And of course, he’s right. There is everything you could possibly want or need here—an absolute cornucopia for the senses.
We walk by cafés serving sandwiches made with cured ham and Manchego cheese and delicious churros dipped in hot chocolate. On the other side of the street, a woman poses for a portrait painter who is meticulously capturing the refined lines of her nose. Next to them, a street performer dressed like some sort of winged gargoyle dances to the beat of Andean indigenous flute music. All of this is happening at once in some strange, imperfect harmony.
A million different things compete for my attention as we walk—the ripples on the street pavers that resemble water currents, the Barcelona postcards displayed on a souvenir kiosk, the smell of melted chocolate wafting from a nearby candy shop, and the color riot breaking out in a flower stand up ahead.
“Let’s stop there,” Diego says while nodding toward the flower stand. “I need to get something.”
“Are we going somewhere in particular?” I ask, watching him pick up a bouquet of bright orange peonies. They are a shade of orange I have never seen in a flower before, like the petals absorbed all the color from a summer sunset.
Diego pays the vendor and thanks him in Catalan.
“Right down this street,” he says, taking a firm hold of my hand. As our skin touches and we fall in step next to each other walking through this amazing place, I come to believe this day could not possibly get any better.
We leave the main promenade and head down a cobbled side street, shaded by a canopy of trees. Apartment buildings rise into the sky, painted in various shades of terra-cotta brown. Each floor has a long balcony with ornate black iron railings. The sound of conversation and laughter falls over us like rain.
“This is it,” he says, stepping into an alcove that forms the entrance of a building. He presses a button on an intercom, and after it beeps he speaks into the box. “Es Diego,” he says, switching to Spanish. A woman’s voice tells him to come up.
“After you,” he says as the front door buzzes open.
Inside, we are greeted by a shaft of light pouring from above, washing the old Spanish courtyard in sunlight. A fountain serves as the centerpiece. Potted plants and a few tables and chairs are scattered around the space. My American mind finds it odd the building residents have their doors and windows wide open onto the common space, as if they aren’t worried at all about someone looking in or dropping by unannounced.
It occurs to me, this is probably how Lala lived back in Havana—with the windows and doors thrown open into a beautiful courtyard and life happening all around her. Makes me wonder what it would be like to live like this—in a wide-open space where everything and everyone are always welcomed.
We climb four flights of stairs all the way to the top floor. The sound of lively guitar music and laughter gets increasingly louder as we approach. When we arrive, I’m not surprised to see the apartment’s front door is open.
“Dieguito!” A woman immediately wraps her arms around Diego for a hug. She kisses him on both cheeks. “I haven’t seen you in years! How have you been?”
Her hair is arranged in a bun at the nape of her neck and pretty green earrings dangle from her ears. Her skin is glowing bronze and there is a youthfulness in her smile that doesn’t match the wrinkle lines around her eyes.
“Isa, this is Clara,” Diego tells me. “She’s married to one of my swim coaches, Pablo, aka El Jefe. Best youth coach in the league.”
The mention of her husband’s nickname makes Clara laugh. “The kids still call him that. Can you believe it?” She turns to me, bringing me in for a hug. “So good to meet you.” Then kisses me on both cheeks. It’s a sweet gesture.
“I’m so glad you could make it tonight,” she says.
I smile and nod, even though I have no idea what exactly we are doing here.
“Thanks for making room for us, I know it was a last-minute request,” Diego tells her.
“Oh, don’t be silly. Pablo was so happy to hear from you after so many years.” Then to me she says in a sarcastic tone, “Diego went on to the big leagues and forgot about the little people he left behind.”
“I did not,” he says, indignant.
She squeezes his arm playfully. “It’s okay. We forgive you.” Her palms gently land on our backs, ushering us both inside the apartment. “Let’s get you seated. The other guests have already arrived. I promise it’s going to be a lovely evening.”
My curiosity only grows. What other guests? What’s going on?
Clara leads us into her living room, where a shelf full of awards draws my eye. Instantly, I recognize the rosette.
“Is that a Michelin?” I ask, stepping closer to the shelf. I’ve seen it in photos, but it shines brighter up close. The words MICHELIN Guide are written above the name of a restaurant, San Pascual. In between is one rosette, indicating the number of stars and telling the world Clara’s food is “high quality” and “worth a stop.”
“Oh yeah, I forgot to mention, Clara is a chef,” Diego whispers, a mischievous smile on his lips. A flash of pure satisfaction crosses his eyes.
“You have a Michelin?” I ask Clara again.
“Yes, but that was a long time ago,” she says dismissively. “In another life.” She winks and smiles.
Nothing about her calm demeanor, or her fresh makeup, says she is a chef—at least not like any of the ones I’ve met. The only cheflike quality about her is the long blue apron hanging from her neck and expertly tied around her waist.
“Diego told me about your classes. How is Grattard treating you?” she asks.
I search for Diego. What else has he told her about me? But he’s already making himself at home, taking off his jacket and storing our things in a coat closet.
“It’s good,” I say politely. “I’m learning a lot.”
“I studied in Paris,” she says. “It was insane. I have no idea how I survived those years.” She chuckles to herself.
