From Collioure to Málaga: Living to Connect
- Marcel Courteau
- Jan 18
- 11 min read
Paris.
“I enjoy eating. I don’t like fast food or wasting my little money in a rundown restaurant. The only thing I know how to do is cook, and when I’m hungry, I cook for myself because I like to eat well,” Lucía Garrido told her father before leaving for Paris.
Born in Argentina to parents from Málaga who had emigrated in search of a better future, Lucía returned to Málaga with her family as a young girl. There, amidst the smell of fried fish, chickpea stews, and the bustle of the markets, Lucía discovered her connection to cooking. But by the time she turned twenty, she felt Málaga was too small for her ambitions and left that world behind to forge her own path in France.
She wanted to be there, in Paris, in that competitive and demanding arena. She spent countless hours peeling potatoes, chopping onions, and observing the best. Her big break came when she joined Jamin, the restaurant of the legendary Joël Robuchon, as an apprentice. Here, cooking became a discipline where simplicity could be transformed into something extraordinary—like the famous mashed potatoes, made with one kilo of "ratté" potatoes and a quarter kilo of butter, achieving an almost impossible Michelin perfection.
Her journey continued at Poilâne Boulangerie, a temple of bread in the heart of Paris, in Saint Germain. Under the guidance of Apollonia, the founder's granddaughter, she learned to knead Miche Poilâne, a robust and essential bread that demanded patience and mastery of all senses. Hands to feel its weight; the nose to catch the precise moment of fermentation; the eyes to read the temperature, timing, and texture; and the ears to recognize the internal crackle of air, that unmistakable signal that the bread was ready. A bread so perfect that every day, Parisians line up to get it.
At forty, Lucía had built a solid career and established her place in the gastronomic world. In Collioure, a small Mediterranean coastal town in the south of France near Catalonia, she opened a bistro, Chez Lucie, on Rue de la Paix near the church of Notre-Dame-des-Anges. There, her cooking became a bridge between two worlds: the Málaga roots of her childhood and the refined technique she had perfected in France. The bistro became her sanctuary, a place where she could control the outcomes and create something that truly felt like her own.
Chez Lucie and the Golden Slumbers
The bistro was straightforward to manage. Lucía led the kitchen with the precision of an orchestra conductor, supported by a veteran assistant from Collioure, while a young couple of waiters and an administrator handled the rest. Everything operated in perfect, almost natural harmony. It was open from Thursday to Sunday, mostly by reservation. At night, customers chose the menu when they booked, allowing Lucía to plan purchases precisely. At lunch, she offered a fixed menu with two options—practical and delicious. With just ten tables, always occupied, the bistro hummed with a unique energy that radiated happiness in every corner.
The Historic Center of Collioure and the Seafront Path – Southern France
The fleeting relationships she had experienced failed to accompany her beyond the early chapters of her life, and these frustrations fueled her focus on the one thing that made her happy. Forty, that inevitable milestone in life, arrived for Lucía with a growing weight that became more evident each night as she closed the bistro. She would turn off the lights, lock the door, and as darkness enveloped the small space, she felt a familiar anguish creeping in. In the quiet streets of Collioure, neither the restaurant's success nor her connection with the locals could silence the thoughts arising in her mind as she walked to her car: “And now, once again, home to sleep alone.”
One night, while tidying up after a long service, an acoustic version of Golden Slumbers by The Beatles began to play on the radio:
Once, there was a way, to get back homeward. Once, there was a way, to get back home…sleep pretty darling, do not cry, I will sing a lullaby.
The almost premonitory melody enveloped her and transported her back to Málaga, to a time when everything seemed simpler, when her dreams grew slowly and warmly, like freshly baked bread. She recognized that unease. She knew it would push her into action. But this time, she couldn’t find a direction, the stars, or the way forward.
A call from beyond.
The call came from Málaga like a jolt she couldn’t ignore. Her father was ill, and her elderly mother could not face it alone. The fragility of the situation was evident, and someone had to step up. With the weight of the decision on her shoulders and a knot in her chest, Lucía left the bistro in Collioure in the hands of her administrator, trusting her veteran assistant to organize the staff in her absence. Though it was hard for her to relinquish control over what she had built, she knew she couldn’t leave her mother to face her father’s illness alone.
Paco Garrido, her father, was hospitalized. The doctor met with Lucía to discuss the seriousness of the situation. He was kind but straightforward, understanding that it would be a difficult process and wanting to ensure the family had a plan. During the conversation, he asked her practical questions:
“Lucía, are you married? Do you have children?”
Lucía answered candidly:“
No, I’m alone.”
