The French Restaurant

 

This is an account of how a perfect meal can make your holidays short and your return home a week earlier than your intention…

 

Our small group crosses the street and enters in the most perfect restaurant you can imagine. We are greeted by a French and German speaking chef and his English and German speaking wife. Every single detail tell us of a divine gourmet evening. And we are not disappointed at all.

 

It all starts with a chef made truffe and mushroom volaille terrine, followed by a lobster cappuccino soup. As we have been informed that the Strasbourg Charollais’ meat is the main attraction on the menu, we all order fillet. Trusting the wonderful couple receiving us, the selected wine is a magnificent red Bordeaux.

 

With my fillet came also nicely cooked green beans and a tasty mushroom pudding. It was so good I couldn’t stop eating it. I guessed it was made of bread, mushrooms and truffe, but somehow the texture was unknown to me.

 

One of the lucky ones sharing the same meal confessed how particular she was with some sorts of food, like rabbit and venison, and how she was getting used to eat them in this place. At that moment it crossed my mind that I could be eating a pudding of Charollais’ brain soaked in the peppery, truffy, mustardy, creamy sauce.

 

Suddenly in panic, instead of asking what I was really eating, I stopped digesting the meal. I never digested the ten assorted desserts. I never digested the green apple sorbet with Calvados. I never digested the brandy offered by the lady of the house. I never digested the next morning eggs. I never digested what I ate during the day, especially the marzipan I discovered inside a chocolate shop near the most charming market. Above all, I never digested all kind of pastas I had for dinner at some Italian restaurant full of Antonios.

 

Two hours after this Italian banquet and one hour after a visit to German friends where we tasted Portuguese soft cheese, German walnuts from their fields and a Chianti – all this never digested too – it all exploded inside out with a persistent bitter taste of mushrooms. Just in case I had doubts about the reason why I was vomiting and vomiting…

 

Only four days later, already in Mozambique, I started to feel myself again. I can say that my stomach followed the recent monetary crash. Tuesday (January 22) it started slowly reacting, like the main world stock exchanges.

 

I’m joking now, but I was really sick. Paul believes the mushroom pudding explanation because he saw my disgusted expression at the end of the meal. It could be the Italian dinner, the wines or the German virus too. Who knows?

 

“You had the face of some of my colleagues after the German virus!” someone occasionally diagnosed.

 

Whatever it was, nobody deserves it!

European Chronicles-7

 

Except for a dear old poet, I don’t have close family in Portugal. He is very coherent and lucid with what he has always been. Distant family is too distant in time and space. My ties with Portugal are very loose, as you may suspect.

 

On the other hand, Paul has a brother and a sister in Portugal. Two family links, each one with a house with three individuals in it. Time has changed Paul’s family. For the better? For the worse?

 

Seven years ago, Paul represented the successful part of the family. He had the money and the means to make things happen. That pedestal doesn’t belong to him any longer.

 

I qualify one branch of his family as the engineers and the other as the teachers. After two unsuccessful companies, the engineer branch is now doing fine. They own their company, their house, three cars and a few more goodies.

 

The teacher branch concluded that teaching wasn’t leading to wealthy, so they have diversified their interests. Now they own their house, four cars and other expensive toys. Just for a start.

 

The day I was leaving to the airport in my brother and sister-in-law’s car (Paul was behind in his brother’s car), after a Sunday family lunch, I saw a fancy silver convertible speeding on the highway, long dark hair tapping with the wind.

 

“That’s my nephew!” said my brother-in-law with deep appreciation.

 

In fact, behind the wheel there he was, the only nephew of Paul’s family, soon to be in Barcelona to start a new career. If I had doubts about Paul’s family way of life, in that moment they would be gone. They own things. They are happy because of the things they own and the things they still want. They ski because it’s fashionable. They go to places during summer, like Ibiza. They are serious candidates to nouveaux riches of Europe.

European Chronicles-6

 

“For the Europe I used to know, ideology was important! Today what counts is numbers, results, statistics… We used to fight for principles, for ideas.”

 

I can sympathize with Paul’s declaration, but I like to confront him with different perspectives. So I advance:

 

“I am not so sure ideology is that essential. Look what ideology has done in History: revolts, wars, assassinations and even what the world is today. Don’t you think it’s time to give numbers a chance?”

 

I truly understand Paul’s opinion, however I am afraid he is more disappointed with what has become of his own ideas than what Europe has become.

 

“A factory of nothing” is one of his favorite expressions to describe present day Europe, a place where only a few have the cleverness to emerge and profit from a well-behaved multitude of consumers.

