One of the best things about living in a city like Madrid is that once in a while you’re treated to a moment that makes you feel as if you’d just slid sideways into an Almodóvar movie. I had one of them myself last Friday, and I still can’t quite believe it.

Mr. Pants organized a lovely “fabada” lunch for a group of friends at a small restaurant, and as is so often the case with dishes that are designed to feed small armies of people, there were leftovers. I volunteered to help eat them up, and took a “Rubi bag” home with me.

I taxied part of the way home with one of the group, and decided to go the rest of the way on foot, as nothing but a vigorous walk was going to help digest the quantity of white beans, chorizo, fatback, and blood sausage I’d just consumed. Off I went, toting my second helping…

After about two blocks, I saw a woman who was out walking her pig. (As one does.) He was charming, snorting happily as he trotted along at the end of the leash. But I swear, when I got a little closer, he looked at the bag I was carrying and gave me the side-eye.

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