He had never measured out the salt before, and so when he did it this time for the first time, he was astonished by how much salt he needed. The large sea salt grains bounce off the cup of the kitchen weight, making a sounds reminiscent of people pouring raw rice into a container. That was what he thought. Working with food, the most basic sustenance besides air and water, and unlike those two life-sustaining elements, food opens the door to creativity as well as a myriad of gastronomical enjoyments. And so the sound of the salt grains was very pleasing and familiar to him even though he had never associated it with salt before.
It was a good half a cup of salt that he measured out; a quarter the weight of the little new world potatoes he was going to cook with. The little potatoes were already sitting in a pot of water, waiting to be baptized further with this salt. After pouring the salt in the water, he waited for the water to boil, at which point he covered the pot with a kitchen towel before putting on the lid. Then suddenly the kitchen is quiet again, and adventure of preparing food and seeing the water go through its rage ended. The fire had been lowered. The timer was then set for twenty five minutes.
He sat there, in the quiet kitchen, and thought about the potatoes. He felt a chill in this heated house. It wasn't from a draft seeping through the window somewhere. The blizzard had come and gone, and the snow left behind was now being extinguished by the warming weather. No, the chill didn't come from the outside. It came with the wind of his memories.
The potatoes. This was a Spanish recipe. There were many other ways potatoes were prepared in Spain. He remembered one, one so-called papas bravas, brave potatoes from Barcelona. It was a chilly but sunny day. It was winter in the Catalonian capital. The tall birch trees were all naked, extending their branches to the sky like the veins on the sculptures of saints raising their hands upwards in praise of their God. There were nonetheless many tourists roaming around in this neighborhood he could not possibly remember the name of. But there was a big boulevard, not the big one they call Las Ramblas, but another one, that ended, if he recalled correctly, at a market that was under renovation, like so many things were in this old city trying to keep its economy going afloat at the eve of the recession that has still not released its grip. Was it not that long ago?
He was sitting there, in the chilly air, with his old jacket on. He was standing outside this eatery with a crude painting of a dolphin outside. Was it the name of the eatery in Catalan? Dolphin? He was alone. He wondered what he was doing there. He had spent the last hour looking for a place to eat, but they were either all full or closed (as in, not yet open). Now that he found a place that seemed to have empty chairs and open, he stood there dubious.
Why? As he was sitting now in the comfort of his own home, the familiarity of his own kitchen, and beholding another culinary adventure, he wondered in the silence of his own dominion, why he was so doubtful, so hesitant, standing there. He got up to heat up some water, perhaps semi-consciously he wanted to warm up, to counter the chilly thought. It was cold. He didn't have his gloves on, he recalled. He had his camera, his backpack, but no hat and no gloves. He sat back down and water for the water to boil. Now the silence is slowly being intruded by the sound of the kettle, the rattling of its bottom by the increasing number of bubbles. He couldn't see the bubbles as the kettle was made of metal, but he imagined they were getting more and more numerous.
He imagined. That day, about 1PM somewhere in the Catalonian capital, he imagined what it was like to go inside, sit down, and order. What would he order? He was hesitant. He could speak Spanish, and they would speak Spanish back to him regardless of what their native tongue was. So what was the problem?
He put his head on his crossed forearms on the kitchen counter, at which he was sitting. He wasn't trying to remember, he was amused and savoring the artificial chill air coming from his insides. The potatoes. They led him to this moment in his life that otherwise seemed so insignificant. He had traveled to so many places before that moment, and of course, afterwards too. Why that moment? He looked up and rested his chin on the forearms. The rattling was becoming louder, and very soon the whistle would blow and he would have to get up to take the water off the stove. He got up and opened the door to the pantry. There he took out a container of Chinese loose tea. He opened it and took a whiff, still smelled intense. He looked at the time and it was just a little past noon, in fact, not so different from when he was standing in front of the eatery with a dolphin painted on the front.
With one hand holding the container, he closed the pantry door behind him and walked to the section of the kitchen counter closest to the stove. He looked at the pot with the potatoes hidden inside. He understood why it was not making any noise. The kitchen cloth he had used muffled all sounds. Steam could be seen slowly rising out of the little hole of the mouth of the kettle. He set the metallic container of tea down and reached for the teacup that already came with a filter. Preparing tea was something he had been doing everyday for many years, since before he went to Barcelona that time. And while his hands were preparing the tea, his mind, bringing back more of that chill, went back to the place in front of the dolphin painting.
He was hesitant, almost wanted to leave. He couldn't imagine walking in there alone, and having to brace himself for a conversation, however short, in a foreign language. He might be made fun of.
