Muntaner Street

We exit our apartment, squeezing in between the wall and the door leading to the elevator. Pressing the call button, we move to our left once it arrives in order to open one door outward, pushing inward on two others.  Closing all three, we punch “B.” We barely fit but are happy for the convenience of being able to avoid the multiple story climb we would have to make upon our return, lugging purchases from Mercat del Ninot, in order to reach our first-floor apartment—four floors above the street.

It is sunny this beautiful Friday morning, and I am warmer than I have been during this entire trip.  I even have sandals on my feet. Once we exit the building I look around for the very obvious strip club I saw the night before.  In daylight hours it is subdued—barely noticeable.  On the opposite side of the apartment entrance is a lovely restaurant, with potted plants spilling from iron urns.

Mercat del Ninot

We pass this restaurant and several more as we round the corner in search of the Mercat del Ninot—a block and a half from our new home. We enter through glass doors onto a floor in the middle of two shopping areas.  A small escalator-up takes you to an open-air type market.  A larger escalator-down takes you to a traditional grocery store.  We opt for up.

The first thing I see is a beautiful array of figs. Gosh, it is fig season—almost over, probably.  We walk on. Graciela told us that there were several stalls that sold lunch as well as fresh produce, fish, beef, chicken or pork, plus other things.  It is 1 p.m. and we haven’t eaten since last night’s airport food. There really is only one thing on our minds.

Numerous fresh fish stalls overwhelm in their bounty.  The fish glisten and gleam.  Fresh anchovies and fresh sardines are piled high.  Larger fish get their own place of honor.  Fishmongers are busy filleting this morning’s catch for their customers.  We pass by a produce stand with an array of wild mushrooms spilling from multiple shelves.  Individual beef, pork, and chicken vendors carry every cut of protein imaginable. Like Alice, we stroll through Wonderland, still in search of lunch.

Lunch at the Market

Tucked in a back corner we discover the perfect place—I don’t even notice the name.  The waitress persuades Michael that we should stop.  Take a seat. Take a chance.  The menu is in Catalan and she interprets. Michael is seduced by oxtail braised in red wine for eight hours.  I can’t make up my mind between a steak sandwich with provolone cheese and roasted peppers or spinach ravioli with a beef ragu.

“The sandwich you can share as a starter,” I am told by our helpful waitress.

We share and eat the entire delicious, crispy, gooey, savory sandwich, and my pasta is good, but Michael’s oxtails are wonderful. Anything cooked in wine for eight hours by definition must be wonderful. I snag forkfuls of Michael’s lunch whenever he isn’t paying attention.

Purchasing the Necessities

Downstairs in the supermarket, pulling the small plastic shopping basket behind us, Michael reminds me not to overdo. We purchase only the bare necessities: paper towels, bacon, eggs, bread, strawberry jam, butter, and wine.  We lug home our small cache in my bright turquoise and orange bolsa and begin living our life in Barcelona.