A Bottle of Wine, Six Plates, and the Scent of Paella

When the doorbell rang for the first time, nothing was ready yet. But there was no rush either — tonight, there were no rules. Just wine, friends, and a huge paella cooking together in the middle of the kitchen. Someone opened the windows while I set the table. I laid the Wine Angels tablecloth; the fabric was a bit crooked, but no one cared. Because this table wouldn't be a "perfect" table, but a real one.

When I returned to the kitchen, everyone had found a corner. Someone was chopping peppers, someone was crushing garlic and laughing because they loved the smell on their hands. Someone asked, "Was the saffron very expensive?" and I said, "Anything goes for tonight." The kitchen: crowded but peaceful. The ritual, not the recipe: First, calamari were sautéed in olive oil. Then the shrimp changed color in the middle of the pan. Colorful peppers, garlic, and spring onions were added. Grated tomatoes released their juice, peas colored the kitchen with their hue. Arroz bomba, that round Spanish rice, was carefully added to the pan. Vegetable broth colored with saffron was poured over it, left to cook undisturbed. Finally, the mussels were placed. The lid was closed. Music was turned on.

A bottle of white, a bottle of red. Glasses were filled, the playlist turned to 90s Turkish pop. Everyone felt like they were in another time: Some on a kitchen chair, some chatting on the balcony, someone definitely snuck a bite from a plate! First, the smell filled everywhere, then a large tray of paella came to the table. Placed in the center. Spoons met in the air. Everyone paused for a moment. And then the first bite came: "Bro... this is so good!"

What remains from a night? A few photos, a few crumbs, the rings from the glasses. But I think most of all: the sound of the table that night. The sound of cooking together, laughing together, being silent together.