Enveloped by the surrounding vegetation and looking out onto the blue horizon from above, the glassed-in house designed by Bruno Erpicum, from the Belgian architecture studio AABE, manages to isolate itself and create a world all of its own playing with the borders between the interior and the exterior. The glass walls usher in all the light of the Mediterranean and overlook the sea, the pine-covered hills, and the sky. Placed over a lower level that houses the bedrooms, the upper floor boasts a huge common space that brings together the living, dining, and cooking areas, projecting outward by a walkway to an adjoining building whose blue infinity surface invites you to plunge in and peer out, your body still underwater, at the view of the bay below.

Now that you have cooled down, you return to the common space and walk over to the impressive white laminate bulthaup b3 island, set against the backdrop of tall units finished in black brown vertical grain oak. You choose two tomatoes with an irresistible aroma. You wash them and the cold water runs over your hands as you look up, letting your gaze linger on a white sail moving across the blue distance.

Architect:  Bruno Erpicum.

Place:  “ Puig manya” Cap martinet

Photographs: Casa Viva y Diseño Interior.

Installation date:  2008

Design is the passionate search for the essential nature of objects. Only simple forms permit intense communication between human beings and objects

People often ask me why my designs never go beyond the simplest basic geometric forms. The “Optima” camera with the res sensor is a pure cuboid, the circular forms dominates the “Orbis” lamps, the forms of The “Orion” is an unadulterated cylinder and the kitchen systems display only a square and rectangular surfaces.

My answer to their question is that I follow the creative principles that I believe in. And for me those aren’t primarily aesthetic values and criteria, but ethical ones. I have never said that objects that are designed according to the canon of basic geometric forms look better by virtue of their forms alone, that they are more aesthetically pleasing. I just think they’re better suited for creating a sensibly designed environment, which means a higher quality of life for people. And that’s what I strive for.

My creative credo is a reaction to the sensory overload that we are continuously subjected to. Not only on the street but also inside buildings, we are surrounded by random collection of diverse objects, most of which have been designed in a haphazard manner. The total effect of such surroundings is a perpetual state of visual unease. Clarity, tranquility and a sensible order that provides orientation are lost.

I don’t see that as a primarily an aesthetic problem. It’s deeper anthropological issue. If a human being is to have a high quality of life and a sense of being sheltered and at home in the world, it’s crucial to have a positive atmosphere. But the creation of such an atmosphere is permanently blocked by the complex environment of heterogeneous objects and unsorted information that surrounds us. This leaves a fundamental need of human beings unsatisfied. We can’t escape from this negative atmosphere. It affects us through many channels, and the way we experience and process it is largely subconscious. Moreover, it has a long-term effect on people’s general state of mind.

From the investigations carried out by the social psychologist Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi, we know that every objects that draws our attention initially drains off a certain amount of physical and psychic energy. Because every individual possesses only a limited amount of energy, the natural result of this constant drain is physical and psychic exhaustion – the condition we know today as “burnout syndrome”. In this respect, it can’t be denied that the field of design has anthropological relevance.

That we are not suffering from collective burnout syndrome is due to the fact that pictures and objects that are appropriately designed also transmit positive energy to the viewer. In the ideal case, a certain sense of give-and-take arises in the communicative relationship between human beings and objects- a feeling that Csikszentmihalyi calls the “flow experience”, or a sense of intense motivation. “It’s harmonious experience in which the body and the spirit work together effortlessly and the feeling arises that something very unusual is happening to you”, he says. In the other words, it is an intense relationship between the individual and his or her activity or surroundings –the very pinnacle of communication.

But this kind of intense communication between human beings and objects can take place only if people have established a direct relationship with them. And this, in turn, is possible only if the objects themselves are essential –that is, if there are essential nature has been expressed. Creating this kind of object requires concentration from designer. He or she must express the essential nature of the objects and discard all of their nonessential elements.

Herbert Schultes takes on design challenges of every magnitude. His designs range from innovative ski binding, for example, to a restaurant in a high-speed train for Germany’s railway system, The Deutsche Bahn. Herbert Schultes made his mark with AG, and for many years he was the company’s head designer. In addition to a passion for his creative work, Schultes is committed to fostering up-and-coming young designers. He founded the Industrial Design program at Munich Technical College and taught at the Cologne design schools.

