Three centuries ago they lit my heart of firewood in the humble inn of Cuchilleros street. Since then I have burned without rest. I have seen children laugh and decades later they came back as grandparents, I have warmed the bread of hungry artists and the souls of nostalgic travelers. Under my orange light secret loves have been confessed, pacts and farewells have been sealed, and I have wept in silence when the war darkened Madrid.
Not a single night did I allow the cold to extinguish my flame. Even in the worst of times, when the world outside was crumbling, I stubbornly kept burning. I know the silence of the early morning, when the last diner leaves and only my dim embers light the century-old walls. I also know the joyful bustle of the nights of celebration, the toasts and the laughter that bounce under these old ceilings.
I am the old Botín oven, guardian of stories and flavors. Memory dwells in my bricks: the whisper of a distant tuna song, Hemingway's smile before a golden suckling pig, the echo of Goya's footsteps waiting tables before becoming a painter. Every dawn, my sleeping embers awaken with new wood, and my fire is reborn young even though it is three hundred years old. In the crackling of my flames live all the hugs, laughter and tears shared around my warmth. I am more than fire: I am a bridge between generations, the warmth of a common home that never went out.
