Don't talk to me
Neither about the banquets that were in Rome.
Nor about the menu
Of the Plaza Hotel in New York.
Neither about the pheasant
Nor the dove foie-grass,1
Don't even tell me
About the lobster Thermidor.
For I lose sleep,
Needless to say,
And it's my pleasure and food
Salt and grace
The love that a woman puts in
The cocidito madrileño.2
Chorus:
Cocidito madrileño,
Minceing finely in the attic,
That smells to me like peppermint
And like a vebena.3in Las Vistillas4
Cocidito madrileño
Of yesterday and tomorrow.
Grief and joy
Of mother and sister.
Looking at you tenderly
I learned it from an early age.
For you are pure glory,
For you are pure glory,
Cocidito madrileño.
Tell me
Where there's a more joyful picture
With color
That lightens up the month of April,
When they are two
And they are below a tree,
And between both
A stew of the albañil.5
When the love
Of a woman tells her man
About her beauty and passion:
Take, honey,
Your cocidito madrileño,
That inside goes my heart.
1. French food2. A typical traditional chickpea-based stew from Madrid3. Street festival4. A district in the centre of Madrid, near the cathedral5. Bricklayer