Catalonia, the Basque country and Cantabria are regions renowned for their excellent salt-packed anchovy fillets. These narrow fillets taste of the finest sea-salt; they are juicy and completely free of bones. For years, I’ve never missed an opportunity to travel to Santoña or Carril whenever I could. These are places nobody knows–well, almost nobody! But they’re places that make my heart beat that little bit faster. It’s where the best anchovies and sardines I’ve ever tasted come from. Between Bilbao and Santander, between the Laredo and San Carlos promontories, where the clear seawater meets the Santoña river delta. Three rivers empty into the delta, creating a rare and unique quality of water, a mixture of the sea salt, iodine, seaweed and plant-like particles from the rivers. The area is home to a world that is capable of making gourmets’ pulses race. This time, our meeting point is a simple guesthouse right on the coast. It’s off the main road, tucked away out of sight. I can’t remember whether it’s called “El Ancla”, “El Pescador” or “Bahia”. After many years, I met up with Ricardo again, one of the connoisseurs of Cantabria cuisine. We sat and ate everything that the lagoon and the sea offered us. Even the little appetizers, the tapas, filled me up! Anchovies in the finest olive oil, anchovies in spicy sauce, tuna in myriad variations, mussels, scallops, cockles, calamari and sea urchins. Ricardo ordered a simple house white wine to go with the meal –and it instantly matched the tapas and his story, which I followed eagerly.

“Anchovies and sardines are different types of fish”, he said, raising his index finger. “Yeah, I knew that already”, I thought. But then he took me into completely uncharted territory, explaining to me how the anchoas, as anchovies are called there, get into the can. “Today, just as in the old days, the anchovies are prepared and filleted by hand and then layered in a vessel –which in the best companies is made of wood. Once the vessel is almost full to the brim, it’s topped up with brine, covered with a round board and then weighted down with a stone, which slowly and carefully presses the anchovies down”.

Recipe by Eduard Xatruch from Restaurante Compartir in Cadaqués.

bulthaup granted the 2013 “b for bulthaup” award to the three chefs Oriol Castro, Mateu Casañas, and Eduard Xatruch, from the “Compartir” restaurant in Cadaqués, a project that he developed after the period he spent at El Bulli, as part of his quest to offer the best innovative cuisine in a unique setting.

Anchovies with black truffle, fir tree honey, and mushrooms

Preparation time: 60 minutes

Ingredients (serves 4)

• 8 anchovies
• 250 gr extra virgin olive oil
• 10 gr black truffle
• 70 gr corn oil
• 8 small mushrooms
• 200 gr olive oil
• 1 clove garlic
• Salt
• 2 gr ground black pepper
• 1/2 bay leaf
• 10 gr toasted pine nuts
• 2 thin slices of toast
• 15 gr fir tree honey
• 12 fresh chervil leaves

Instructions

1. First, mix the truffle with the corn oil in a blender. Next, vaccum pack the mix and cook it for 3 hours at 64º C. Once it’s cooked, cool to room temperature and refrigerate for 24 hours.

2. Next, peel the mushroom stems, being careful to let them keep their shape.

3. Scald the mushrooms in boiling water with a pinch of salt for five seconds and mix the oil with the garlic, bay leaf, and pepper.

4. Heat the mixture in a pan and when the garlic starts to turn golden, remove from heat. Add the scalded mushrooms.

5. Simmer on a low flame for 20 minutes, set aside, and cool to room temperature.

6. To finish and serve, place 4 anchovy fillets on each plate. Cut the mushrooms in half and place the 4 halves between the anchovies. Pour the truffle oil over the mushrooms and the bottom of the plate. Then spread the fir tree honey and the toasted pine nuts over the truffle oil. Break the toast and lean the pieces against the mushrooms. Last of all, sprinkle the dish with chervil.

anchoas de l’Escala

anchoas Ana Maria de Cantabria

anchoas Revilla de Cantabria

las mejores anchoas de España

The Scandinavian couple that decided to set up their second home by the seaside arrived in Marbella seeking light and warmth. They entrusted architect Guillermo Priego Iribarnegaray with the task of designing a home that would fulfill that wish while attending to the specific features of the site and the local climate. The result is a space that plays with direct sunlight and filtered light, with the notions of privacy and visibility, of exterior and interior, striking a perfect balance.