 

Besides sharing some of Paul’s concerns, I have a few of my own. The quality of life, for instance. I couldn’t see happy children. Were they at school instead of playing on the fields or parks? Except for sporadic groups of inconsequent smiling teenagers, I couldn’t see a lot of happy adults either. My mind plays a scene of a couple saying goodbye on a train station. His urgency. Her depressed face. His hand waving. Her arms dead all long the sides of her body. The slow but unforgiving movement of the carriages. The empty stare of her eyes when crossing the train platform. That couple, on a train station, is my idea of modern Europe. Great buildings. Great roads. Great shops. Great loneliness. Great sadness.

 

I visited different regions of Europe and felt the same. Europe can be historical, beautiful, developed and organized; still, there are important aspects to be addressed. I am talking about the quality of the air Europeans breathe. I am talking about the quality of water Europeans drink and use, about the quality of the available food. It seems to me that the offer of quantity and variety is surpassing the quality.

 

It was a wonder to me how hygiene is neglected. I had problems with the standards of hygiene in expensive hairdressers and similar public places. I saw waiters openly sneezing in restaurants, straight on the faces of their clients, and an exclusive shop assistant in duty with blisters on her lips, when she should be at home. Things that I never saw in Africa! Let’s say that from now on I shall not be surprised of virus and other complains Europeans have to face.

European Chronicles-5

 

I am glad I didn’t pack jeans in my suitcase. As soon as I arrived in Portugal, I concluded that eight in ten wear jeans like a uniform. Kind of a modern socialist uniform. Maybe because my sister-in-law considered a serious handicap not having a proper pair of jeans, she hurried to offer me a brand new one. I tried the jeans, in a true effort of recognition for such nice gesture. When I looked at my figure, I saw a butt that didn’t belong to me.

 

Unfortunately, Paul was around and said that I looked very well. “I can’t wear them… They triple the size of my butt!” I protested. As my sister-in-law also insisted, I decided to accept. Anyway, I was left wondering how many disappointed guys (or girls) must exist all over Portugal (or the world)…

 

In general, Portuguese are greedy in terms of smiling, especially if I compare them with the spontaneous joy of the Spanish. The other day I heard on the news that the big majority of the Portuguese don’t have a cent in their pockets after paying their basic expenses. I was about to think: “No wonder they don’t smile a lot!” But then I remembered how poor and happy Mozambicans are, so I inferred that the sad faces are more temperamental than economical related.

 

Beware if you visit countries like Portugal, Spain and Italy! Food in these countries is a killer. I would like very much to describe what I’ve been munching, but my heavy conscience feels a lot better if I forget about it. As I am not a big meat and fish eater, the worst for me has been cheese and sugary treats. Every single night I swear to control my gourmandize… Every single day I fall for a different kind of cheese or some almond tartlet…

 

And what can I say about wines, except thumbs up for Portuguese, Spanish and Italian wines? Besides divine, the good ones don’t give me migraine. I don’t know if the absence of migraine is due to the quality or the cold climate. Anyway, I am very grateful to be able to taste the wonderful wines I’ve tasted, mainly thanks to my brother-in-law cellar.

 

If I am having problems with food, you can imagine what a gourmet like Paul is facing. He is large! He is largely happy! Well, sometimes he feels largely guilty too.

 

Eating healthy has been one of Paul’s favorite topics during our road trips. I decided to challenge a bit the outcome of one of such conversations by saying:

 

“Sometimes I’m not so sure about all those fruit and veggies talks. I was raised eating cakes and cooked bacon over toasted bread. I regarded pingo as the best treat in the world. Pingo is a home made butter from spiced pork fat…”

 

When I explained this I was convinced that such way of eating was my family own mania, but my brother-in-law replied:

 

“That’s what people eat in Spain!”

 

“Well, if I had doubts about my family origins they would be gone…” I concluded.

 

I was referring to the fact that my family left France for Spain, before coming to Portugal. I had no idea that Portuguese don’t eat cooked bacon over toasted bread or pingo. That was a discovery for me, and I like discovering new things.

 

What else I’ve been enjoying in Europe? The comfort of paying in euros wherever I am. Winter colors and shapes, particularly trees and old houses. The contrasting warmth of my body against the cold on my ears.

 

As so many other things in my life, I guess I have to learn to live always divided between Africa and Europe.

