I remember the white and blue façade of the building across the street in the dark of the evening, approaching the window to get a better look, then suddenly being drawn beyond the glass. There, fragments of daily life fell at dinner time; strangers danced around the tables, and from room to room, a mere flick of a light switch gave me the chance for a fleeting glance. But it only took one of them approaching the shutters to bring the curtain down for good. I closed the door of my room behind me, following a dim light, and arrived downstairs into a large room where exotic scents filled the air, and an inflorescence resting on the counter seemed to have blossomed right there. Two women moved about, flicking their voluminous hair, at times looking like the same person, making the kitchen pulse with steam and mysterious aromas. I took my seat by the window, when I was handed a large book from which vague words emerged—no description of the dishes, just a whiff of the ingredients. I had no idea what I was going to eat, but by then it didn’t matter anymore. The spell had worked; I was there, and in a thousand other places. One evening would not have been enough to satisfy me with that place and its atmosphere. It wouldn’t have been enough the next evening, or the one after that, if there had been another evening.

I left Miss’Opo with the feeling that I had already been there, and yet in my memory, I could find no trace of it. I had to get on the plane, find my seat, wait for it to take off, then look out the window to know the answer. It was like a scene in Wings of Desire, when the angel-turned-man descends into a club and attends a performance by a singer dressed in red. He is shrouded in darkness, framed by two chandeliers. He doesn’t want to talk about a girl.

Rua dos Caldeireiros 100, Porto, Portugal. Best to get there in the dark.

This business has permanently closed.

Words and photographs Federica Calzi.