Chasing Spain through tomato bread

The woman at the frutería across the street from my flat ran away when I asked for a tomato. Somewhere between the eggplants and the onions, she disappeared behind a door and emerged with a perfect ruby orb. She held it to my ear and squeezed. Swish, swish. “This one,” she said, “is ready for bread.”

María José had already clocked me as a novice. I’d just moved to Barcelona and, like any newly anointed local, had been eating pan con tomate – crunchy, tomato-slicked toast – in cafés and taverns all over town. Sometimes more than a slick. But I hadn’t noticed how one plate sang while another spoke in hushed tones.

That day, María José became my teacher. She sent me to see Jordi at Semón for olive oil and good salt, and to Claudia at La Farineta for proper bread. I returned with golden oil,