Marta here. We need to talk about food.
Because honestly? I think this is becoming the real reason we bought Casa Amada. The sun, yes. The beach, lovely. But the food? It’s an actual, ongoing, glorious obsession.
The Market Is My Happy Place
Every time we come back, I make my pilgrimage to Denia’s market like it’s a spiritual ritual. The smells hit you first. Fresh bread. Cured ham. An entire corner seemingly dedicated to olives that look identical but aren’t. And the fish. Oh, the fish. Rows of silver and pink and terrifying, staring back at you like they’re daring you to cook them properly.
Bryan stands two steps behind me, clutching the shopping basket like he’s being led into battle. “Do we really need the giant prawns?” he asks. Of course we do.
Anna wanders off to take artsy photos of jam jars. Luke circles the cheese stall like a hungry shark.
Bryan vs. Tentacles (Round 4)
There’s a thing that happens now every trip: Bryan’s annual battle with octopus.
“It’s just… it’s staring at me,” he says.
“Bryan, it doesn’t have eyes anymore.”
“It’s implied.”
But he’s trying. Last time, we ordered pulpo a la gallega at a small seaside taverna. Sliced octopus, olive oil, smoked paprika, simple and glorious. Anna and I dove in. Luke poked it like it might attack him. Bryan took one small bite, chewed very deliberately, nodded like a man convincing himself of something, and said: “Texture… unexpected.”
Progress.
The Churros Situation
Luke, meanwhile, has fallen into a deep, committed relationship with churros. Not the polite little British versions you dip daintily in chocolate. No, I mean the proper Spanish ones that arrive in coils the size of hula hoops, fried to within an inch of their lives, handed to you in a greasy paper cone.
“Mum, this is basically a vegetable, right? Because it’s fried.”
“…Sure, darling.”
Anna just uses them for Instagram shots while muttering something about aesthetics.
The Stuff I Swore I’d Never Eat (But Did)
Look, I was as wary as anyone when I first encountered sea urchin. But you try it once, fresh from a stall at the harbour, handed to you by a man who looks like he’s personally known that sea urchin since childhood—and suddenly you’re eating sea urchin.
It’s briny. Sweet. A bit weird. Like the ocean decided to surprise you with dessert. Bryan refused, obviously.
Shopping Small (And Slightly Chaotic)
Beyond the market, we’ve discovered tiny corner shops that seem to operate on their own logic. The butcher who sells Bryan unsolicited lottery tickets. The baker who insists on kissing both my cheeks every time I walk in. The old lady who tried to sell me a single eggplant and three onions wrapped in an old map.
And it’s brilliant. All of it.
Why This Matters (More Than We Thought)
There’s something about buying and eating food here that feels… human again. Less rushed. More real. You touch things. Smell things. Talk to actual people. Sometimes you leave with fish you can’t pronounce and olives you didn’t mean to buy. But dinner’s better for it.
Casa Amada isn’t just the house. It’s these meals. These experiments. These arguments over whether Bryan will ever eat squid ink (spoiler: not yet). It’s Luke’s face covered in cinnamon sugar. Anna’s phone full of photos. Me, trying to find room in the fridge.
Food. Glorious, messy, slightly terrifying food. And we wouldn’t have it any other way.
Next up: Bryan vs. anchovies. Place your bets.