DAPHNE'S DINNER DATES: January 2015

I went to Mallorca for Christmas, and took Gorbals with me as co-pilot as I planned to do a lot of driving. I've had better wing men with four legs, but since he’s experienced GPS in action his navigational skills are getting better. We didn’t have GPS in the hire car on Mallorca but he did a fair imitation, using his tablet to follow the road and instructing “In about 20 meters, turn left” in a robotic monotone, which was still an improvement on “Turn left – oh never mind, too late, you’ve just gone past it”. I ignored his exhortations to turn and gasp at the vista while I was negotiating twisty mountain roads.

Gorbals doesn’t care for “fancy” restaurants because (a) he is an anarchist, and (b) his wardrobe does not include a dinner jacket, or even a tie, so we can’t go anywhere too posh. Not together anyway. So we ate very local. Most of the time we opted for tapas bars – for two reasons: one, he doesn't rant about the evils of capitalism in them, and two, you can eat at a more reasonable hour. I knew from previous visits to Spain with Harold that the chefs in posh Spanish restaurants don’t turn up till 8.30 p.m. at the earliest and you won’t be served before 10 p.m.

We stayed in an apartment near the Santa Catalina district, which is becoming quite trendy. Across the road from the flat was a dull-looking cafe called Cafe de Palma, which was recommended by our landlords. We didn't get to try it out until a couple of days before we left, and I wish we'd gone there from day one. It was run by a delightful and slightly deaf lady with a loud voice and a very maternal manner. On only our second visit she greeted us with "Hola, como estais?" as if she'd known us for years. It was crammed to fire safety infringement levels with books, magazines, biscuit tins, puppets and cushions. There was about a 10-year pile of back issues of Hola? magazine, which would have kept me happy all week. Especially as I am a big fan of the Spanish breakfast. The "flat white" much vaunted by Starbucks is a poor relation to the classic Spanish caffe con leche which is my favourite morning coffee. There is no way to explain to a 17-year-old spotty barista in Caffe Nero that you want a coffee that's milky but strong. The Spanish understand. Along with a freshly-squeezed orange juice and a Mallorcan ensaimada pastry (light as an angel's wing), it comes a very close second to the Full English.

My wing man turned out to have an excellent instinct for sniffing out good tapas bars. He found a good one on La Rambla – called Bodega La Rambla - that we ate in twice. You can eat standing up at the bar or queue for a table in the dining room at the back, where you can order a medium plate (5 tapas for 7 euros) or large plate (7 tapas for 9 euros). Your tapas are all thrown into the same dish - mushrooms, sausage, Russian salad, omelette and meatballs - and you’re in and out within 45 minutes. The waiters are super speedy and jolly with it. In my perfect world, all the waiters would be Spanish.

Some tapas bars are more upmarket than others. Gorbals felt quite at home in the pretty down at heel Bar Espana, which is run by two elderly gents, possibly brothers, one of whom has a most interesting and quite dramatic tic which reminded me a lot of Alf Ippititimus played by Jack Douglas on the Des O’Connor show back in the 60s. It was frequented by a motley collection of characters, mostly quite elderly and clearly a bit mad, with whom Gorbals struck up a rapport. They seemed to understand his approximate Spanish. As it was winter I eschewed the usual apéro of gin & tonic, and had a Patxaran, a pink Basque bitters served on ice, which was extremely pleasant. No food in the evenings, but on a normal lunchtime it is apparently heaving with tapas fans.

Other tapas bars which were on my list turned out to be closed at the times we wanted to eat - El Gallego and La Bodeguita del Centro in carrer del Carme, off La Rambla. One little place which was open was Bodeguita Bellver, where the chef was lovingly constructing very upmarket sandwiches in a space the size of a broom cupboard. A beer and a glass of very good Rioja came to 9 euros, a little excessive but as my friend Arthur Smith is wont to say, "If you haven't been ripped off when you go abroad, then you haven't been abroad." Outside of the Christmas season there is a kind of pub crawl that goes on Tuesday evenings, called La Ruta Martiana, or the Martian Route, where a number of downtown tapas bars offer a cana and a tapa for 2 euros. Needless to say, it wasn't happening the week we were there.

But stand-up tapas heaven was to be found in the markets - our local market, the Mercat Santa Catalina, had several bars where the local hombres were stuffing their faces with Spanish omelette, squid, beautiful Spanish ham and all manner of pintxos accompanied by a cana of beer at 11 in the morning, while their senoras were loading up with goodies for the holidays. I bought some exquisite bellotta ham (made from acorn-fed pigs) and some cheap local foie gras, a loaf of bread and some fruit, which we had with a bottle of white wine in the sun on a bench by the marina at Port de Soller, on Christmas Day. One of the best Christmas lunches ever.

The district with an intense concentration of restaurants was La Lonja, where the highly recommended Bar Dia was closed but we had sit-down tapas at La Cueva – a bit posher than La Rambla, at least the tapas came in separate dishes, and we were serenaded by a trio of musician students known as Tunas dressed in medieval gowns singing traditional old Spanish songs, whilst the Germans at the next table drank sangria, no doubt trying to recapture the heady atmosphere of their summer holiday. In some ways we were lucky it was December, I dare say in summer their repertoire includes "Y viva Espana" and other delights.

