Julia

We had a lovely day out with our Norwegian goddaughter, Julia, who is coming to the end of a three month study period here in Barcelona.

What with us only getting back from Brazil at the end of January and being almost straight off to Scotland in the van, followed by more work trips to Madrid and Dublin plus another quick visit to Edinburgh and Mum in Largs and Julia’s crowded twenty-year-old-let-loose-in-Barcelona agenda including her visits to Madrid and many Saturdays in Sitges, today was the first opportunity to meet up!

We took her round our old haunts in Sarria where we lived for five years and which she had not been to before, enjoying warm sunshine as we strolled through the main square popping into the wonderful new library overlooking it and the church where a wedding was taking place, the fresh food market, tiny hidden squares, the street where we lived and the town hall square before heading down Mayor de Sarria to Casa Joanna’s for lunch.

Fun to have a chance to get to know Julia more and hear her plans for the future. She’s got a lovely personality and is interested in studying organisational psychology, so you can imagine how the conversation developed after that with my own work largely focused in this area.

After they knew we had made a reservation, the folk of Casa Joana put our favourite dish of spinach with cream on the menu! A few years ago, I wrote a story about the dish and restaurant, and even presented them with a framed Spanish translation of it! See here . . . https://www.blipfoto.com/entry/2061148739828975448

I gave a signed English copy of it to Julia, today, in the very moment she sampled the famous dish in the very restaurant.

We ended the day with a walk down to Plaza de la Concordia where Julia quickly spotted a gin and tonic menu, so we all thought, why not!

For our record, Dd and I then went to Bauhaus to collect our new dehumidifier.

For those interested in the story I share it hear, stating that copyright lies with the physical person whose Blip journal this is.

Spinach with Cream

‘I don’t understand why Rodrigo wants to do the restaurant up! I love it the way it is . . . that’s why I come here, for heaven’s sake!' Emilio eases into the chair opposite Mercedes at her table in Casa Anita on the main street of Sarria, one of Barcelona’s most conservative neighbourhoods. She studies her old friend’s lined face and sees him grimace as he bends his knees. Mercedes, now in her late seventies, is older than Emilio but doesn’t look it; she keeps her thinning hair in a bouffant style with a hint of auburn and the elegant frames of her glasses hide the thin blue veins under her eyes.

‘I feel at home the moment I step through that door,’ Emilio continues. Mercedes looks towards the entrance where, outside, a couple of tourists, maps in hand, give the place a once-over before continuing down the hill. Her gaze takes in the rest of the dining room with its assorted wooden chairs and tables, faded art-deco floor tiles, nicotine-stained ceiling, and wood-faced chiller cabinets in the corner beside the area where the owner’s family watch TV. She returns to her favourite dish of spinach with cream.

There’s no stopping Emilio. ‘Why Rodrigo would risk losing his regulars is beyond me! Some of the oldies have been coming here for over forty years, I mean you . . . for instance.’ Mercedes gives him a look, then continues to spread some of the deep green creamy mixture onto her toast which is smeared with crushed tomato and olive oil. She’s had spinach with cream almost every day in the restaurant for as long as she can remember, along with a half bottle of crisp white Viña Sol wine.

‘Look at that photograph,’ Emilio points to the far wall. ‘That’s Pepe opening the place in 1934. See how proud he is? He must be turning in his grave.’ Below the photo, Pepe’s son and Rodrigo’s father is sunk in an armchair watching football on the television. Mercedes knows that Casa Anita had brought a touch of grand café society to Sarria. Its fittings and fixtures, including the marble bar and wrought iron screens, echoed the famous Café Torino on Passeig de Gracia, the principal boulevard of the city.

It was the first establishment in the area to offer Italian-style ice cream, made possible by its state-of-the-art fridges, and Mercedes remembers her grandfather taking her there for a regular Sunday afternoon tutti-frutti treat. He’d been a life long friend of Pepe’s.

Years later, Mercedes established the habit of coming for dinner; as a spinster, cooking for herself never appealed. She followed the same ritual every evening, brushed her hair, touched up her manicure, chose one of her fine Loewe scarves to place over her shoulders and, finally, strolled through Plaza de Sarria on her way to the restaurant. She could remember the plane tree saplings being planted in the square just after the civil war and, more recently, the road being widened on its northern side to cater for the open-topped tourist buses.

‘You know, Mercedes, I always thought that no matter what hare-brained schemes the city council came up with there would be men of common sense prepared to preserve our way of life. I was sure Rodrigo was one of them. Just because his son’s coming back from catering college with some grandiose ideas doesn’t mean you can take spinach off the menu!’

Emilio stands, takes his jacket from the coat hook next to the table and folds it over his arm. ‘It shows you how wrong you can be,’ he sighs, shaking his head. He touches her shoulder as he leaves. ‘Good night, Mercedes.’

Mercedes scoops the last of the spinach from her plate. It’s a house speciality; she knows Rodrigo uses spinach from the valleys and folds in double cream and different cheeses at the last moment before serving, but he has never told her the exact combination.

Mercedes dabs her damson coloured lips with her linen napkin as Luis, who has served her for thirty-five years, takes her plate away. A few minutes later, he brings her usual crema catalana dessert with its crisp caramelised topping.

‘Mind if I join you?’, Rodrigo asks Mercedes. He’s wearing his chef’s blue checked trousers and white cotton tunic and has slipped away from the heat of the kitchen. There are only a few diners left as he flops onto the chair; he’s a large man in his late fifties with black unruly hair, and the chair just about supports him. He rubs his face with his hands. ‘I just wanted to let you know that we’ll be doing major work to the place when we’re closed for the August holidays. We need to attract more people through the door. I’m afraid the numbers don’t lie. Our regulars are thinning out and the older they get, with all due respect, the less they eat.’ Mercedes gives him a look as she savours the lemon notes of her wine blending with the vanilla in her sweet. ‘All the younger folk are passing us by as they walk down to Avenida Diagonal. We simply can’t go on like this. Honestly! Look at the place!’

For the second time that evening Mercedes conducts a visual inventory of her surroundings. ‘It’s been years since we’ve managed to get a shine on the floor, the ceiling is about to collapse, you can’t get seals for the fridges for love nor money, and it takes an age to clean the wooden surfaces and iron hobs in the kitchen. And, as much as I love him, it’s not very pleasant for our customers to hear Dad snoring in front of the telly!’

Rodrigo calls for a glass of red wine. ‘Xavi will be ready to start work in September, now that’s he’s finished college, and he’s right when he says we need a complete overhaul to keep the place and menu contemporary. Old man Pepe would understand if he were still alive because that’s exactly what he did when he first opened; he created something truly innovative. He knew what people would like and did his sums carefully. Frankly, Mercedes, if I don’t do it, there won’t be anything left for my sons.’ He looks at the photo of his grandfather on the wall. ‘I’m sure he would be proud of us!’

Luis brings Mercedes her espresso and she takes a sip. As she puts the cup down, she taps the menu card on the table with the beautifully polished nail of her forefinger and raises an eye-brow. She is pointing to Spinach with Cream. Rodrigo laughs, and tosses back his wine before rising. He moves behind her, squeezes her shoulders and leans down, his lips close to her ear, ‘Don’t you worry, Mercedes, it won’t be on the menu but there’ll always be a pot ready for those in the know! The best things never change!’

Unusually, Mercedes sits down on a bench in the square as she makes her way home. The honey scent of mimosa fills the warm, evening air. She breathes it in deeply, closes her eyes and smiles.