European Chronicles-4

 

There is only a thin line separating Portugal from Mozambique. That’s what I’ve concluded after listening to a few minutes of a television debate. Someone from the Portuguese government was trying to convince us that the wealth of Portuguese people depended of paying less to the private sector leading personnel. According to his words, the government was already cutting on salaries. Consequently, it was up to the private sector to follow the same example.

 

One of the results of such policies is the emigration of specialized technicians. I have a total of three nephews. Three boys. The only one in Portugal is leaving on the 1st of February to Barcelona where he is going to work as a civil engineer.

 

Can’t people see the difference? Cutting expenses and excesses it’s a necessity in a government asking too much in terms of taxes. The private sector doesn’t have to cut on salaries because if a company is paying high salaries, it’s because somehow it is creating wealth enough to pay. Thinking differently reminds me of Mozambique.

 

No doubt that there are good roads, but I don’t understand why don’t they address essential aspects of security. In South Africa drivers are protected from side rocks and other contingencies by using nets or other measures. Slow traffic between center and south makes hard to believe that we are crossing a developed country.

 

Portugal is a matter of psychiatry, a clear case of double personality. There is a part of this country still living in the past, another part in the present. Inside the mind of the majority of the Portuguese there is a bit of the old Portugal and a bit of the new Europe. Shortly after arriving, Paul asked for a coffee. A Brazilian waiter brought the coffee and answered a few questions on subjects Paul was curious about. Because he was a really nice guy, Paul paid E2.50 for the coffee and tipped him with another 2.50. Someone sitting with us commented his gesture: “Do you know how many escudos you just gave to him?” Comments of the same kind have been frequent, sometimes using contos instead of escudos.

European Chronicles-3

 

Algarve with a timid sun and rain, it’s not my favorite banquet. Nonetheless, I had a good reason to stay a few days in Albufeira. Today I can say that in Portugal I only have one member of my family worthwhile visiting. I shall call him Old Poet. The few of my Portuguese family are distant or fighting for some reason.

 

I found the Old Poet very strong and involved in the distribution of his new book. In Albufeira, he is well known and cared. I could see that I am not the only one to call him poet. Despite his tough looks, he has humor and an acute spirit of observation. I suspect that he is in love with someone, but that’s another story.

 

The Old Poet has the usual idiosyncrasies of old people. If you care about them, the art is lots of comprehension and love. I found so many things in common between the him and me as differences. Similarities surprise and move me. Differences surprise and amuse me. Since I’ve lost my mother, I don’t want anybody else so close to feel deprived of my love. Besides, he is the only person in the entire world capable of telling me something like: “Go wash your little hands before lunch!”

 

I had some pleasant moments while in Albufeira, like wakening with a rainbow right in front of my room window. Like smiling and joking all the time with my favorite poet. Like spotting a street stall attended by a dog. Like finding a blind man disguising his dog with his own sunglasses. Like enjoying the views. Like playing on the streets and city buses with Old Poet and Paul, making people smile and surprise with our madness.

 

(How to play in a city bus: You need two silly players and two silly hats. The bus can be called Giro, mainly used for city tours, or any other. The players have to be standing in the middle of the bus, surrounded by more or less ten seated old and young sad faces. The first player takes his hat off and puts it on the top of the cap or hat of the second player. The second player has to be in a good mood and play along. He keeps the silly grey hat of the first player, deciding to put his own on the first player’s head. The first player runs from him without visible success. Soon the hat swap makes all the sad faces smile. Before walking out from the bus don’t forget to say goodbye or wave with your hat. When people smile together, somehow they stop being strangers.)

 

At the same time, I wondered a lot. Why does this town seem to grow without a plan? Does quality have to be that expensive? Do people pay for smiling?

 

Tourism has to be more than a business. More than what nature has to offer. There is a savoir faire still absent around here.

 

One of the British retired couples befriending my Old Poet reported to me:

 

“In our brand new apartment we freeze during winter, and during summer the thermometer reads 55ºC on the balcony. When we bought the place and asked for air conditioner, they told us to use warm coats or go for a swim!”

 

This says a lot about present-day Algarve. If you are there, take care of yourself because no one else will.

European Chronicles-2

 

The second day in Seville I stopped feeling cold at all. I guess it takes 24 hours for my European blood to surface. I have to tell that I am not very sensitive to cold, hence I couldn’t understand some funny looks around me. Only when I stepped outside on short sleeves and noticed someone coming wrapped in wools and scarves, I understood the looks. I belong to a group that don’t feel cold as long as there is a bit of sun shinning on the blue sky, whatever the temperature might be. Mozambican and South African winter is far more cold, humid and capricious. Two hours later I couldn’t help asking to take a picture of me, an African girl on summer outfits, side by side with someone from Europe on heavy winter clothes.