The use of white, black, and shades of grey suggests a nod to early modernity, emphasized by the powerful geometric axes in the large common space that brings together the areas for living, dining, and cooking. A key presence within this interplay of hues and geometries is the bulthaup kitchen: a bold b3 monoblock in grey aluminum with a stainless steel worktop, set against an understated background of tall units finished in matte white lacquer. It is the engine of the ship, the driving force in the common area.

This open-plan space is the magnet that draws the owners in–along with their children, friends, and grandchildren–at all hours: to meet for breakfast, coming back from the beach, heading in from the poolside, or sitting down in the late afternoon to decide how to cook the fish they bought early that morning, with the large sliding doors open to the courtyard, letting in the salty sea breeze.

From living tress to living spaces

The most creative material in the world is growing, almost without our help, and it’s doing it completely silently. It’s a material that puts the living quality of all other materials completely in the shade –wood. Wood is a piece of nature. It breathes. It lives. It radiates comforting warmth, has a positive impact on the room’s atmosphere and offers limitless design options. With its grain, color, warmth and small, the wood we live with stimulates our senses. And in these fast-changing times, it soothes our longing for calm. High-quality wooden furniture moves with you, and often develops into favorite heirlooms fro generation after generation. Maybe it’s because it can tell stories? Haven’t’ we all stood at some point in front of a secretaire, touching its intarsia work lovingly and thinking how much this old piece of furniture must have seen, heard and experiences over its life?

Wood is like us –individual, No two pieces of wood are the same, not even wood of the same type. As a result, furniture bears the unmistakable mark of the tree from which it is made. And that’s what stimulates and inspires bulthaup to do justice to this vitality with its furniture. It’s a process that involves searching for that special character and expressing it to the full in the kitchen. At the focal point of it all stands our love and respect for wood.

The path from the tree to the kitchen is a long one. But at bulthaup, it doesn’t lead through a deep jungle or tropical forest. We only use cultivation areas that are managed sustainably. We don’t use wood from tropical rainforest either. After all, you don’t have to go the ends of the earth to find wood. They can actually be right under your nose – such as elm, apple and Swiss pear.

The elm used to grace classical sideboards until the wood finally became scorned as “conservative” and drifted into oblivion. Added to this was the fact that Duth elm disease was also felling most elm trees. Today, the elm has once again reclaimed its position in contemporary design, for example as sensual gray or russet foil to stainless steel surfaces. The wood of the apple tree also sets stunning accents. On the meadow, it’s a common-place. But in the home, it’s still something rather exotic. That’s because its veneer is extremely difficult to process. The cracked and irregular raw material takes a lot of experience. But it’s worth it, since with careful craftsmanship; the apple tree can enrich ant living space. The front is a unique piece, the structure a pure collection of contrast – an exciting switch between fiery-dark and fine-grained light components.

And there’s another tree bursting with rich fruits – the Swiss pear tree. Because of the climatic conditions and the fact that they grow wild, the trees are Eastern Switzerland feature a lively, straight grain. Cabinetmakers have always been enthralled by the wood, which is completely different from conventional pear wood. In the 1950s, Swiss pear was so scarce that it was almost impossible to get hold of. A replacement was searched for –and found- in the related service tree. It’s warm-colored grain is indistinguishable from that of the original pear tree from Switzerland. And that’s why service trees have become known in the trade as Swiss pear trees.

An Asian version, which features a natural and high-quality appearance, is bamboo. With a velvety-matt surface, it has a thin, striped veneer with knots, known as nodes. The American walnut has a reduced and noble effect, with its simple grain and fine, natural gray color.

At bulthaup, a special natural wood varnish- containing a type of light protection factor –protects the veneer against the effects of light and preserves the walnut’s delightful feel.

Every kitchen begins with its veneer picture. It creates the unmistakable appearance of the room. The structure must run precisely from top to bottom and from left to right. Just like a tree. That’s why choosing the veneer calls for a sharp eye and strict quality standards. But we don’t want to bore you with that just now. The result is far more exciting. Take a look around you. And make the history of tree part of your own kitchen’s history.

The only way to get a risotto that is both al dente and creamy is to use Carnaroli rice, from the plains of the River Po. The key to the preparation is simple – you have to stir, and stir, and stir…

 When I stood for the first time in the middle of the light green rice fields on the plains of the Po. I couldn’t help but recall the film “Bitter Rice”, which had been filmed at this location a good five decades ago.

