Travel Journalism
Mallorca, Island of a Million Bars
In the pursuit of a more robust life style I have been researching the
bar life of the island of Mallorca, lying off the Spanish coast in the calm
Mediterranean sea. It is a tough assignment for a journalist but someone, as
they say, has to do it. Mallorca is the largest of three islands that make
up the Balearic islands and is off the beaten track for most South Africans.
It was obviously going to be tough frontline reporting stuff so before I
went I thought I would brush up on my Spanish. Out came the cassettes and we
started with the usual useful phrases such as “my harpsicord has been struck
by lightning, where can I get it retuned?” and in the section, After an
Evening Out on the Town, “where is my friend?”. There was, though, a section
in my phrase book that was applicable to my assignment. It was under Wine.
In Spanish one does not say “I like this wine” but “this wines pleases me”,
este vino me gusta. Now any language that can produce wine that likes me,
gets my vote. It’s the attitude that counts, not so? Our stay on the island
started well. In the villa, situated in the small village of Puerto Pollenca,
in the far north of the island, they had left in the fridge, some bottles of
iced Spanish champagne called Freixenet. So we cautiously opened one and sat
out on the veranda and looked up at the hills of the Serra de Tramuntana. It
all looked very much like Cape Town and after another bottle , of course, it
looked like anywhere. The sun went slowly down and the evening ended with a
competition to see who could say Freixenet. Some contestants for some reason
were answering from a face down position on the carpet. Spain has some
legendary drinks of which the most famous is, perhaps, Sangria. There are
various recipes for this tonic and in the tourist season you often just get
served with a mixture of red wine and lemonade with some fruit tossed in. It
is therefore a good idea to ask for a bar where they serve the best Sangria
as they usually serve the most authentic food as well. Spain is now a
country of two foods, tourist food and out-of-season food (delicious).
Sangria can have Bacardi rum, Cointreau, or brandy added to it to make it
into a memorable occasion (although the memory may be short). Beware if it
is served in an earthenware pot and you hear the waiter mutter the word,
peligroso, which means “dangerous stuff”. It gives you the amazing ability
to dance on tables later in the evening. We found that the best tables for
dancing on were at a small pavement restaurant called Ca’n Pancho, in the
Carrer de la Verge del Carme in Puerto Pollenca (file under essential
information). Life on this island is one of continuous stress and pressure.
One awakes and has to make some heavy choices between using factor five or
ten sun screen and then the dilemma of choosing the bars to visit for the
day. Our first journey was to Pollenca itself, which is a classic Spanish
market town about ten kilometres from the little port where we were staying.
We were to visit the Bar Pedros in the Calle de Cecilia Melleto. It is run
by two eccentric Englishmen, Roger and Giles, who have been on the island
for over twenty years and who know absolutely everyone, my dear. It is
filled with equally eccentric expatriates all talking at the tops of their
voices and wearing outrageous Panama hats with wide black bands. There is a
market on Sunday morning and just everyone but everyone, darling, drops in
for the speciality of the bar, Bloody Marys. Bloody Marys are made from a
basis of vodka and tomato juice to which Roger adds other ingredients, which
I soon realised was why everyone was talking on full volume and with
extravagant gestures. We fell in with all this rather easily. Without the
vodka they are called Virgin Marys, which the assembly agreed was a bloody
shame. The next day we all wished we had stuck with the virgins. During the
next two weeks, in the interests of research, we set out on some journeys of
vinous discovery. On one of these forays we stopped at a small wayside bar
in a village called Fornaluxt in the hills on the west side of the Island.
The bar was called Es Turo and had a wonderful outside patio restaurant. The
menu was a triumph of the translator’s art. First up was Frito Mallorquin,
which had been translated as Mallorcan Lamb Fluck. It left us wondered
exactly how the little lamb was prepared. An alternative on the main course
was Conejo Cebolla , which was translated as -rabbit balled with onions
-which sounded a rather undignified way for a rabbit to end its career. The
speciality of la maison, which one does not see on many South African menus
(except at Zulu weddings) was goat. It came translated as Goat in the Oven.
I wondered if a struggle occurred in the backyard to get it, kicking, into
the oven, and then it was going to be served on the Chicken in a Basket
principle. One expected that two great sweating Spanish waiters would carry
a large oven with horns sticking out, up to the table. At the end of the
meal there was a general agreement that to be eating flucked lamb in
Fornaluxt was, I am sure you will agree, somewhat of a triumphf. During our
stay we were joined by some sons who flew over from London for the weekend
and we decided to go on an expedition to the remote beach of Cal de San
Vincente, the only beach on the island where there is surf anything like
South Africa. We found a bar overlooking the beach and immediately noticed
that there was a good show of toplessness parading on the beach so the
eldest sons went off with an exceso de velocidad to conduct a breast
inspection, an occupation also known as boobing. After several surveys (one
must not make premature judgments) they reported back that there was a mixed
bag of contestants but pride of place for the Grande Melons of Mallorca was
a tanned girl standing in the sea. They pointed her out to the occupants of
the bar. It was generally agreed that they were in the category of
‘Magnificent’ especially in their capacity to stand up to the surf. To
celebrate this final decision by the judges, we decided to have a round of
another legendary Spanish drink called Fundador, which is a brandy of the
astringent or gasping variety. One can imagine it can also be used for
cleaning the flagstones around a swimming pool. It fizzes when it hits the
ground, which sometime happens after the unwary have taken their first shot.
There is a gasp and the glass slips from the nerveless hand. It should be
drunk with coke, a slice of lemon and a lot of ice and, voila, you have the
drink called Cuba Libre, with which Castro liberated Cuba. It is an
excellent way of wrestling down the Mediterranean sun. After two drinks, if
you hear the sound of castinets you may or may not have exceeded the dose
(although you may have forgotten you are in Spain). Then what happened , and
I thought this was a bit unfair, was that she came and lay down on the rocks
just below the bar. This unsettled the judges somewhat and another round of
Fundador was ordered to keep the respirations regular. Shortly before this
happened an elderly Spaniard had entered and settled down at a table at the
end of the bar for his mid day glass of rosé. I noticed that after the
arrival of this unexpected bonanza that he took of his panama hat (from
memory I can’t remember whether he removed the black band or not) and placed
it over his lap, so there must have been some stirring in the memory banks.
We proceeded with lunch during which we received various reports of the
state of play from members of the bar, some of whom had to stand on their
bar stools. It was getting a bit like a commentary from a cricket test
match. Lunch in Mallorca is a simple and deliteful affair. There is, for
instance, Mallorcan Tumbet which is a sort of ratatouille of pepper and
garlic allowing one to exit with one’s breath attractively perfumed with
spring garlic. Then there are Bocadillos, which are bread rolls with various
fillings and Tapas Mallorquinas usually served on a pottery saucer and
consisting of mixed vegetables, meat balls or fish. It was, as the Spanish
say, all very agreeable, muy agradable. We eventually finished our meal and
as we left we had one last look back to see that the winner of the contest
was back in the sea and was giving a whole new meaning to the term, wave
jumping. We also noticed that the elderly Spaniard had started to order
shooters.