By seven the light in the room had gone orange and the air was still warm from the afternoon. I set the saucepan on the ring and waited for the oil to warm, leaning against the wall because there was no chair. The hob was the only surface in the room that was the right height for anything.
The room above the bakery in Vila Nova de Milfontes came with a single hob, one saucepan, and a window over the street. There was a bed in the corner and a sink under the window and a small fridge that hummed against the wall. The saucepan was slightly too small for the ring. I had been cooking on it for four evenings.
The same thing each time. Rice first, because it took longest and filled half the pan. I measured the water in a glass that came with the room and waited for it to boil. The steam fogged the window and I wiped it with my sleeve. Then whatever I had carried back from the Tuesday market on the walk home. Green beans this week, a tomato that was already soft. The onion I did not use until the third night. Tinned sardines because they were cheap and kept without a fridge.
The pan would not hold everything at once. I cooked the rice, tipped it onto a plate, then heated the beans and fish in the pan while the rice sat on the counter and went sticky. The tin lid left a sharp edge. I bent it back with my thumb each time. The fork had come with the room. It had a bent tine.
The window was the only place to eat. The sill was wide enough for a plate and a glass of water and nothing else. I ate standing, looking down at the street. The woman who ran the bakery knocked on my door the first morning with a roll she would not take money for. She closed the door before I could finish thanking her. I saw her through the window most afternoons, sweeping the step in a blue apron, not looking up. She did not knock again after that first morning.
On the fourth night the tomato had gone softer. I cut around the bruised part and put the rest in the pan. Oil spat once and then settled. Twelve minutes for the rice. Four for the beans. Sardines already done in the tin. I think that was the evening I stopped planning what else to make. I stood at the window and ate and the plate was warm in my hands.
By seven the street below was quiet. The shutters on the bakery had come down. Two people walked past with bread from somewhere else.
The ovens were off but the building held the smell from the morning. Yeast and sugar from the walls, sardine oil from the plate. Should have been wrong. It wasn’t. I scraped the pan with a spoon and left it on the ring for the next evening.
The first night I thought I would be tired of this by the third. The rice came out the same each time. Not better, not worse. I kept thinking I should try something different. The window was open and the street still smelled like bread and the plate was already clean. The pan was still on the ring.
If you’re thinking about it
- The Tuesday market stalls close by early afternoon. Go in the morning for the best produce.
- Rooms above shops here are basic self-catering. Ask about kitchen facilities before booking.
- One hob is manageable for a few nights. Bring a larger pan if you plan to cook longer.
- The fridge in these rooms is barely cold. Tinned fish and dry rice keep without it.
I’ll be here a while longer.
