Running with the Bulls

The street's still wet from last night. Somewhere behind you, hooves on cobblestone — not close, not yet — and the whole city smells like smoke and saffron and the kind of morning that doesn't believe in sleeping in.

Smoked Paprika on everything that touched the grill last night. The peppers, the chorizo, the potatoes that got crispy enough to shatter when you bit into them. Hungarian Paprika in the sofrito, sweeter, rounder, building the base while the smoked one builds the edge. Two paprikas. One dish. Spain understands that more is more when more is right.

Saffron in the rice. Spanish Saffron — the real thing, hand-harvested, each thread worth more per gram than gold and earning every cent of it. The paella took an hour and nobody rushed it because rushing paella is a crime they probably have a law for here.

Mediterranean Spice Blend on the lamb, herbed and roasted until the outside is bark and the inside is blush.

Spicy Chai in the morning. Cardamom and pepper and ginger, bold enough to match a country that runs its bulls through the streets for fun. Chocolate Chile Chai when the sun goes down — cocoa, cinnamon, cayenne, the kind of warmth that starts in the cup and ends in your chest.

Six products. One country. The kind that doesn't ask if you're ready — it just starts running.