I finally realised it the other night. I was
wandering through the streets of Aguilas, a small, seaside town in southeast
Spain, looking for a place to watch England get knocked out of the World Cup.
When I say was looking for the football, more than
anything I was looking for something to eat. I hadn’t eaten all day. It was late
at night. And opening times in Spain are always chaotic.
I walked back home and there she was. She was
finally open. The old woman’s restaurant I’d heard so much about. The TV was on. Either she wasn’t showing
the game, or it was half-time, but I was too hungry to care.
I looked at a rich-looking couple sitting outside,
enjoying wine and a great spread of tapas. The hot evening air streaming down
purple and the distant flicker of Venus brick-red.
Inside, the old woman was nagging at her husband
to finish his cigarette and start on the washing up. He walked past me. World-weary,
wine-shadowed eyes. He glanced at me with an expression that was hard to read, but
seemed to say “don’t get married”. He scuttled off to the kitchen and I heard
the clink of plates.
I looked at the tapas on the bar. 11.30 at night.
Where else would you find food like that? I thought about Boris, the man who
urged me to write a book about training to be a chef - a journey that failed
miserably when I ran out of money and was forced to return to the 9 to 5 rather
than the 9am to 5am.
He’d told me to buy an “old jalopy and scootle
down to Spain and learn the knives”. “Spain,” I remember him saying
breathlessly as he sank another oyster, “is the food capital of the world!”
That
was seven maybe eight years ago.
I ordered another beer and looked at the food again - meatballs
in salsa, fried fish, hake roe, pimientos spread like oil paintings over clay.
A similar hue to the sandstone cliffs that house the troglodyte caves where
they once dried weed for baskets, and the hollows where the Romans fermented garum
- a sort of Centurion’s Worcestershire sauce.
The old woman opened a huge metal oven, and the
bar was filled with the smell of almond wood. She pulled out two huge steaks and
headed to the rich couple’s table.
The game came on. No overpaid, half-time punditry from
crisps-peddlers here, just adverts. Then I spotted it. The menu of the day. A
huge roasting tray filled with potatoes the size of giants’ toes, and legs and
shoulders of lamb - cooked not to pinkness, but to falling-away succulence.
She heaped a metal plate and put it in the wood oven
to warm through, then asked whether I wanted salad to kick things off. She
suggested pimientos.
A plate arrived with a basket of bread. Green and red
streaks from Van Gogh’s palette, studded with black olives, and draped in
garlic. Seconds later the peppers were snatched and the lamb arrived.
A whole front leg and parts of shoulder. Half a
kilo of potatoes roasted not in the usual way, but more like fondant spuds - stewed
in the lamb juices so the bottom was soft and the top wreathed in smoke and
crisp from the fire.
It was incredible. I pulled off a huge strand of
meat and munched. If I had one more meal - my Death Row Meal - this would be it. You'd hardly worry about the calories. The bone was thick,
the meat was thick, the juice was thick, the fat was soon thick around my lips
and hands.
The meat juices were seasoned with whole black
peppercorns, sprigs of thyme and rosemary, the garlic papery and unpeeled. The
taste was magical. Onions, a little white wine, but not much else. What else?
The lamb had been fattened on the nearby cliffs,
munching samphire, wild rosemary and thyme. My word did this beast have flavour.
I was half-way there, bursting. I picked up the leg bone like a troglodyte.
Juice smeared, fat everywhere.
Uruguay scored again. “Goooooooooooooooooaaaaaaaaaaaaaal!”
roared the Spanish commentator. His favourite part of the job. The stadium went wild.
The dish deserved more
applause. The woman asked me if I wanted postre. Just another cold beer. I
washed my face, I washed my fingers, and then I told her what an excellent meal
it was. She looked happy.
I sat outside, barely able to move. My stomach
thrust towards Venus. The couple were now on gin and tonics and chocolate
desserts. I looked at the sign. I hadn’t seen it earlier. There it was - asado
cordero.
My bill came. Three beers, half a sheep and enough
potatoes to sink a freighter for 16 euros. Where else in the world would you
get a meal like that? Only in Spain. Only in Spain. Then the trap door fell open.
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