Yes, he might be.
Not really because of any feature about him, not because he wasn't white like most Spaniards, not because he was a tourist toting a big camera, and not because he would certainly have an accent in his orders for food. Because he was alone and somehow, he never felt he belonged there. He was alone then as much as he was alone in the kitchen now. The week he had been in Barcelona he had realized that people there were rarely alone. They were always with someone or some people. They either had friends or family with them. Even the tourists, most of whom were Spanish, were always in a group or with a significant other. This, he remembered now, was what accentuated his loneliness in the city, and it was this loneliness, almost to the point of shamefulness, that prevented him from going into eateries and enjoying himself. It was almost always like this, the sensation almost always followed up, the loneliness, the inability to share his ideas and feelings with anyone. In this city, it was even harder when he was surrounded by people who were never alone.
Just the day before he was getting his haircut, and the barber, who was, actually, alone, took no time to start talking to him. They had a knack for connecting with people, strangers, included. They had a knack to embrace others, it seemed, and for this reason, he felt a mixture of shame as well, shame that he never could bring himself to connect with someone and become part of something human. He only wanted someone, it seemed, so that he could be saved from loneliness, whereas people here, it seemed, became part of something because it was so natural.
So he stood there, feeling the dread of entering yet another eatery, yet again alone. He felt his soul taking a step back. He could imagine his body following it and leaving this place. He saw that there was no bar inside, the one place he had learned to hide from the shame of loneliness. He would have to sit at a table, alone. He turned to look at the boulevard full of people braving the chilly wind, some taking pictures. He walked away from the door a little, so as not to be seen strange lingering in front of the eatery like that.
The whistle started to scream very loud very quickly. He lifted it up and poured some hot water into the empty teacup. Then he waited for the teacup to warm up. He wrapped his two hands around the body of the cup and waited until it was no longer bearable. Then he lifted the teacup and walked over to the sink, pouring the warming water out. By now the remaining water in the kettle was cooled enough for green tea. He took the teaspoon already sitting by the tea container, and got a brimming full of the brownish tea leaves, and dumped it in the filter of the teacup. Then in he poured the hot water before putting the lid on it. He looked at the clock on the wall and mentally made a note about when he would have to remove the tea: three minutes later.
He turned around and looked at the dolphin painting again. So innocent. The people in there couldn't be mean, couldn't be laughing at him if he were to go in there. They were business people. Maybe. But he was sensitive. Then he looked down and saw what they were offering today for lunch. The word "Papas bravas" caught his eyes, but not because it was something he had read a few days ago as a regional specialty, but rather, the word "bravas" made him feel a little less cold. He wasn't sure if it actually meant brave, in which case it made no sense for potatoes, or if it simply meant good or great. But either way, those two words made him feel warmer.
After he took out the filter along with the tea leaves inside, he sat back down and started sipping the tea. It was very warming. He smiled. He understood why those two words warmed his insides up a little that day. Yes, he liked the sound of "brave"; that was what traveling had always done for him, bring out the bravery in him, or at least made him a little braver. But then, he remembered he really wanted to know what "papas bravas" looked and tasted like. What could you do with potatoes that you can have so many different recipes? He wondered. He remembered wondering about it. And his almost dead heart, dying from the dread of being singled out as the loneliest man on earth, started racing. He was becoming excited about finding out what this local specialty was like.
The price to pay for traveling was always for him that loneliness, that desperate desire to connect with someone. But it had always been a worthwhile price to pay for experiencing life. These brave potatoes were waiting for him like soldiers of a new country waiting for him, a country ravaged by war, so full of uncertainties, but also so interesting. He was perhaps a reporter from outside, meeting the tired but brave soldiers guarding the border.
Sipping his warm, slightly bitter tea he imagined that metaphor as he recall how he decided to take that step over the threshold of the eatery's door and walk into a very sunny room full of empty chairs as well as people. Few took notice of his grand entry, but those who did smiled at him. And as soon as he sat down, a middle-aged waiter with a quintessential mustache put knife and fork next to his plate, and asked how he was doing. So the adventure began. The excitement of tasting some new potatoes had built up into a roaring crescendo. He remembered that he was happy sitting there. He even chitchatted with the waiter, about the chilly weather, no doubt.
He put his cup of tea down and savored a moment of complete silence. The rattling had long gone. The pot pregnant with little potatoes immersed in super-salted water made no sound, no grumbling. This was a Spanish dish he had tried multiple times when he was in Spain, and he was making it now, if not for its flavor, at least for the memory of many brave steps he took traveling alone in this world.