“We got these for you.” Diego hands her the flowers.
“Ay, gracias. You didn’t have to,” she says, bringing them to her nose. “I love how they smell. Aren’t they beautiful?”
I nod, distracted by the sound of laughter coming from her terrace.
“Now, come and join the party. What can I get you to drink? Is sangria okay? I made a lovely white sangria with champagne. Used mint from my garden. It is delicious.”
My eyes cut to Diego, as if to say, No way I’m drinking champagne. Just the sound of the word makes my stomach churn.
“Maybe later,” Diego tells her. “I read on your website that you have a special orxata on the menu?”
“The best! Two orxatas coming right out,” Clara says. “Now, go and take your seats. There is some bread and salad at the table, something to get you started.”
Clara disappears into the kitchen, leaving us alone with her awards, including the large Michelin star staring back at us from the shelf.
“What’s going on?” I whisper-yell the moment she leaves. “Why didn’t you ever mention you know a top-level chef?”
“Whoa—easy, tiger. I wasn’t hiding her.” He titters to himself. “I was on social a few days ago and caught a photo Pablo posted of him and Clara making one those flambés you like. Except they didn’t burn their kitchen. She lets him use the blowtorch. You should talk to her about that.”
I roll my eyes.
“Anyway, I remembered Pablo always used to bring her desserts to practice when I was a kid. Loved her flan! So I reached out to him, trying to connect you guys. To be honest, it was a selfish move—I was hoping you could talk her out of her flan recipe so you could make it for me.”
I shake my head. “Of course.”
“But come to find out, she’s some big-time chef. I had no idea. That’s when I learned about her dinner club thing. I called Pablo again and managed to get us two reservations.”
I stare at him blankly, trying to understand the full scope of what he just explained. Did he arrange all this for me?
When I don’t say anything, he rambles on. “You have to understand, Clara is booked months and months in advance. I practically had to beg. I think they pulled two extra chairs for us.”
“You did all this for me?” I ask quietly.
He reaches for my hands and holds them in his. They are conforting and sturdy. I want them to wrap me tightly and not let go.
He leans in and kisses me on the forehead.
“I want you to enjoy yourself, okay?” he says, pulling me closer. “Tonight should be fun. Let someone else do the cooking.”
I lift my face to meet his, stepping onto my toes so I can reach his lips.
“Thank you,” I say. I’ve never meant it more.
“De nada.”
“You could’ve told me we were visiting a Michelin chef—and a woman at that.”
“Pablo said she doesn’t make a big deal about her awards.”
“Are we going to her restaurant?” I pull out my phone to search for San Pascual. I bet it’s amazing.
“This is it,” he says as we step onto a rooftop garden overlooking the city. A large table runs the length of the terrace, where about two dozen people are already gathered.
“What is it?”
“Her restaurant.”
“At her house?”
Diego doesn’t answer. He’s already five steps ahead of me, blending into the party.
Everyone’s attention is set on an older man propped on a high chair, playing a Spanish guitar. His voice is throaty and rough but full of emotion as he sings something that sounds like flamenco pop. The lyrics are about falling in love with someone he once saw walking down the street.
Diego pulls a seat for me at the end of the table. I take my place and notice the place card with Isabella written in beautiful cursive.
Everything about the way the table is set screams attention to detail—the delicately knit tablecloth, the bright wildflowers in mismatched vases, the votive candles I know can burn for six hours, the embroidered cloth napkins that read Buen Provecho, and the cardboard menu cards presenting a three-course dinner. Clara’s presentation is both whimsical and exquisite.
“Do you know these people?” I ask.
“No, these are Clara’s customers. Apparently, she’s been doing it for years. She calls it Club de la Cena, the Dinner Club.”
Most of the guests, I realize, must be tourists. I catch the sound of a conversation in German and another in Portuguese. Their laughter sounds the same in any language.
“Last year a travel magazine did a story on her, and she couldn’t keep up with the reservations. She only takes twenty-four people at a time. It’s very exclusive.” He elbows my arm gently.
“These are some serious brownie points you’ve just earned,” I tease.
“What’s a brownie point?” he asks.
“You know, when you do something nice for someone else.”
“But does it translate into actual brownies?”
I laugh. Of course he’d find a way for this to result in more dessert for him.
“I’ll make you the best brownies you’ve ever had,” I tell him in a slow and deliberate voice. His hand lands on my knee, and I feel my own body melt like hot chocolate.
His cheeks go red as he says, “I can’t wait.”
I’m relieved when a server brings our orxata glasses and leaves a full pitcher on the table. I grip my glass and gulp down about half its contents in an attempt to cool myself.
“This is really good,” I say, refilling my glass. Diego explains the milky drink is made from a tuber called chufa. I love it. It’s creamy and refreshing—exactly what I need if I’m going to get though dinner with Diego’s fingers drawing circles on my knee.
The woman sitting next to me passes a bowl of salad. “Do you speak English?” she asks.
“I do,” I respond.
“This is so yummy!” she says with an American accent.
“Where are you from?” I ask.
