Sunday afternoon my padres had to go to a funeral for their brother-in-law, who passed away Saturday afternoon from cancer.
Ricardo, my padre, stayed behind Sunday until my room mate and I got back from touring the cathedral and historical university of Salamanca. They don’t have a car, and their son couldn’t pick him up til at least three to drive about an hour to the funeral.
Maya and I came home for lunch, and he opened the door wearing a blue frilly apron with a strawberry on it. We sat down and he brought us our food, claiming that he was the best waiter we could ever have. “And this,” he said proudly, setting our bowls of squid ink pasta down in front of us, “is the best dish a restaurant can offer.”
Squid ink pasta, by the way, is black, and tastes of seafood.
Spaniards lunch with two courses, usually ending the meal with fruit. We finished our pasta and…
“Now,” Ricardo said, bringing out the second course, a plate with six star-shaped fish sticks, “It really is a six-star restaurant.”