La Rumbla Flamenca in Sevilla.
Round midnight the doors opened. Magellan joined the lineup for the bar while Pat, who is six-feet tall, forged ahead to the large group gathered at the small entrance to the seated area. Pat motioned to Dallas and I to join him. Elbow-to-elbow, people were seated in front of little tables facing the tiny stage. We could see Magellan waving and gesturing “what do you want to drink” so Pat went over to convey our orders. Dallas and I waited in line. At the front of the line, her arms crossed surveying the bunch of us, was a wiry little Señora about our age dressed in slacks and a loose top. (We called her Anselma but later found out she was not.) Despite her diminutive frame, she was in charge, the no-nonsense gatekeeper with absolute authority.