Las Dulces

Las Dulces

It’s midday in Seville and I’m sitting down to tortilla studded with gems of potato, creamy aioli, tender pork cheeks - far removed from my breakfast of espresso and churros, eaten on foot as I followed the streets of the barrio, dizzy in its intricate maze. Lunch is a chance to pause, the owner of the taverna shaving me tissue-thin shards of meat from the ham hanging over the bar.

Every dish, here, has its own backstory. Imported almonds hint at former dynasties, midnight dinners explained by the sweltering nights. The food is a living artifact of the city, the Moorish influence of spices and ingredients as evident as the turrets and tiles of the buildings. Adaptation and mystery is in every mouthful, every view, different bars providing hits of taste-memory for me to savour. Salted almonds and meatballs provided the backdrop to a Triana flamenco show one evening; a waiter served marinated tuna the next, hands extravagant as he explained its preparation.

After lunch I walk endlessly again, eventually finding myself in a plaza dominated by a convent. Its whitewashed walls are sharp against the sky, suddenly peaceful rather than scorching. A small door lies underneath the barred windows, a handwritten sign next to it: Las Dulces. Nobody else is around.

I imagine the scene inside: shutters closed, trays ready to bake, quiet women with rosaries, and am almost too scared to knock. But I do. A wavering “Ave Maria,” greets me and suddenly, incredibly, a bag of pastries is in my hands, flaky with almonds. A hint of incense dissipates like breath.

On the way home I cannot stop thinking of the pious nuns with floured hands, the centuries implicit in that one simple Ave Maria. And at last I see the scale of this culture, comprised of the flotsam of generations and bound together finally by food, which unites us all. I eat each pastry with respect, conscious of the heritage that brought them to me, looking around as though I am the first to discover anything.