Silvana Mangano played the lead as a poor farm hand, smiling a beatific smile, despite her arduous toil. Marina Vercellone, with whom I was journeying to this part of the world, added: “I like that film. It shows very realistically how hard it was to making a living from rice here. Just think of the swarms of midges that bite you. And you constantly have to bend over, so much so that you can barely walk upright by the end of the day”.

Marina Vercellone knows what she’s talking about. Her family has been cultivating rice for several generations on the Tenuta Castello estate, situated on the Desana plain. And not just any old rice, but a kind of rice that makes connoisseurs’ hearts beat that little bit faster. The Vercellones have made it their task to mainly cultivate and look after the old and less profitable, although superlatively flavoursome, types of rice –such as Carnaroli, which is the finest and most noble type of rice used in risotto recipes.

Many rice-growers don’s like Carnaroli, because it ripens slowly and infrequently – and cannot stand artificial fertilizer. Hence it takes a lot of sweat and hard work to cultivate. In the spring, manure is forked into the soil. In April, the seeds are sown and May, the weeding begins –and of course, it’s all done by hand.” This profession died out because rice-growers all kill weeds with pesticides. It’s a lot cheaper. We first of all had to find workers who would be willing to put themselves through all the bother”, explains Marina. After the rice is harvested, the grains are dried carefully and stored in silos at ten degrees centigrade, without any chemical agents against pests, mould or humidity. The compensation for this time-consuming process is scented rice with a fine, nutty aroma that retains its bite when cooked and is beautifully creamy.

Rice is known the world over-mostly as “daily bread” to ward off hunger. The fact that rice is also something that can be enjoyed is thanks to the Italians and their recipe for rice, risotto. Risotto has nothing in common with rice as a side dish, since first of all it is an exceptional, stand-alone dish and secondly it requires your full attention during cooking. In other words, all the ingredients must have been fully prepared and be available before cooking can commence. What’s more, you must enjoy standing calmly at the stove for around thirty minutes, stirring the rice. Because only then does the risotto become truly creamy, since it is by stirring constantly that some of the rive flour is released from the grain.

No trip the plains of the Po and its rice fields would be complete without having tried a true Piedmont risotto. I was delighted to take-up Marina’s invitation to join her in cooking a cep risotto. In the kitchen, the chicken stock was boiling away on the stove and a large onion was braising golden yellow in plenty of butter. The Parmesan cheese stood ready-grated on the kitchen table. Marina poured the Carnoli rice over the onions, and then she did something that took me by surprise. She left the rice to cook until the onions were brown. She saw me looking uneasy, and simply said: “Don’t worry, I’ve got everything under control. It’s very important that the rice sweats out the butter that it has absorbed. Only then can it take up the liquid”. As the spoke, she poured a final slug of wine over the rice and a few minutes later some of the stock. She added the dried ceps and the water in which they had been soaking, and only once the rice had absorbed this liquid did she add some more stock.

Stir, simmer and then stir again. This process was repeated until Marina pronounced the rice to be “all’onda”. Now, everything had to happen with lighting speed. With a sweep, she lifted the pan from the stove, mixed in a mountain of Parmigiano Reggiano, placed it on the table and immediately served up the portions into the plates with a big spoon. What can I say? I’d never managed to make such a tasty, creamy and yet al dente risotto in my life. “That’s exactly what all’onda mean”, explained Marina. “Once the risotto gives off a soft wave (“onda”), as soon as you shake the plate, it’s perfect”.

Christiane Strub

Photography and architecture are allies. But a purely visual understanding of buildings comes at the expense of many other means of perceiving architecture’s pleasures

As a result of, or in reaction to, this acquired way of thinking about architecture, some of my most memorable architectural experiences have occurred in spaces that are difficult if not impossible to photograph. Unable to reduce the experience to snapshot, a slide to be filed in a mental collection of architectural images, different senses kick in to record, comprehend and calibrate the experience.

