As our first Christmas on Mallorca approached, we thought back fondly to the wonderful butcher's shop in the village of Adderbury, where I'd lived for eleven years. Not only did Rob and his wife sell locally produced meat of a very high quality, they stocked lots of deli-type items and had even expanded their premises to provide a mini-supermarket offering general groceries. Their plump, flaky croissants – still warm from the special oven they'd installed – were a naughty treat. Our last Christmas in the UK we'd treated ourselves to a Kelly Bronze turkey from Rob's fine emporium. Cost a fortune. Tasted fantastic. Where would we find something that good on Mallorca?
We'd only seen turkeys here as frozen lumps of nobbliness in supermarket chest freezers, so we sought the advice of the butcher's stall in Manacor market. There, a cheerful chap wearing a jolly knitted hat, bottle-bottom specs and a big grin, explained that a fresh turkey would be no problem. He'd make a note of what we wanted and have it in by Christmas Eve. We'd turned to leave when, with a deadpan face, he called out a final question: did we want it dead or alive? We had a good laugh and, as it happened, a decent enough turkey for Christmas.
By the following Christmas we'd found Anype – a great little local butcher's shop, tucked away in a side street in Manacor – and they sold us a great turkey. Since then, we've been regular customers of Antonia and her husband Pedro, buying something most Saturdays, We're hardly their best customers: the locals seem to buy enormous quantities of meat, whereas we don't eat very much meat, but that's certainly not reflected in the way we're treated.
Each Christmas they've given us a small Anype-branded gift as a token of their appreciation. But what we've most valued have been all the laughs and great chats we've enjoyed with this couple - in spite of our less-than-perfect castellano (they usually speak only mallorquìn on a day-to-day basis).
But when we went in to order this year's turkey, there was bad news (for us and their many loyal customers): Antonia and Pedro are closing their shop on December 31, and retiring. Pedro is now 67 and, not surprisingly, ready to give up the long hours, hard work and chilly hands that are the lot of an old-fashioned butcher.
We collected our turkey and some of their delicious home-made sausages today, and delivered a Christmas card (the only one they had received since the locals don't tend to go in for these things). Both Antonia and I were a bit teary-eyed, even though we'll be back in the shop next week to stock up the freezer. And to ask where they'll be buying their meat in future . . .
Merry Christmas!
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Monday, December 8, 2008
GETTING INTO THE CHRISTMAS SPIRIT
The Christmas cake has been made and, after it's iced, nobody will notice that it's rather darker than it should be. Once again, the combined efforts of Delia (the recipe) and myself (the hard graft) have been thwarted by our rather useless Italian oven. With its smart brass fittings and matte finish, it looks good - but then so do many Italian things. The problem is that the thermostat doesn't work properly and the temperature goes up and down like a bride's nightie.
At least my homemade mincemeat looks and tastes rather fabulous (and I've had to taste it a few times to make sure). And so it should, with that much brandy and spiced rum in it. I even bought a small piece of festive fabric from a material shop in Manacor so that I could make kitsch little covers for the jar lids. Sorry . . . were you just dazzled by the sun reflecting off my halo?
Actually, cake and mincemeat aside, I've been struggling to feel festive. Several times I've sat down to write the Christmas cards and given up. It's because it's been a bit of a rough fortnight. We've both had colds and been hacking away like two people who chain-smoke Ducados (not an attractive sound). And Smokey, our Maine Coon cat, has been really poorly. He'd been having tests to determine why he was losing weight (despite a healthy appetite) when he too was laid low by a filthy cold. In the past fortnight we've been to the vet's nine times, during which he's had an ultrasound scan, various blood tests, some scarily expensive injections, and examinations. None of the visits has been less than an hour. At home, we've had to feed him hourly by syringe - he went completely off his food once the cold started - and give him various pills at different times of day. No wonder I'm behind with the ironing. Anyway, he's almost back to normal now and his weight loss problem has been solved.
