Autumn has fallen, leaden, magnanimous, gray over Barcelona.
The warm summer wind has been losing its strength, barely gliding over the puddles that form between the stones, and the dogs bark differently now, in autumn.
The yellow lights of the restaurant blend with the landscape. It looks like the most steaming bread, as if it wanted to keep you warm, the red wine has grown and blushes proudly, the drops that join the waters that draw the crystals are beautiful, the wood competes in history with the history of the place.
Suddenly a noise. Correfocs bathe the street in light. Are those firecrackers? Now the world happens outside, the staircase misses it deserted, and from the rooftops life looks like a party. Do you think Bill Evans cares that no one seems to be listening to him?
The sound moves away. It leaves behind a smoke that goes away, time does its thing again and reveals us all smiling. It’s time to eat.
Something itches, something burns, everything is fresh, the smell of the food suits the candles well. Look inside, eat slowly, people seem happy. A cold wind blows and no one can see it. Silence.
What was in this place a hundred years ago? I could make myself a beautiful apartment in this place. Why do I like being here?
The charm. It cannot be explained and perhaps that is why it is called that, because a magical enchantment has fallen upon us. Like the one this house has. Like the one autumn has. Like when Ziryab’s lute sounds silent.
Come and see us.
(Poem written about autumn in Ziryab. Based on the fact that Ziryab – according to legend – invented the fifth string of the lute)