Small Kitchen Suppers

How it started

My kitchen has two gas rings, an oven that runs twenty degrees hot and about a metre of worktop, half of which is taken up by the kettle. It is not, by any sensible measure, a kitchen for feeding a crowd.

But in the autumn of 2021 I made far too much feijoada, and rather than freeze it I knocked on doors. Six neighbours came up the stairs carrying their own chairs. Senhor Abel brought bread and a bottle of something from his cousin in the Alentejo. We ate on the balcony and in the hallway and, in one case, on the edge of the bath. Someone said “next month?” and nobody said no.

Where it is now

It happens on the last Friday of every month, always for eight. The menu goes up on a scrap of paper on the stairwell book-swap shelf the Monday before. Everyone brings their own chair and something to drink, and I cook one thing that fits in my biggest pot, plus a pudding.

Over time it has settled into a few habits:

• One pot, always. Stews, rice dishes, a big tray of something roasted.
• Dona Fernanda is allowed to criticise the seasoning but must also take seconds.
• Whoever arrives last does the washing-up, which has made everybody remarkably punctual.

A few of the best supper dishes have made their way into the Kitchen posts, including everything I cooked in a week of rain.

Why it matters to me

Living alone in a small flat in a city where you weren’t born can be lonely in a quiet, low-level way. One evening a month, my flat is too full and too loud, and I would not have it any other way.