“Atlanta—I mean, originally from Puerto Rico, but I’ve lived in Atlanta for twenty years,” she explains. “You?”
“Chicago,” I tell her, feeling incredibly far away from home. “By way of France.”
“Here, have some bread,” the Atlanta woman says. She hands me a breadbasket and a plate of butter spread. “Chef Clara bakes it herself, I’m told.”
Diego and I take turns serving ourselves from the salad bowl. Pieces of pear and dates are carefully arranged over a bed of arugula. The menu says the dressing has maple syrup, lemon zest, and mustard. My first bite is nothing less than divine. The flavors and texture are spot-on. The bread is equally amazing. It has notes of rosemary and garlic, and with the honey butter spread is simply decadent.
“There’s nothing like this back home,” the woman says. “I mean, sure, we have great restaurants, but this is an experience. You know what I mean?”
My mouth is full of warm bread, so I can’t respond.
“You go to a restaurant, you eat your meal, and then you leave. Here, you meet new people, you share a meal—something unexpected—you listen to beautiful music. It’s pure joy. I will remember this.”
The guitar player tells the guests he will now perform a Gipsy Kings cover called “Love and Liberté.” His fingers run through a guitar solo full of everything that makes Spanish love songs sound so genuine, all passion and heat.
Diego leans into me halfway through the song and whispers, “Are you happy?”
It is an unexpected question and one that makes me stop. I turn my head to face him and I’m lost in his eyes again. I find only kindness staring back at me. I nod, unable to speak.
“Good,” he says. “Very good.”
I realize that for the first time in what seems like forever, I feel something other than pressure or anxiety, worry or sadness, or grief. For the first time in a while, my life feels full of color, and flavors, and sounds—which says a lot given I have been in a kitchen for the last three weeks.
The server takes away the empty salad plates and re-sets the table with clean dinner plates and utensils. Her unassuming but efficient serving style could compete with some of the best servers at La Table de Lyon. After she refills the guests’ sangria glasses, she brings out the main course: multiple trays of tapas.
Diego leans over. “I told Clara how much you like tapas,” he says.
“Please say you did not tell her that story,” I say, blushing with embarrassment. That was not my finest hour.
“Of course I did,” he says.
“God, you are the worst sometimes.” Sadly, I know that to him, it’s only a compliment.
The server sets a tray in front of us, then presents each dish. “Wine-braised chorizo, shrimp in garlic sauce, lobster empanadas, rolls stuffed with serrano ham, country cheese and fig preserve, patatas bravas with aioli, traditional ham croquetas, and gazpacho shooters.” She fills our water glasses and tells us buen provecho before leaving.
“I don’t know where to start,” I say. “Everything looks incredible.”
“Give me your plate,” Diego says. When I do, he fills it with a sampling of everything.
When the plate makes its way back to me, I pick up a lobster empanada between my fingers and bite into the crispy brown dough. The lobster has been slowly cooked in a tomato sauce with small pieces of potato, green olives, and red peppers. I’ve never tasted anything like it.
“Do you think she will share her recipes?” I ask, digging into the ham croquetas. The bread surface is a mouthwatering prelude to the savory meat mixture inside.
“Doubtful, but you can try,” he says while placing the last of the empanadas on my plate. “Pablo told me she guards her recipes like one of those mythical three-headed dogs.”
“Cerberus,” I offer between bites.
“That one,” he says, pointing with his fork. “Some guy she worked with tried to steal her flan recipe once. It didn’t go down well. In fact, it’s probably best you don’t ask for her recipe, even for me. I’d hate for you to be forced into hiding.”
I think of Lala, Barbara, and our family’s pie recipe. And Chef Troissant with her mandarine foie gras, an idea Chef Grattard took full credit for. I guess it’s the same no matter where you live.
“Save room for the dessert tray. You won’t want to miss out on that flan,” Diego says. “It’s all over the food blogs.”
I stare at him in disbelief. “Since when do you read food blogs?”
“I like to be prepared.” He reaches for another empanada and lays it on my plate. “I know you want another one.”
I smile. A girl could get used to this.
I make my way through Clara’s food, wondering how this perfection can happen outside of a professional kitchen and in awe of the cheerful atmosphere she created as the flawless stage for her sought-after meals.
On the horizon, the sun begins to set, and a string of lights comes on above us, crisscrossing the length of the terrace. As the guests comment on the merits of the food, I hear someone say she stayed an extra day in Barcelona just to come here. “Totally worth it,” she tells the others.
By the time we finish dinner there are no leftovers on the tapas trays—I mean nothing. Even the smallest crumbs of patatas bravas have been devoured.
I lean back, trying to remember the last time I enjoyed a meal in such a way. The memory that comes is from my last summer at Lala’s farm. Tonight feels like I’m back in Kansas.
“Do you like pie?” I ask Diego.
“I love pie,” he says. “And even more if it’s made by county fair royalty.”
“How about a descendant of county fair royalty?”
“Like a pie princess?”
“Yeah, something like that,” I say. Because maybe, just maybe, I’m ready to bake my way back home. And pies are meant to be shared; at least that’s what Lala used to say.