The doctor nodded solemnly. He had often seen how such situations brought out both the best and the worst in people.
“Then it’s all on you,” he said calmly.
“I’m sorry to say that the most critical times are the nights, so you’ll need to organize your rest with someone. And it’s a tough road, believe me. But sometimes, in the midst of hardship, we discover we can endure much more than we think.”
Isabel Vega, her mother, stayed during the day, while Lucía kept her father company at night on a journey that had no return.
One of those nights, her father, weak but lucid, looked at her with a gaze that cut through years of silences and unspoken truths.
Lucía leaned closer when he called her in a calm but frail voice.
“Come closer, daughter. Look into my eyes.”
She pulled up a chair and held his hand.
“I’m here, Dad.”
He took a deep breath, gathering his strength.
“Lucía, it’s not the place that matters. It never was. It’s you.”
The surprise left her silent, but he continued.
“You’ve always been good at taking on responsibilities, in the highs and the lows. But life isn’t just about carrying the weight. There are things you have to let in.”
“What are you talking about, Dad?”
“Your face when you told the doctor you were alone. I saw how hard you tried to hide it, but I saw it in your expression. Your loneliness, my daughter. That wall you’ve built around yourself. It’s not about the place, it’s not about the outside world. Daughter, the stories you tell yourself are what trap you. And you, Lucía, have believed that loneliness is your refuge. But those stories—you can change them.”
“It’s not that easy, Dad. It’s complicated. People are complicated.”
A tired smile crossed his face.
“Of course they are. Everyone’s strange, except you and me… and you’re a little strange, too. But you know? Life’s about finding your favorite weirdo—the one you want to stick with through everything.”
Lucía let out a brief laugh, more reflex than reaction.
He looked at her tenderly and picked up the thread of his thoughts.
“Cherry blossoms teach us something important. One moment, they’re big, beautiful, stunning... and the next, they disappear.
Love is like that. It’s immensely beautiful but fleeting, and yes, sometimes it ends. It can be one of the most devastating experiences in life.
But, daughter, it’s better to have been loved and lost than never to have loved at all.”
Her voice trembled as she replied,
“What if I’m not made for it? What if it always ends badly?”
He squeezed her hand as if to hold her fear as well.
“Then you try again. Isn’t that what you do in the kitchen? You change the ingredients, adjust the heat. But you never stop cooking.”
Lucía looked away, unable to bear the intensity of his words.
“How do you know all this? How can you be so sure?”
“Because I’ve been watching you your whole life. Lucía, you’ve overcome everything. Take a break from yourself. There’s only one thing left: make room for someone else.”
Lucía looked at him, tears rolling down her face.
“What if I’m not enough?”
He smiled, tired but full of conviction.
“Cook the food you want to eat. Never apologize for it. You don’t have to be perfect, daughter.”
He took a deep breath, pausing before continuing.
“Remember this: in the end, the only place truly worth being is with the person you love and who loves you.”
Lucía looked at him as if his words were heavier than she’d expected to hear. He squeezed her hand gently and went on.
“Everything we do in life, daughter… everything… is to find that person. And when you find them, nothing else matters. Not the place, not the time, not the circumstances. Only being together matters.”
These words struck Lucía like thunder. She had always assumed her solitude was a consequence of her dedication to cooking, her character, or the places she had lived. But now she understood that loneliness was a choice, a barrier she had built to protect herself from pain.
Plaza de la République - Collioure | Antonio Machado’s Grave
The Blank Page
Paco held on for just a few weeks. His passing was serene, a slow fading until he was gone. Spiritually at peace and with everything in order, he made one last request to Lucía:
“When you return to Collioure, go pay your respects to Uncle Antonio.”
Lucía understood immediately. Her father was referring to the poet Antonio Machado’s grave and the verse engraved upon it:
"And when the day arrives for the final journey,
and the ship that will never return is set to depart,
you will find me aboard, light of baggage,
almost bare, like the sons of the sea."
Life changes in an instant. After Paco’s death, Lucía knew she needed to stay close to her mother, Isabel. as the Spanish saying goes, 'A plant moved to a new pot often dies.'”
She decided to hand over the bistro in Collioure, that space that had been her refuge and her creation. Luckily, fate was kind. Her veteran assistant, who had worked with her from the very beginning, decided to buy it.
“I’ll keep it just as you left it,” he promised. “I won’t change the name or the essence. Chez Lucie will live on.”
In Collioure, standing before Machado’s grave and before her final return, Lucía realized her father had planned everything. Life, she thought, was like that final journey: traveling light, almost bare.
She took a deep breath. It was time to let go of the weight, to open her heart. Málaga awaited her with a new chapter: a blank page.
