Original illustration by Mikel Alonso.

MY NEW BARCELONA KITCHEN

When I named this book, my actual Barcelona kitchen was nothing to write home about: a two-metre-square architectural afterthought with hardly any cupboards, almost no bench space and no ventilation. At least there was a designated hole in the wall in the same room for the fridge – a luxury by Spanish standards.

Even the kitchen at EMU Bar, where I somehow managed to pump out 50-odd covers on a good night, was so small it only took two small steps to leave it.

All that is left now of EMU Bar are memories. On a bad day, many of those memories could more aptly be described as flashbacks – burst water pipes, cement floods, a near-fatal electric shock, a depressed waitress, a homesick teenage daughter and impossibly late nights. But I prefer to look back on the good times when I would peer out from the pass-in at my tiny bar packed to capacity like an overcrowded train carriage during peak hour. On busy nights I would crank up Manu Chao to full volume, juggle and swivel, scoop and sizzle, plating dishes and spiking dockets, engulfed by a symphony of languages shouted in meaty sound bites across a reverberating ruckus of revellers.

I can still hear myself shouting at the waiter from the kitchen, ‘Order up, para mesa dos … tres … seis … venga ya! Food’s hot, drinks are not … pick up NOW!’; the glug glug, glug of more drinks being poured; the clang, smack, clink of dirty glasses and empty bottles being tossed off the waiter’s tray onto the bar; the constant hum of the coffee machine; the death rattle of the kitchen fridge struggling to keep a constant temperature; the effervescent snap of a metal cap letting go of a bottle of beer; the cold slide of the drinks fridge door; the ding, ding, ding of the microwaves calling; the splash and chink of plates hitting the sink; the crack and stifled squeal of an ice cube drowning in fizzing liquid; the call for la cuenta, the scraping of change, and the comforting sound – ker-ching, ker-ching – of the till being rung up.

When I closed the doors of EMU Bar for the last time in November 2007, I knew I would miss the rush but I also knew I needed to spend my energies on being a mum. Food writing gave me the freedom to nurture my love of food and my daughter at the same time. Ruby has since left home and gone to London in search of her roots and yet another accent. These days, the more I write about cooking the more I find myself missing the instant gratification of doing it for others. I don’t want the stress or the risk of running a restaurant again but I crave the energy surge that comes with the well-executed service of delicious food.

My new dream is to find a space where I can teach informal cooking classes, keep learning and pushing my own boundaries as a cook and food photographer, and say adiós to my kitchen-envy once and for all. While I’m dreaming I think I’ll add my own edible garden to the mix, where I’ll grow fresh herbs in large raised beds, and beans and peas on climbing vines, and I’ll put a giant kaffir lime tree in the centre of the patio to gently oversee proceedings and provide shade like the Buddhist king of citrus it is.