It was four metres by three, with a window onto a yard where the neighbours' washing argued with ours. There was a gas stove with one ring that didn't work and one that worked too well, a marble counter cold enough to rest pastry on, and my grandmother, who was five feet tall and had never once in her life measured anything.
She taught by doing and I learned by standing too close. Bacalhau soaked for exactly as long as it took, which changed. Caldo verde with the kale sliced so thin you could read through it. A francesinha sauce that she said had beer in it and I later discovered had rather more beer in it than she said.
The rule was that food was for people, not for looking at. If a plate came out beautiful she'd frown and move something. I fight that frown every day at the tasca and I'm never sure who wins.
She died in 2016. The flat went to a cousin who put in an induction hob. I don't go back. I don't need to. I can stand in that kitchen with my eyes closed anywhere in the world, and I do, most days, around eleven in the morning, when the stock goes on.