A New Rhythm
In Málaga, Lucía was trying to find her footing. She had spent weeks reorganizing daily life with her mother, but the need to rebuild her life began to call. It was Clara, a childhood friend, who gave her a lead over coffee:
There’s a new restaurant downtown, near Calle Larios. It’s an Argentinian place, I think. They’re looking for staff. Martín, the owner, is a serious and decent guy. Why don’t you go check it out?”
Lucía decided to go. It was a small space, warm and inviting, reminding her of the bistro in Collioure. Upon her arrival, a man stepped out of the kitchen to greet her.
Medium height, around fifty, wearing a short-sleeved black chef’s coat that revealed strong arms hardened by years of work, Martín had black hair streaked with gray, combed back, and deep, honest eyes—the kind that disarm you because they don’t try to impress. There was something about him—a mix of quiet confidence and rugged charm—that hit Lucía unexpectedly
Holding her résumé, Martín greeted her.
“Impressive experience. Jamin, Poilâne… and Chez Lucie.” He paused, looking at her with curiosity. “With that résumé, you could run this whole place.”
Lucía kept her composure and replied firmly:
“I didn’t come here to run anything.”
“Then what do you do best?” Martín asked, setting the résumé on the counter and crossing his arms.
“Whatever’s needed,” she replied.
Martín smirked lightly, as if amused by her answer, then leaned forward.
“Why did you leave Collioure?”
Lucía hesitated for a moment before answering.
“My father got sick. I needed to be with my mother.”
Martín nodded gravely; his eyes now softer. “I’m very sorry about your father.”
He paused, lowering his voice slightly.
“And now?”
Lucía shrugged.
“Now I’m just looking for work. Something simpler, less pressure.”
Martín’s gaze regained its usual intensity. “Something simpler? That’s not what this is. But I can offer you a challenge. We have three sections that need a strong lead: hot dishes, cold dishes, or desserts. Are you interested?”
Lucía raised an eyebrow, analyzing his tone.
“And what exactly do you need in those sections?”
“Someone who understands the rhythm of this kitchen. This isn’t Collioure, Lucía. Things move to a different beat here,” Martín said with a small smile, adding:
“Can you handle taking orders?”
The question caught her off guard, but she quickly collected herself. Years running her own bistro had accustomed her to leading, setting the pace. Now, the idea of relinquishing control felt both unsettling and intriguing.
“That depends on who’s giving the orders,” she replied, crossing her arms.
Martín let out a brief but genuine laugh.
“The kitchen is like a tango, you know,” he said, a sparkle in his eyes.
“Someone leads, but the magic lies in how the partner shines.”
Lucía sensed the implicit challenge in his words. Letting herself be led had never been her strong suit, but something about Martín—his confidence, his honesty—made the idea seem less far-fetched.
“Alright,”
she said finally, with a faint smile. “But I can’t promise it’ll be easy.”
Martín nodded, accepting the challenge with a brief laugh as he picked up a knife to test its edge. “I wouldn’t expect it to be. Tango never is.”
“In the kitchen, Lucía, no matter how much you plan your next step, you’re always improvising. The key is knowing how to lead.”
Lucía looked at him, crossing her arms, her tone as firm as her stance.
“Martín. In the kitchen, you survive. It’s the closest thing to an army. You plan, sure, but in battle, nothing goes as expected. In the end, it all comes down to how you make decisions and act on them in the moment.”
Martín nodded, smiling but not breaking eye contact.
“You’re right. In the kitchen, as in tango, it’s not just about leading. You listen. You feel your partner’s movements and decide the next step together. The magic lies in building it together.”
Lucía tilted her head, intrigued but not entirely convinced.
“And what happens if the one leading has no idea what they’re doing?”
Martín set the knife down, his eyes fixed on hers, serious now, but not harsh.
“Then there’s no tango. Just two people tripping over each other.”
She let out a brief, almost ironic smile.
“I suppose the art lies in not stepping on each other’s toes.”
He looked at her, his expression turning slightly more serious as he tilted his head back.
“I’ll see you tomorrow. Shall we dance?”
Lucía didn’t respond. She looked at him, nodding, with a glimmer in her eyes that was equal parts challenge and curiosity. Then she turned, grabbed her bag, and walked out of the restaurant with determined steps, without looking back.
But when she reached the door, she glanced up at the sky, and a small smile spread across her face.
Sources:
Restaurant Jamin. District 16th of Paris.
Poilâne Boulangerie. District 6th of Paris
Mashed Potatoes by Joël Robuchon - MJ Recipes. Michelín
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