So it was good to get out and visit Palma yesterday, for the 10th Ecumenical Christmas Carol Service in the city's beautiful cathedral. On Friday, the Christmas lights in the city had been officially switched on, so it was hard not to feel a frisson of Christmas spirit as we made our way through the streets. It was our fifth visit to this annual service, and I challenge anyone not to feel festive after singing a few carols, listening to the cathedral choir - Els Vermells de la Seu - and the talented little cuties in the Centre Stage Junior Chorus. Apart from the fact that some of the verses of traditional carols are sung in castellano or mallorquín (there seemed to be more words than available tune in some cases), and the inclusion of the Sibil-la, it has a rather British feel.
The Sibil-la is a chant dating back to the 10th century, traditionally sung before or during Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve - and Mallorca is now the only place where it's performed. The story of Judgement Day, it's sung unaccompanied by a lone chorister clad in oriental robes and holding aloft a rather heavy-looking sword. Between each verse there's a dramatic burst of music from the cathedral's magnificent organ. I'd sum it all up as hauntingly beautiful . . . and a bit long (plenty of time to reflect on one's own misdemeanours, I suppose).
For one small person, the service proved to be a bit too much. Just as the opening bars of "A Holly Jolly Christmas" were being played on the piano, an indignant voice (aged around three) piped up from a nearby pew: "Not another one!" The little boy's parents' faces were as red as the Centre Stage Juniors' sweaters, but the rest of us who heard it enjoyed a muffled giggle behind our order of service sheets.
I felt so festive when we arrived home, I had to start writing my Christmas cards - and have another spoonful of mincemeat. I think it's going to be fine . . .
At least my homemade mincemeat looks and tastes rather fabulous (and I've had to taste it a few times to make sure). And so it should, with that much brandy and spiced rum in it. I even bought a small piece of festive fabric from a material shop in Manacor so that I could make kitsch little covers for the jar lids. Sorry . . . were you just dazzled by the sun reflecting off my halo?
Actually, cake and mincemeat aside, I've been struggling to feel festive. Several times I've sat down to write the Christmas cards and given up. It's because it's been a bit of a rough fortnight. We've both had colds and been hacking away like two people who chain-smoke Ducados (not an attractive sound). And Smokey, our Maine Coon cat, has been really poorly. He'd been having tests to determine why he was losing weight (despite a healthy appetite) when he too was laid low by a filthy cold. In the past fortnight we've been to the vet's nine times, during which he's had an ultrasound scan, various blood tests, some scarily expensive injections, and examinations. None of the visits has been less than an hour. At home, we've had to feed him hourly by syringe - he went completely off his food once the cold started - and give him various pills at different times of day. No wonder I'm behind with the ironing. Anyway, he's almost back to normal now and his weight loss problem has been solved.
So it was good to get out and visit Palma yesterday, for the 10th Ecumenical Christmas Carol Service in the city's beautiful cathedral. On Friday, the Christmas lights in the city had been officially switched on, so it was hard not to feel a frisson of Christmas spirit as we made our way through the streets. It was our fifth visit to this annual service, and I challenge anyone not to feel festive after singing a few carols, listening to the cathedral choir - Els Vermells de la Seu - and the talented little cuties in the Centre Stage Junior Chorus. Apart from the fact that some of the verses of traditional carols are sung in castellano or mallorquín (there seemed to be more words than available tune in some cases), and the inclusion of the Sibil-la, it has a rather British feel.
The Sibil-la is a chant dating back to the 10th century, traditionally sung before or during Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve - and Mallorca is now the only place where it's performed. The story of Judgement Day, it's sung unaccompanied by a lone chorister clad in oriental robes and holding aloft a rather heavy-looking sword. Between each verse there's a dramatic burst of music from the cathedral's magnificent organ. I'd sum it all up as hauntingly beautiful . . . and a bit long (plenty of time to reflect on one's own misdemeanours, I suppose).
For one small person, the service proved to be a bit too much. Just as the opening bars of "A Holly Jolly Christmas" were being played on the piano, an indignant voice (aged around three) piped up from a nearby pew: "Not another one!" The little boy's parents' faces were as red as the Centre Stage Juniors' sweaters, but the rest of us who heard it enjoyed a muffled giggle behind our order of service sheets.
I felt so festive when we arrived home, I had to start writing my Christmas cards - and have another spoonful of mincemeat. I think it's going to be fine . . .
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