1. I visited a museum where Richard Serra’s sculpture his series of “torqued spirals” of two-inch thick, was installed in an exterior courtyard. It is around 125-ton. Compresses in this seamless channel, seem less like heavy metal. As the passage narrows I feel the day’s  heat, making me realize once again how thick Serra’s ever-bending surfaces are.
2. I had the chance to visit Peter Zumthor’s so-called spa in the town of Vals in a mountainous region of Switzerland. I say “ so called” because the term “spa” with all its connotations of indolence, does not seem to capture what is really going on there. To me the experience was indeed, therapeutic, but for the mind as well as the body. To go to the spa, I descend through a transformative experience: a Parsifal scenario for activating the senses. After leaving my clothes and other articles of daily life –cell phone, wallet, keys- behind, I find myself in a damp, somewhat dark environment punctuated by streams of light from above. The main spaces are series of interlocking open areas with shallow steps leading info pools of water bounded by massive walls with equally, massive piers, which rise up out of the pools and provide the central support. The walls and the piers are made of the same greenish marble, cut into long flat slabs and stacked in the manner of ancient Roman brickwork. The arrangement of the three pools further references classical themes: a frigidarium,a tepidarium and a caldarium contain, as did Roman baths, cold, lukewarm and hot water, respectively. Becoming intensely aware of how well the body functions as measure of experience, it suddenly seems silly that everyone is wearing a bathing suit.
3. There is a relatively new museum in Tokyo –The Gallery of the Horyuji Treasures –dedicated to displaying the magnificent artefacts form an ancient temple in Nara. Mainly of wood, paper and textiles, the works are very fragile and light is very subdued. I am in the main gallery. A bronze wall serves as a screen and backdrop to the individually illuminated works. Goodly, it seems to me, two columns puncture the space. I ask the architect, Yoshio Taniguchi, about his intentions. He explains that all the famous temples of Japan were wooden structures. The most important of them were also largest and because wood was not very reliable for spanning great lengths, they usually had two columns, one on either side of the statue of Buddha in the centre. And the bronze wall? Temple bells are made of bronze, and the architect hoped that the bronze wall as well as the two columns might subliminally suggest the objects original setting.
4. Very few people knew Mies van der Rohe’s Barcelona Pavilion, except from black and white photographs. A friend of mine showed me this diary entry from the day he visited it: “Walking through the pavilion, I become aware of what space is for the first time, the way a fish might come to understand water, if it could”. For me the real shock was the color, I had mistakenly come to think of the Pavilion, like an ancient Greek temple, as a composition in whites and greys. How different it was to see the polychromatic reality – in both cases. Training my eyes to focus on the surfaces of the materials. I also become intensely aware of the incredible series of reflections in the water, glass, chrome, polished marble and onyx. Could this really have been Mies’ intention? Where was the austere functionalist that the post-modernists had railed against?

TERENCE RILEY has been the head curator fro architecture and design at the Museum of Modern Art in New York City since 1991. Born in Elgin, Illinois, Riley studied architecture at the University of Notre Dame and Columbia University before opening and architecture firm together with John Keenen, where he is still active today.

Every morning shortly after sunrise, Sa’id Ahmad walks through the winding alleyways of the old city of Sana’a to open up his little shop. When he gets there, he puts water on an old kerosene stove to boil, arranges small glasses on the counter, and waits for the local men to come to his shop after morning prayers at the mosque. What brings them to him is the specialty of house: Yemeni coffee.

Nobody knows when someone in the ancient capital of this barren land at the south-western tip the Arabian peninsula first hit upon the idea of roasting the fruit of the coffee tree on flat stones in the sun and then grinding them up and boiling them in water. All we know for sure is that when the first European seafarers reached the port of Al-Mukha in the 16^th century, the Yemenis had already developed a taste for a drink that was to become a major feature of world culture in the space of just a few decades. The coffee that Portuguese and Dutch sailors brought back from the place they called “mokka” on their travels round the Horn of Africa is know by the Yemenis as “bunn”. In the history of their country, this word is linked to a brief economic golden age. When shopkeepers like Sa’id began opening their own little shops in one European trading city after the next, Yemen still had the monopoly on coffee.

Yemeni beans are still sought-after today, and are a rarity on the world market.  After oil, coffee is the second-biggest traded commodity in the world, and 25 million people around the globe earn their living from it. However, ever since a Muslim pilgrim brought the seeds of the plant (officially knows as Coffea Arabica since 1737) to southern India, where it was discovered by Dutch traders and taken to Java, Yemen has hardly benefited from this circumstance at all. Today, coffee is grown on a massive scale in Indonesia and Central and Latin America.

