Aha Azahar!!

It is Tuesday, full of cool winds and peopled streets. La Eslava and its off-menu tapas beckon. A glass of Ribera del Duero first. What next? Delicias waft past, too quickly to identify. A chalkboard menu flirts with possibilities. Outside, the camarero trails an eager appetite; an outstretched hand points to this, to that. 


Inside, a back-lit English voice suggests costillos con miel. Conversation follows--short histories, reasons for being in Spain, business cards. A downward glance reveals one more delicia: azahar-sevilla! Face, voice, person to a much read blog on things sevillano. ¡Fortuito!


An elusive morsel, fate reveals contents and flavors, slowly, richly.  ¡Buen provecho!

Carmen

A recycled bar across the street buzzes. It is raucous white noise above the plummeting whine of motos and coches. Slapping, staccato steps on cobblestone open the scene. A woman's shouts erupt and echo along the street. Feet and voice advance. "Puta!" she bellows. Her voice and feet bear down. It is a chase told through counterpoint. Opera, unseen but heard.