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Mari Estrella llegó a Ámsterdam con la ilusión razonable de quien cree haber reservado unos días en una ciudad civilizada y no una prueba de selección natural sobre adoquines húmedos. Había visto fotografías de canales, fachadas inclinadas con aire de anciano sabio y bicicletas apoyadas contra puentes como detalle pintoresco. Nadie le explicó que las bicicletas no eran un detalle sino que constituían el régimen político.

En Ámsterdam, el peatón no camina con esa ingenua libertad que todavía se...

There are certain subjects upon which humanity has displayed such unwavering confidence that one hesitates to question them, not because they have been conclusively settled, but because everyone appears so delightfully occupied pretending that they have. Fine dining, I have increasingly come to suspect, belongs to this distinguished collection of agreeable misunderstandings.

Somewhere, although nobody seems able to identify the precise afternoon on which it happened, the simple ambition of...

Most stories ask readers to choose a genre. I prefer to ask them a question.

My novels may begin in a kitchen, in a dystopian city, or on a road between Madrid and Paris. They may include gastronomy, satire, artificial intelligence, literary adventure, or magical realism. But they all share the same purpose: to explore the strange ways people search for meaning.

In What Mari Is Cooking, I ask whether the world’s greatest recipe was ever about food.

In The Platform, I ask what happens when an...