In 1993, Santi Alegre and I, Ada Parellada, rented a huge place in the centre of Barcelona’s Eixample, which had been the headquarters of an old and beautiful publishing house that had just closed its doors. We replaced books with letters, letters with plates, with promises of baked sea bass, black sausage for a tube, sweet and sour lamb and chocolate delirium tremens. And we baptized it with the name of Semproniana.
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