I was surprised to get into Casa Espanola on Christmas Eve without a reservation. It was quite late in the evening, as we were going to midnight mass at Palma Cathedral to hear a UNESCO Masterpiece of Oral Intangible Heritage. Our jolly Argentinian waiter served us up a fairly average paella and two bottles of Mallorquin red to help to wash it down. In church we were considerably swayed by the majesty of it all. Gorbals even went up to receive the Eucharist, but was a bit disappointed to find they'd run out of the Blood of Christ and had to make do with what was left of His Body. Austerity seems to have even hit the Catholic church.

On the drive to Porto Cristo on the East Coast we passed an unprepossessing restaurant to the side of the motorway which rang a bell. I realized had eaten there 30 years ago. Es Cruce was a basic transport caff then – we stopped because my Parisian paramour at the time decided trucks parked outside was A Good Sign and he was right – there was no menu, we were beckoned into the kitchen and had to point at what we wanted, then a bottle of wine was plonked on the table and we were charged for what we drank. The restaurant has expanded somewhat – it now holds some 400 diners – but is obviously still very popular, as the massive car park was full and there was a crowd of people milling about. Mental notes were made for future visits.

I sampled Mallorquin soup ("supa mallorquina") in Es Tanit the one restaurant open in Porto Cristo. It turned out to be bread and cabbage soup. More bread and cabbage than soup, and could have been served warmer, but was very nourishing, especially as it was December and I had acquired a filthy cold. Outrageously overpriced, and on checking Trip Advisor later I found it was a restaurant known for poor quality food and ripoff prices, but it was all that was open. Gorbals probably chose more wisely with his spaghetti carbonara.

We dropped into Magalluf just to have a look. I was last there 30 years ago and it had improved immensely. Mainly because it was December and everything was closed. Apparently it’s got a rather racy reputation lately. The culinary options, had anything been open, appeared to be pizza, doner kebab, burgers and chips, so we made our excuses and left. But Mallorca wouldn't be Majorca if we didn't have one night in a British bar, and so we went to Hogan's which was just round the corner from our apartment, and had beer and red wine and burgers.

Es Baluard museum restaurant

It wasn't all slumming it. One day I gave Gorbals the afternoon off so I could treat myself to lunch at the cool and ubertrendy Es Baluard, the restaurant of the modern art museum of the same name overlooking Palma marina. It was all low loom armchairs and trance music in the sun. So far, so Ibiza. I only had a glass of white wine and a slice of Spanish omelette but it was quite nice sitting there in my Vuarnet sunglasses feeling like Penelope Cruz although probably looking more like Montsarrat Caballé.

The best tapas of all – by no means the cheapest – were in a little restaurant called Sa Botiga in a little town called Santanyi, run by Germans Gaby and Michael who had had the place for 3 years. They really were special, and beautifully presented. The restaurant terrace is across the road from the actual restaurant, in front of the church. Mid-afternoon, i.e. lunchtime in Mallorca, there were no cars and we had a delightful couple of hours in the sun sampling these creative and delicious tapas. The restaurant itself is immaculate and every nook and cranny was filled with second-hand books in all languages, in fact there appeared to be a second-hand library on the first floor.

When we tired of tapas there was always Pa amb oli, or Mallorcan ham & cheese sandwich. The first one we sampled, at S'Olivera in Valldemossa, was the best. not the cheapest, at 10 euros, but the ham was top quality pata negra, generous slices under large slices of manchego cheese, under which were slices of fresh tomato on rye bread. Garnished with olives. A feast. We had pa amb oli again at the very local Ca'n Moixet on Pollença market square but it was not quite as good.

Three little piggies went to market ....

Ham, or jamon, was everywhere in Mallorca. Legs and legs of it. Massive great hocks. In the markets it seemed that's what everyone was buying for Christmas dinner. It is a very porky place, Spain. And by the sainted Miss Piggy, it was good stuff. Pata negra, serrano, bellotto, some came in their own special bag. There were also cochinillas or suckling pigs - I wanted to have a roast suckling pig dinner but we didn't manage to find a place open at the right time - and whole pig heads used as decoration, one winsomely sporting a red ribbon in her, or its, er, ears. Pig's ears, pig's trotters, every part of the revered halouf was available for stewing, roasting, grilling or frying. It must be quite hard work being Jewish or Muslim in Spain. Halal and kosher are not much in evidence.

The problem with going to a Mediterranean island off season is, many of the attractions will be closed. Sadly another wonderful place which I remembered from my visit 30 years ago turned out to be shut - Bar Abaco is an old Mallorquin house which is something akin to a museum that serves cocktails in impossibly glamorous historic surroundings. Even Gorbals would have liked this, although probably not the cocktails. The old single-track train to Soller was - of course - out of action for two months, but across the street from the dinky little railway station I found an old-fashioned art deco café dating from the 1920s, called Bar Cristal. It serves the most orgasmic hot chocolate you have ever tasted, like melted chocolate, so thick you have to eat it with a spoon. It was served by a fairly orgasmic 6’4” waiter called Llorenç, who had black hair down to his waist in a neat pigtail, a black beard and eyes the colour of the hot chocolate he had just placed in front of me. He persuaded me to have an ensamaida with it. To be honest he could have persuaded me to do the washing-up. He was so gorgeous I had to take his photograph. When you get to my age you can get away with that sort of thing.