And later, after the mussels, after the pulpo a la gallega, the swirling bits of octopus flesh in a sauce of garlic and tomatoes, after the glasses of wine and loaves of bread broken and passed hand to hand, after the strong local blue cheese spread thick on thin crackers and the apples drizzled with honey, after we have all eaten as much as we can and then picked the remains from one another’s plates, tucking into our mouths one more bite, one more spoonful, one more tangy or sweet or salty fingertip, then we turn, lights dimmed and candles aflame, to the Queimada.

In the kitchen Chus shows me the brown ceramic bottle, the label handwritten: Aguardiente. I say it aloud. The other words I cannot pronounce because they are in the dialect of Galicia, the province where Chus was born. He is the only Gallego among us, the only person with roots in the land of magic and spirits, of incantations. Chus opens the bottle, holds it out for me to smell, explains that this is liquor made from the skins of grapes, not quite wine, not quite whiskey, and stronger than either. May I taste it, I ask, and Chus smiles, not yet, not until we tame it with fire.

And later, after the mussels, after the pulpo a la gallega, the swirling bits of octopus flesh in a sauce of garlic and tomatoes, after the glasses of wine and loaves of bread broken and passed hand to hand, after the strong local blue cheese spread thick on thin crackers and the apples drizzled with honey, after we have all eaten as much as we can and then picked the remains from one another’s plates, tucking into our mouths one more bite, one more spoonful, one more tangy or sweet or salty fingertip, then we turn, lights dimmed and candles aflame, to the Queimada.

In the kitchen Chus shows me the brown ceramic bottle, the label handwritten: Aguardiente. I say it aloud. The other words I cannot pronounce because they are in the dialect of Galicia, the province where Chus was born. He is the only Gallego among us, the only person with roots in the land of magic and spirits, of incantations. Chus opens the bottle, holds it out for me to smell, explains that this is liquor made from the skins of grapes, not quite wine, not quite whiskey, and stronger than either. May I taste it, I ask, and Chus smiles, not yet, not until we tame it with fire.

His smile is full, expectant. In this apartment, which is not where he lives but where he spends his extra time with a dozen other artists, painting, sculpting, developing photographs, Chus is more himself than anywhere else. I have seen him in bars, at the homes of mutual friends, on the street as he heads off to work, and nowhere else does he look quite so full, quite so content. And above all tonight, a night on which he has brought this group together—his coworkers from the newspaper, their partners and friends—to share food and drink and the experience of calling spirits to us.

Around the table there is silence and arms resting on stomachs. Moonlight outlines the window shades, outlines Chus positioning the large clay bowl in the middle of the table. I say that the moon is full on the winter solstice, imagine, and the others sigh yes, how amazing. I arrived with a full moon, I do not say, and I will see six more, perhaps seven, and then I will leave. I am already nostalgic, already sad for the day I arrived here, so impressionable and with so much faith. And sad for this night, too, which I am already imagining as memory, the night of my first Queimada in a cold apartment on Calle Independencia, Oviedo, Spain.