Some evenings aren't measured by clocks, but by flavors, aromas, emotions. By the texture of hand-kneaded dough, the sound of a fork meeting porcelain, a sip of wine that loosens the knot in your chest.
This is a story about five evenings in my beloved Plovdiv.
Five tables. Five couples. Five stories about love.
Or maybe – five ways in which life says, “taste me”.
1. Osteria Rosmarino: Her hands smelled of rosemary
They sat across from each other and spoke through food.
She – curly hair, a blouse with sleeves slightly gathered at the wrists.
He – a voice that made gardens bloom.
The pizza – gorgonzola and salami, dark and daring – stretched between them like a thread of trust. She ate greedily with her hands. He sipped slowly.
When the shrimp with cherry tomatoes, brandy, and capers arrived, he asked:
“What do you want most right now?”
“To own a restaurant. A small one. To pick rosemary in the morning and cook for people like you.”
“Like me?”
“People who listen with their eyes.”
She smelled of rosemary. And something she wasn’t ready to admit.
The pasta with veal ragu made her close her eyes.
“See?”, he asked, “This is a prayer without words.”
2. Memory Restaurant: Strawberries with a sigh
He wore a bright yellow shirt. She – pomegranate-colored lipstick.
It was their second date in the garden of Memory, where the light fell softly, and the wine acted like an old friend.
The salad with strawberries and mozzarella made them smile before the first bite.
“I recognize the seasons by the shoes I feel like wearing”, she said.
“And I – by the taste of tomatoes”, he replied.
They had Balkan salad, quinoa-parmesan patties as a starter, tuna with pumpkin and ginger – everything arrived on time, like a well-written scene.
“I feel like I know you from a place that doesn’t exist yet”, she whispered.
“It’s possible. Some people meet first in dreams.”
The strawberry mascarpone cake with chocolate ganache was the final line.
As they left, he offered her his hand like an invitation to dance.
She took it, the way one grabs ice cream on a warm day – with a smile and a little fear it might melt.
3. The Theater: The woman with the gloves and the man who wrote plays
The garden of the Drama Theatre was hidden in an inner courtyard, quiet, almost imagined.
She wore lace gloves and she didn’t take them off while eating the salad, nor when trying to cut through the buttered tongue.
He was a playwright. He understood the pain in pauses.
“Why do you wear gloves?”
“So I don’t leave traces.”
“I, on the other hand, live for them.”
He talked about his first play, its failure, and the success that followed. She nodded as if she already knew.
The wine between them behaved like an old friend.
When she kissed him goodbye – lightly, almost like a footnote – he whispered:
“I’ll write about this.”
4. Mykonos: The Promise
The restaurant smelled of the sea, even though the sea was far away.
She arrived with a phone that wouldn’t stop lighting up. He was quiet, with silver in his hair and a shirt the color of ouzo.
They ordered plenty of food – fresh salads, calamari with exotic sauce, fish, sushi, desserts… and lots of wine.
“I want to remember this evening”, she said. “In case I ever forget why we’re together.”
He smiled.
“I’ll remind you. I will tell you a different version each time.”
The food melted between them. The scent of truffle lingered on the palate like unspoken words.
He took her hand.
“Promise me that when we grow old, you’ll still invite me to dinner.”
“I will. And I’ll tell you the same stories, and you’ll laugh like it’s the first time you’ve heard them.”
5. The Golden Pear: A story passed across the table
They were seated by the wall where a photo from 1929 hung. They were a new couple – that stage where laughter is loud and eye contact constant.
The salads arrived colorful, plentiful, like promises. She talked about a trip to Lisbon, he – about how he doesn’t know how to cook rice.
“Then let’s eat it, even if we can’t make it”, she laughed.
Shrimp skewers came with imperial rice and tasted like perfection.
The pork fillet was tender, with pears and a sauce that lingered on the tongue like a song.
“There’s history here”, he said, pointing at the photo.
“Yes”, she replied. “But the best part is that someone is still telling it.”
Finale: Five dinners, five love stories… and one more
None of these evenings were mine. Or maybe they all were.
Sometimes, when I sit at a table with a glass of wine, I feel the shadows of those evenings glide across the tablecloth like secrets whispered to the wind.
Plovdiv keeps them.
On the streets connecting the restaurants like embroidery.
On the rim of a glass, sipped just to the point of longing.
And someday, the sixth dinner will come.
Maybe with him. Maybe with you.
And that feeling will return – that somewhere, someone remembers the taste of love, just like you remember it now.
Text and photos: Stela Mantareva
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