Three years ago, on a visit to Málaga’s mercado central, Jay and I bought two of the ripest, juiciest pears we’ve ever had in our lives. We ate them in a park near Picasso’s birthplace and dripped juice all over ourselves. So good, European fruit. Especially ripe pears, which are so hard to find in the US of A. (The ones here, I find, are either rock hard or mush.) So on a return visit, we found the same vendor and told him that we still remembered the pears he’d sold us on our last trip. And we wanted the same, pears to be eaten “today.” He reached into a basket behind his display and came up with two beauties, offering them for us to feel. They did not disappoint.