night’s sleep seemed unlikely, so we set out for a last night on the town, before our journey.
Dominguito’s was the place to eat in Alcalá, according to the barman downstairs, and when the rain slackened for a moment that was where we went. Dominguito was a lugubrious sort of a man with protuberant ears and thick glasses. He thrust a tapa towards us with our drinks. Michael, as ever, recovered his spirits. ‘The seafood’ll be g-good here,’ he enthused. ‘So we ought to try the prawns… Also you get fantastically good ham – the woods are full of p-pigs, so a ración of jamón ibérico would be nice. Cádiz produces interesting white wines, too, so we’ll have a b-bottle or two of the Gadir Blanco…’
I was happy to leave the choice to Michael, who can talk of the regional gastronomy of Spain as others might discuss football. But again I was assailed by a shadow of concern that the purity of our expedition was being compromised by a very un-Moroccan feasting on ham and wine. Still, I like ham and wine a lot, and as all the Moroccans I know approve of a bit of feasting when the chance arises, I thought I’d indulge myself just this once.
That night, the electricity in our room kept on fizzing, even when the light was off. The water dripped irregularly through the hole in the ceiling. The men in vests next door had turned the television up so they could hear it above the sound of their coughing. Michael was fast asleep within thirty seconds of hitting the bed – and he snored like a bastard. I lay there, listening to all these noises and thinking in a disjointed sort of a way of what an interesting exercise it would be to write them all down in musical notation.
The morning found us back at Dominguito’s, which had been recommended to us as the best bar in town for breakfast – again by the barman at the hostal , whose ears also stuck out a lot. I suspected him of being Dominguito’s brother.
‘What they have for b-breakfast in this region,’ said Michael, ‘is manteca colorá . It’s wonderful – you should try it on t-toast.’
Manteca colorá is the orange pig-fat butter that in Andalucía you see the more Spanish type of Spaniard smearing thick on his tostada in the morning. He’ll be washing it downwith a coñac or two to get himself bounced into the day. I had always viewed manteca colorá with suspicion – it’s pretty suspicious-looking stuff, coming as it does in white, off-grey or orange – and in all my time in Spain I had never once tried it. But Michael’s features were suffused with pleasure as he stuffed the ghastly-looking mush into his face. ‘G-go on,’ he burbled with his mouth full. ‘It’ll set us up nicely for the day’s walk.’
Gingerly I smeared a smidgen upon my toast and took a bite. In a rather gross, atavistic way, it was delicious. I helped myself to a little more, then a lot more, until my tostada groaned beneath the weight of livid orange fat. I felt a slight biliousness, and yet at the same time a hit of energy from the dead pig coursing through my veins. Michael was right: this was exactly what you needed to set you up for a day’s trudge. Once again, though, I couldn’t help noting that few genuine arrivals from North Africa would fancy pig-fat butter at the start of their day.
There were a dozen or so men at the bar. Michael regaled them all with the details of our projected undertaking, and asked for their advice. This was not such a good idea, I thought, as it would serve only to confuse the already convoluted directions we had got from Manolo. And, sure enough, the ensuing babble chased away my few shreds of certainty.
At least it had stopped raining though, and, pausing only to buy a few supermarket victuals (a cheese Michael liked the look of, some ham, a bag of olives, and another of dates) we hoisted our laden packs onto our shoulders and trudgedoff along the road. If truth be told, I was actually the one doing the hoisting, because,
Dominguito’s was the place to eat in Alcalá, according to the barman downstairs, and when the rain slackened for a moment that was where we went. Dominguito was a lugubrious sort of a man with protuberant ears and thick glasses. He thrust a tapa towards us with our drinks. Michael, as ever, recovered his spirits. ‘The seafood’ll be g-good here,’ he enthused. ‘So we ought to try the prawns… Also you get fantastically good ham – the woods are full of p-pigs, so a ración of jamón ibérico would be nice. Cádiz produces interesting white wines, too, so we’ll have a b-bottle or two of the Gadir Blanco…’
I was happy to leave the choice to Michael, who can talk of the regional gastronomy of Spain as others might discuss football. But again I was assailed by a shadow of concern that the purity of our expedition was being compromised by a very un-Moroccan feasting on ham and wine. Still, I like ham and wine a lot, and as all the Moroccans I know approve of a bit of feasting when the chance arises, I thought I’d indulge myself just this once.
That night, the electricity in our room kept on fizzing, even when the light was off. The water dripped irregularly through the hole in the ceiling. The men in vests next door had turned the television up so they could hear it above the sound of their coughing. Michael was fast asleep within thirty seconds of hitting the bed – and he snored like a bastard. I lay there, listening to all these noises and thinking in a disjointed sort of a way of what an interesting exercise it would be to write them all down in musical notation.
The morning found us back at Dominguito’s, which had been recommended to us as the best bar in town for breakfast – again by the barman at the hostal , whose ears also stuck out a lot. I suspected him of being Dominguito’s brother.
‘What they have for b-breakfast in this region,’ said Michael, ‘is manteca colorá . It’s wonderful – you should try it on t-toast.’
Manteca colorá is the orange pig-fat butter that in Andalucía you see the more Spanish type of Spaniard smearing thick on his tostada in the morning. He’ll be washing it downwith a coñac or two to get himself bounced into the day. I had always viewed manteca colorá with suspicion – it’s pretty suspicious-looking stuff, coming as it does in white, off-grey or orange – and in all my time in Spain I had never once tried it. But Michael’s features were suffused with pleasure as he stuffed the ghastly-looking mush into his face. ‘G-go on,’ he burbled with his mouth full. ‘It’ll set us up nicely for the day’s walk.’
Gingerly I smeared a smidgen upon my toast and took a bite. In a rather gross, atavistic way, it was delicious. I helped myself to a little more, then a lot more, until my tostada groaned beneath the weight of livid orange fat. I felt a slight biliousness, and yet at the same time a hit of energy from the dead pig coursing through my veins. Michael was right: this was exactly what you needed to set you up for a day’s trudge. Once again, though, I couldn’t help noting that few genuine arrivals from North Africa would fancy pig-fat butter at the start of their day.
There were a dozen or so men at the bar. Michael regaled them all with the details of our projected undertaking, and asked for their advice. This was not such a good idea, I thought, as it would serve only to confuse the already convoluted directions we had got from Manolo. And, sure enough, the ensuing babble chased away my few shreds of certainty.
At least it had stopped raining though, and, pausing only to buy a few supermarket victuals (a cheese Michael liked the look of, some ham, a bag of olives, and another of dates) we hoisted our laden packs onto our shoulders and trudgedoff along the road. If truth be told, I was actually the one doing the hoisting, because,
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