Walking through the corridor attaching the kitchen to the dining room, we followed closely behind the waiter who was laden in all white, aside from a beige ankle length apron that was fastened around his waist swinging with every step, wrapping around his legs. A wine tool hung from his back right pocket, and the stencil of a pack of cigarettes was outlined in the other. He motioned for us to seat ourselves in the corner table, which appeared to be the only current vacancy. The dining room modest in size had a dozen tables, all holding two or four people and were lined up bistro style, except for a round table in the middle of the room. A 5 person bar sat against the wall contiguous to the kitchen. There were two waiters – Ernesto our waiter, plus one other - a short, stocky older man who seemed to be friends with each of his guests. Ernesto brought us a wine list, and in passable Spanish I asked, and pointed for the Txacoli - an interestingly complex and very unique Basque white wine.
The interior was musky and dark, with attractive, black cherry wood floors – the perfect contrast to the starched white linen hanging over each table. There were two square windows adjacent to the front door that looked into the lazy street outside. It was entirely dark aside from the occasional storefront lantern. From time to time young couples passed by walking their dogs casting enormous shadows along the cobblestone streets behind them. Our waiter returned in no particular hurry with our bottle of wine, and an amuse bouche of prawns over a nest of salsa romesco. He poured her's first, and then mine and placed the bottle behind the salt and pepper grinder. He pointed to a nondescript chalkboard hanging behind the bar, and written were the day's offerings. The chalk was faded, smeared and I was under the impression that this board didn't change all that frequently. Included were all of the unique Catalan favorites that the Barcelonans cherish - Sarsuela - a seafood combination with white wine, sherry and paprika, Fideua - a cousin of paella, and other local favorites including rabbit, snails and poultry. He merely gave us a thumbs up and smiled. Anna's glass met mine as we rubbed the final bites of our prawns in the last of the nutty, vibrantly orange salsa romesco, while chatting about the remainder of our six weeks in Western Europe. We were at the halfway point, and would be traveling to the Italian Riviera in a few short hours - a new country speaking a new language along a different strip of the Mediterranean Sea. We spoke of the amazing places and things we had seen thus far on our trip, spoke of life back home, how we missed our families but how we never really wanted to go home. Every day was a new adventure, a new cultural experience and this dinner was no exception. After a few short minutes two plates were placed in the middle of our already overcrowded table. We played chess with the various preexisting items in front of us - rearranging things in an orderly fashion that would allow us to eat comfortably. We never ordered anything. We smiled at each other, looked at Ernesto who was chatting with the chef and bowed our heads in appreciation. He returned the gesture. We were given Sarsuela, and the other dish - it was rabbit loin with currants and a smokiness of paprika served over a wildly aromatic saffron rice. We ate, marveling at the unique flavors of Spain. It wasn't European, nor North African, nor Mediteranean. It was all of those braided together and was wonderfully harmonious. We cherished the incredible meal from the back alleys of Barcelona while the restaurant slowly emptied out. We enjoyed the remaining sips of our wine, chatted with Ernesto about this city, where we were from, and why we were here. Conversation was minimal and elementary, since there was an obvious language barrier, one that couldn't be hurdled with my many years of school taught Spanish.
For dessert we sipped on sherry and when our glasses were dry and I asked for “la cuenta” Ernesto notified us that our meal had been taken care of. At this point the chef was sitting at the bar with a brown tinted aperitif, and a stack of papers with a pen behind his ears. There was still a meat thermometer in the sleeve of his chef’s coat, and he was going over the night while determining what needed to be purchased at the local farmer's market the following morning. Anna and I approached him. His face was dark and tinted with a combination of two to three day old black and gray hair. I introduced myself and grasped his hand, shaking it firmly - it was rough and calloused, signifying the life of a restaurant chef.
"Thank you so much for wonderful meal, that was too kind," I said with extreme gratitude.
"No, thank you. It has been nearly a month since an American has walked through these front doors, we are hard to find for most of you guys," he responded with, well, what seemed like an American accent.
"I find that hard to believe, but I guess you are a little off the beaten path. Your food was fantastic though. Every bite of it," I insisted, and then continued," If you don't mind me asking, where are you from?"
"Me, oh I am from Boston originally, but that was many moons ago. I visited Barcelona when I was about your age. I was in culinary school and wanted to get away, had to get away, so I decided to do my externship here and never left. Being from Boston I had to be by the water, but the weather here - the culture here - the people here - you can't beat it. I couldn't leave. So here I am twenty something years later."
"Wow, that is incredible," Anna responded.
"So here you are - that really is incredible. I wish I could do something like that.... that we could do something like that," I said, then thought about the implications of what that would mean.
"Why can't you?" He inquired.
*****
I didn't really have an answer. Neither did she. Several moments passed and he smiled at us, shrugged his shoulders, then poured another scotch and offered us one - we passed. The rest of the night that question wandered through my head. Why couldn't I do that? Why couldn't I live that life? A life that is real, emotion driven and passionate......
The door swung behind us, muting the music within. We left the empty restaurant and found ourselves on an equally empty street under a cloudless sky, exposing the wondrous stars above. These were the same stars illuminating a similar sky across the mighty Atlantic Ocean, in a land very far from here. The flicker of flames from gas powered lanterns swung back and forth with the wind, and the smell of the salty sea took hold of me. It was eerily quiet except for the infrequent howl of a distant dog, or the chatter of Spanish drifting from one of the nearby porches. Though together, the walk back towards Las Ramblas was forlorn and introspective. Our thoughts coincided - thinking about the lives we were living, what they meant, what we were destined to do, and who we were to become. Slightly buzzed and full from a fantastic, authentic Catalan meal, we walked back towards a world we were more familiar with, a world that was safe and one which was filled with tourists that would return to their own lives, just like we would be doing at some point soon.
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