The plant is believed to have originated in the highland forests of Ethiopia in the districts of Gamo-Gofa, Sidarno and Kefa (also known as Kaffa). This latter name sounds rather like the Arabic word for coffee, Qahwah, from which our own word for the drink is derived. However, language experts do not have any firm proof of this interpretation. We do at least know that the Arabic word for coffee is related to a rule of conduct applying to Muslims. “Qahwah” is the wine that followers of the Koran are forbidden to drink.

Early European coffee culture is very well documented. It began after the Thirty Years’ War in the mid-17^th century, when the first transport routes were opened up from the Arabian peninsula across the sea to Italy and overland through the Balkans. At the same time, trading cities were developing their sales networks. Although coffee houses roasted their coffee beans themselves, pharmacists and travelling Turkish salesmen sold the beans unprocessed to private households.

The main thing that coffee seemed to bring out in people was a penchant for socializing. In the mid-17^th century, it was considered fashionable in Europe’s royal courts to consume coffee in rooms decorated in Oriental style while wearing Turkish clothing. This trend was called “mode à la turque”. Like all fashions, it soon passed, as did the concerns of the Vatican, where Pope Clement VIII, fearing the hidden dangers of a possibly devilish drink, cautiously baptized his first cup before succumbing to its wonderful aroma.

Today, nobody believes that coffee is an aphrodisiac anymore. This is partly because the upcoming middle classes, many of them of Protestant faith and with a rational view on life, took a more objective approach to coffee drinking. At first, coffee beans were believed to be a substitute for the widespread alcoholism of the day. Later, having an early morning cup of coffee became a symbol of bourgeois industriousness and sobriety, coupled with a desire for good company and lifestyle. Coffee was drunk in various different places –in public coffee houses, the exclusive domain of men, or in private, largely female environments known as “coffee circles”

Coffee mobilizes energy reserves

Coffee drinking seemed to be the ideal symbol for a new social class that liked to take the old customs of the nobility and brew them up into new, more down-to-earth fashions. The love of all things decorative remained, as was expressed in the hand painted porcelain coffee sets for which people paid large amounts of money.

Coffee became popular among the working classes in the 19^th century, initially as a means of supplementing a meager diet. A sip of coffee –even if it came from a cheap tin or enamel pot at a street vendor’s stall –was in some way a substitute for a hot meal. People drank coffee in short breaks during long working days to help them mobilize their remaining energy reserves.

The increasing popularity of coffee and the ever-expanding growing areas in which it was produced stimulated the creativity of the roasting establishments and coffee houses. In Italy it was so well received that the Italian language developed a broad vocabulary for its legendary variations: cappuccino, macchiato, latte macchiato, ristretto, lungo, corretto, caffè latte…

And now, a little source of inspiration:

Viennese Coffee

Ingredients (2 servings)

100 gr semisweet chocolate

500 ml espresso coffee

200 ml whipping cream

Sugar to taste

1 pinch of cinnamon

• To prepare Viennese coffee, the first thing you have to do is make the espresso. This method is faster      and as a result the coffee is more concentrated.
• Pour the hot espresso into two individual cups. Add a teaspoonful of sugar and stir. In a saucepan,      melt the chocolate with 50 ml of the whipping cream, preferably in a bain-marie, and stir.
• Next, pour the mixture into the two cups of coffee and stir. If you wish, you can mix the coffee with the chocolate before serving it and beat it for a smoother texture.

Living, dining, and cooking are brought together into a large central space that opens onto the rooftop terrace, drawn towards the light. The appealing balance of colors between the light oak floors and the powerful grain in the apple wood wall panels–which conceal a refrigerator, storage space, and many other details of everyday life–is enhanced by the grey sofas and the black armchairs and table. The table, in turn, is an extension of the powerful block securing the rearguard: a solid bulthaup island finished in dark gray aluminum with a Zimbabwe granite worktop. This striking sculptural element anchors the ensemble in the central space, inviting you to cook, stare out the picture windows and­–depending on the angle of the sunlight and the breeze–discuss whether it would be best to sip a glass of wine out on the terrace or stay inside and keep on chatting and dining by the crackling fireside.

A sense of balance is calming. It invites you to stay. What began as a seasonal residence ended up exerting its appeal all year round.

bulthaup Barcelona, bach 7

Architecs: Urgell Arquitectos y Tristan Velasco

Project management: Roger Fernandez de Söder Property management

m2: 20 m2

Location: Barcelona