Para papá
Sesentacinco.
Sixty-five deserved more than a card, a candle and a table down the road. So we took the whole family somewhere none of us have been, for four days, with nothing to do but be together.
Madrid in November: cold, bright mornings, evenings that turn amber around six, and plates that keep arriving before anyone thinks to order them. The kind of city that never asks you to hurry.
One night we eat at Botín — the oldest restaurant in the world, open since 1725 — and walk home the long way afterwards.
