The Tapas Crawl – Part 2: Saffron and Rice

Iván's mother was small and fierce, with silver hair pinned up and a kitchen that smelled of orange peel, garlic and smoke. She looked Pilar up and down, then took the saffron from her hands with an expression of deep suspicion.

"You're the chef," she said, in Spanish.

"I'm the one who used to be a chef," said Pilar, in careful Spanish.

"Good. Then you'll cook, and I'll tell you if you're wrong."

The paella pan was enormous, black and battered. Pilar set it over the open flame in the courtyard, and felt her shoulders loosen for the first time in weeks. The rice went in first, golden and dry. Then the stock, hot and fragrant, and the saffron, bright as sunlight.

"Too much," said Iván's mother, watching.

"It's my grandmother's amount," said Pilar.

"Then your grandmother was wrong," said Iván's mother. "But I'll allow it."

Iván stood at the edge of the courtyard with a bottle of wine and a grin, watching Pilar work. She didn't measure anything. She simply listened to the rice, the hiss of the stock, the crackle of the wood, and when she lifted the pan to check the bottom, the crust was perfect.

"That's the socarrat," said Iván quietly, coming to stand beside her. "The bit everyone fights over."

"My grandmother said it was the only honest part of the dish," said Pilar. "You can't fake it."

They ate on the back step, as she had wanted, with the paella between them on a clay dish and the courtyard lanterns glowing gold above. Iván's mother had retreated to the front room, pretending not to listen.

"Well?" asked Iván.

Pilar tasted the rice. It was smoky and rich, saffron bright, the socarrat crisp and sweet. She closed her eyes.

"It's my grandmother's," she whispered. "It tastes like her kitchen. And like mine, finally."

Iván didn't say anything for a moment. Then he reached across and took her hand, the wine glass forgotten beside him.

"Can I ask you something?" he said.

"Yes."

"Would you stay in Seville for the summer? You could work in the kitchen with my mother, if she lets you, and cook for the bars on Sundays. And if you hate it, you can go back to London and tell your head chef he was wrong."

Pilar laughed, her eyes wet. "Yes," she said. "But only if you let me cook for you every Sunday, and you stop stealing my socarrat."

"Deal," said Iván, grinning. "Can I kiss you now? Here, on the step, with your grandmother's rice on my fingers and my mother pretending she's asleep?"

"Yes," said Pilar. "And if I say stop, you'll wash the pan."

"That's a very harsh deal," said Iván, and leaned in.

He kissed her slowly, the taste of saffron and wine between them, his hand warm against her cheek. She kissed him back, unhurried and sure, her fingers curling in the collar of his shirt. Somewhere inside, a radio began to play an old flamenco song, low and sweet.

When they parted, they were both smiling.

"Green?" asked Iván.

"Green," said Pilar. "Very green. Now wash the pan, Iván, and I'll tell your mother she was right about the saffron."

"She'll be insufferable," said Iván.

"She's already insufferable," said Pilar, laughing, and they went inside together, into the warm kitchen, towards the sound of the music.