Zafra sneaks up on you. Flat fields and quiet cattle for miles, then tiles and arches and a square that looks like someone dusted it with flour. We rolled into the motorhome area by the recinto ferial, did the dance with the levelling blocks, and found a spot that sat almost straight if you didn’t stare at the spirit level too long. A man in a fluorescent vest pointed his pen at the service point with the kind patience you reserve for toddlers and tourists. Grey out here, fresh there, and please not during the fair, he said with a smile that translated itself. I nodded like I’d understood all my life.
We walked in under the hot four o’clock light with that first-day shuffle you get in a new town. The two squares open up like a trick. One broad and bright. One tucked and intimate. Arches in every direction. People doing nothing brilliantly. If Mérida had shouted history in Latin, Zafra murmured in Spanish and let you sit down without deserving it. Somewhere between the bigger plaza and the smaller one Mary stopped, did that little satisfied noise she makes when a plan lands, and pointed at a doorway with a chalkboard menu and, yes, chairs that would not wobble if a tram went past.
“This is the one I starred,” she said.
“Sturdy chairs?”
“And a photo of a flan.”
We had time to kill before the dinner shift, so we walked the loop again. A boy chased a football that belonged to everyone and no one. A man balanced a tray of cafés like it weighed nothing. A woman tilted her head back to laugh and the sound bounced off the stone. I tried to be the kind of person who notices details without turning them into a story. I failed in a relaxed sort of way. Someone had hung laundry on a line between two balconies, navy shirts and a single red towel, and the breeze did the rest.
Back to the van for water and sandals. Back to the squares as the heat turned gold. We took a small table just inside, where the ceiling fans could pretend to help. The place felt like an old house that had decided not to retire yet. Exposed brick, bottles stacked like a wine shop, a waiter who moved like he owned the corners. Mary ordered with the confidence of someone who has read a thousand reviews and quietly deleted most of them. I said yes to whatever she pointed at, which has been the right answer more times than not.
Bread arrived with oil that tasted like grass and sunshine. Then the pork. Three cuts on a board with a name that promised a trilogy. I am not good at food writing but I can spot the moment a knife glides instead of saws. It did that. The edges crisped where the grill kissed them. The middle still honest. We split a plate of cod that made us both go quiet for two bites. Retinto beef went past to another table and I understood why people come back to small towns just to repeat meals. Mary raised an eyebrow that meant we should not over-order and then did the decent thing and asked for dessert anyway.
“Flan,” she said.
“Research flan,” I said.
The waiter brought a wedge that wobbled once and settled like a cat. Sweet without being syrup. The caramel bitter in the right way. It tasted like someone made it that afternoon because they knew we were coming. We scraped the plate like teenagers and tried to look like people who would never do that.
Between courses I kept half an eye on the room. Two old friends at the bar, leaning in without touching. A couple in walking boots dividing the bill with coins. A family of four where the dad was losing an argument to a toddler with a green spoon. The kind of scene you want to live in, just quieter and cooler and with better bread.
After, we walked round the corner to the bigger square again and leaned on a wall that had leaned on other people for five hundred years. A breeze slipped through the arches. Someone tuned a guitar. A little girl counted the tiles from one side to the other and did not cheat at the corners. I said something sentimental about small towns and Mary let me finish without catching me out.
On the way back we cut under an arch that connected the two squares and I tried to fix the feeling of it in my head. The way the light changes from one space to the other. The way your feet slow without being asked. The way you suddenly know which table will be yours if you come back tomorrow.
At the van we did the dull checks that make mornings easier. Gas off. Windows cracked. Chairs back inside. I set a reminder in my phone because I am sick of being the man who forgets the obvious. Mary texted the kids. I stood outside for a minute and watched the last of the heat rise off the tarmac and felt very pleased with a day that contained almost nothing except a town, a table, and a shared dessert.
Phone note. Zafra works. Chairs level. Trilogy excellent. Flan finished. Try again tomorrow.
