Bar de Andalucia was dimly lit with iron hanging lights, casting a yellow glow over the red upholstered booths. The place smelled like wine and wood. The bar opened a couple weeks ago and her colleague, who spent a year abroad, said it was the most authentic Spanish food he had had in the U.S. She was already seated at a table with a freshly printed paper menu and high expectations. She needed something real.

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Her mother and father moved back to Spain after they retired 8 months ago. Everything that was home sold on Facebook Marketplace. The couches where she listened to Granada with her head in her mother’s lap. Mi cantar flor de melancolía / Que yo te vengo a dar. Everything that was her heritage left with her mother and father. She remembered her mother saying she could have her things, “Después de mi muerte. O cuando aprendes cocinar.” It was likely her mother would pass before she learned how to function in the kitchen.

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She placed her order with the long-limbed teenager with thick, curly hair and a blooming mustache. He reached for the menu in her hands and turned to the kitchen.

She took off her gray suit jacket and put it in the seat next to her. She rolled up the sleeves of her wispy light blue button up, the air getting hotter the more she settled in. She was almost a year into her position as assistant director of marketing and still wasn’t used to wearing business attire when she was out to restaurants after work.

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When she saw the paella from across the room, steam traveling from the plate to the ceiling, she thought of cigarette smoke. Then, terracotta half-moon shingles and suds dripping down a washboard. Her abuela’s house and pollita, te quiero. 

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He placed the large plate down in front of her. Clams, mushrooms, shrimp, peppers buried in pale yellow rice like shells in sand. And she was surprised. It wasn’t as golden as she expected. She put a forkful into her mouth. 

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The dish was warm and savory but she longed for more turmeric, more peas, more lemon. The bite didn’t satisfy the back of her tongue where her memories hid. It was a warped reflection of what she needed.

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No. It wasn’t that the dish wasn’t authentic, flavorful. It just wasn’t her mother’s.

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She stepped out of the restaurant, took out her phone, and called her. 

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It rang in her ear until she heard her mother. It felt like scooping warm water onto her face after a day's end.

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“Amor, it’s past midnight. ¿Qué pasó?” she asked.

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“How long did it take you to learn to make paella?”

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“¿Qué? ¿Ahora?” She could hear the sleep at the edge of her mother’s voice.

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“Please,” she said.

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“Your abuela taught me. No recuerdo.”

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“Can you teach me? The next time you're here? Or over Facetime?”

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“This is why you called?”

“I just-- Miss you.” 

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Silence for a moment and she said, “Por supuesto, mi amor. Aunque primero compra una sartén por favor.”