The alley in Lagos is narrow enough that the restaurant next door becomes part of your table. Someone’s grandmother is arguing about football scores. A cat sits by the wall, deciding whether I’m worth the effort. I decide I’m not offended.
The sea bass arrives whole, eyes and all, the way it should. Skin blistered, a little char at the edges, olive oil pooling where the fork breaks through. It smells like the ocean two streets away decided to follow me here. Someone at the next table orders the same dish and we exchange a nod, the international signal for good choice. The waiter doesn’t rush anything. Nobody in this town seems to be rushing anything, which after Lisbon’s hills and Porto’s rain, feels like a held breath finally let out.
Candlelight does what candlelight does. It flatters the wine, the whitewashed walls, the flaking blue paint on the door across from me. I think about pulling out the camera. I do, eventually, one frame, the sea bass slightly off center because my hand moved with the second sip of vinho verde. Some photos are better slightly wrong. This one will be.
There’s a version of me from years ago who would have filled this silence with a phone call, a message, something. Tonight I just eat. The bread is dense, made for mopping up the last of the olive oil, and I mop unapologetically. Cozinha aberta, someone yells from the kitchen doorway, open kitchen, though nobody in the alley seems to need translating anything tonight. Food, wine, the low murmur of a language I understand about seventy percent of. It’s enough.
Later, walking back through the old town, the cobblestones are uneven under thin sandals, and the sea air turns cooler, saltier. A church bell rings for no particular reason, or maybe every reason, who keeps track. I stop at a corner where the street opens up to a sliver of harbor, boats knocking gently against each other in the dark.
Is there a better use of an evening than this. I genuinely don’t have one. Some dinners ask nothing of you. No conversation, no plans, no itinerary for tomorrow beyond maybe the beach, maybe not. Just the alley, the candle losing its fight with the dark, and a fish that tasted like it knew exactly where it came from.