 

My last day of 2007 was picar lots of jámon and delicatessen like anchovies and others. Shopping for dinner was our main task. The idea was starting our last meal of 2007 at 10pm, eating until toasting the Mozambican New Year (1 hour before local time), go on until Spanish New Year (local time) and keep eating until Portuguese New Year (1 hour after local time). Lots of toasting as you can guess!

 

The place was a Sevillian house set on a green scenery, an extraordinary cold place during the night. Our party was a Portuguese businessman and wife, another Portuguese couple, a Spanish businessman and wife, a Portuguese engineer and wife, Paul and I. Add to this: a Portuguese rugby player, two economists, one science student and a little one called Simon. Total: fifteen.

 

Around 2am we went (excluding Simon) to a music bar waiting for the Espartal Flamengo presentation to start. One hour later we experienced what flamengo is. To be precise, we experienced two hours of flamengo. Some of us danced a lot, some danced a little and some didn’t dance at all.

 

I didn’t remember to fall asleep around 6am, but sometime during the first morning of the year Paul found me with the light on and the book still on my hands. Welcome 2008!

European Chronicles

 

On the 28th of December, shortly before 11am, the confirmation arrived. In twenty-four hours time my luggage had to be ready. I just did it. On December 30 my breakfast was already in Europe.

 

I had a family lunch scheduled and seven hours after arrival I was already on the road to Seville, in Spain, where my reveillon would happen. In my opinion, Spain was the best option to welcome the New Year. Despite Andalusia being the poorest region of Spain, people are very joyful and the general standard of living good.

 

From the time I was a small thing to my teens, I used to visit Spain often. As my father recently told me, I was a very popular toddler in Spain. People used to address comments to me like: “Hombre, mira que guapita! Tiene los ojos de una ratita!”

 

If I compare my impressions then and now, I sense a big gap between both. In terms of development, Portugal remains far behind Spain. This is not a surprise because Spain is a vast and rich country providing a better quality of life to its citizens. What surprises me it’s the fact that Portugal can’t solve simple efficiency matters such as luggage handling at its major international airport. Being a country with tourism tradition, that is not understandable. Listen to this part of a conversation that I overheard during the hour time I had to wait just for a simple suitcase.

 

“Portugal is the worst country in terms of luggage service in Europe!” a man at my right commented.

 

“You are too kind. Better say it is the worst in the world!” added someone next to him.

 

But lets talk about a happier subject: Seville. What a great place to say goodbye to 2007! For the first time I had a pre-reveillon night. Actually, it was a lot greater than the real thing. The unexpected usually is.

 

It started with a dinner at Rogelio Leon. As far as I could understand, in Seville dinner means 10pm. Our party was of twelve: a Portuguese businessman and wife, a Spanish businessman and wife, a Portuguese engineer and wife, two Spanish football players and sus prometidas, Paul and me.

 

Before that I had the hotel where we stayed with one of the couples, refreshing and resting after 500km of road and a long flight. Yes, only 24 hours later I had been watching a red African sunset while waiting for our plane.

 

Returning to the restaurant, a man looking like walking out of a Gypsy King gig introduced himself as our hostess. He looked at us, clearly estimating how much per capita we would be willing to pay.

 

During our road trip to Seville, someone had explained:

 

“The middle class is disappearing in Europe. Now we have 10 or 20% of rich population, depending on the country, and a vast majority better or worst surviving. In Portugal, for instance, I believe that only 10% can have the same standard of living that we do.”

 

“How much do you think that 10% spends per month?” I wanted to know.

 

“Six to ten thousand per month, at least. For Portugal, I mean.”

 

I guess the “gypsy king” qualified us in that 10 to 20% group and simple suggested:

 

“I’ll bring food and you eat what you want. Agreed?”

 

Our meal consisted of: wine, champagne as house compliment, jámon serrano with toasted bread with olive oil, croquettes, prawns, salmon, grilled entrecote and a few more treats. The most popular system of meal in Seville is picar, the equivalent word in Spanish for snack. By other words, picar is eating different kind of tapas. Our meal was a sophisticated version of picar.

 

Afterwards we went to Caramelo, one of the popular drinking and dancing spots in Seville. Despite arriving when the pre-reveillon was over, I danced and enjoyed Caramelo. Antique, another dancing place, was fine and short because of extreme tiredness. At the end of the first day, I concluded that in Spain even dogs are friendly.