Time to leave Andalucia and the South behind - time to slow down on the fish or we'll come home with gills (or more likely tentacles.) Friday morning we head north from Sevilla towards Almendralejo where we have a restaurant recommendation. On the way we stop in Zafra for a light refreshment -some cool beers and a couple of tapas for lunch. The sleepy little town with two adjoining mediaeval sqaures has all gone back to sleep by 3.00 pm.
We are into Extramadura now and our eyes are open for pigs. "Extrema - dura" means "extremely hard" - referring, we thought, to the very tough conditions here - extremely hot in summer and exremely cold in winter. It's pretty warm - around 35 - but not as hot as the city thanks to the breezes and the rising height of the terrain, which is a surprising mixture of apparently fertile land growing vines and olives, interspersed with rocky outcrops. We see a lot of large healthy looking horned brown cattle, plenty of sheep and a few goats, but not a pig in sight! Nor, for that matter, much in the way of an oak tree, under which the beasts should be happily shovelling up those acorns...
No pigs, and no almond trees either, despite the name "Almendralejo" (place of almonds.) We do see a large jamon processing plant and several canning factories, so there must be some activity - it's just hidden form the road. Ah - the road. Very much a feature of Almendralejo and its hotels and restaurants. The A66 motorway, which has taken over the "Ruta de Plata" walking route, has also taken over Almendralejo, it seems. Just by-passing the town, (by-passing our hotel by about 50 metres, in fact) it seems to have transformed what may once have been a flourishing stopover, into a sort of wild west ghost town, strung along the deserted former road. In order to solve this problem, the local authorities, with a flourish of "if you can't beat 'em, join 'em" appear to have decided to compete with the motorway by digging up the entire town to create a dual carriageway right through it. These obras have now come to a standstill - too hot perhaps or run out of money? But the sad result is concrete chaos.
Our hotel, having lost much or all of the stopover business on which I guess it depended, decided to open its doors to the locals in the form of a "Club Desportivo" - the pool and what's left of the hotel grounds (some stolen for the motorway, apparently) are full of the local "yoof", as is the hotel dining room, mentioned in the Michelin guide book, but obviously not checked out since it most of it was turned over to a cafeteria to serve said yoof. Tut tut, M. Michelin...
Our dinner at El Paraiso is also threatened by transport as the front courtyard of the restaurant, on which the managment have continued, in their wisdom, to deploy their best tables and linen and glassware, is now a mere 20 metres or so from the roaring juggernauts on their way from Sevilla to Swindon via Caceres and all points north. Never mind, this distraction pales into insignificance upon the arrival of Julio himself (for surely it must be none other than he) complete with keyboard, microphone and electric guitar - truly a one-man orchestra, and versatile at that. We are treated to a medley of well known Spanish hits, deploying all twenty of the above instruments and at least 2 different rhythms, hits such as "Sobreviviro" and "Senorita en Rojo" (work it out yourelves.) It was all I could do to restrain Phil from volunteering to sing "Hi ho Silver Lining" in honour of the Ruta de Plata.
But the food - the food is always the thing (at least it is with us.) We decide to go for meat meat meat after all the fish fish fish. A plate of "surtido de Ibericos" (shared, thank God) reveals why there are no pigs to be seen - all the pigs in Extramadra are on our plate. We have enough thickly sliced and cured meat here to make sandwiches for the International Brigade for a month. The volume is daunting. The flavours powerful. Good country stuff, but we are weak city folk and cannot do it justice. I have ordered a Chuleta de Buey (a rib steak, literally "beef cutlet") and I know it's not going to be small. Phil has gone for the Paleta de Cabrita con Tomillo (shoulder of kid, roast with thyme.) The steak is wonderful meat -thick, juicy and perfectly cooked on a smokey wood fire with a lot of salt. Very powerful flavours again. The kid meat is just wonderful. Fresh wild thyme and salt are the only additions and the only necessary ones. It's soft, juicy, tender and tasty and falls off the bone. There is very little "goatiness" about it - the flavour is very sweet, much like lechal (milk-fed lamb), and not much bigger. I'm afraid I ate most of it and Phil ate most of the steak, but i wasn't the first time I had got his goat.... (arf, arf.) We'd almost forgoten about Julio by the time we left.
We are into Extramadura now and our eyes are open for pigs. "Extrema - dura" means "extremely hard" - referring, we thought, to the very tough conditions here - extremely hot in summer and exremely cold in winter. It's pretty warm - around 35 - but not as hot as the city thanks to the breezes and the rising height of the terrain, which is a surprising mixture of apparently fertile land growing vines and olives, interspersed with rocky outcrops. We see a lot of large healthy looking horned brown cattle, plenty of sheep and a few goats, but not a pig in sight! Nor, for that matter, much in the way of an oak tree, under which the beasts should be happily shovelling up those acorns...
No pigs, and no almond trees either, despite the name "Almendralejo" (place of almonds.) We do see a large jamon processing plant and several canning factories, so there must be some activity - it's just hidden form the road. Ah - the road. Very much a feature of Almendralejo and its hotels and restaurants. The A66 motorway, which has taken over the "Ruta de Plata" walking route, has also taken over Almendralejo, it seems. Just by-passing the town, (by-passing our hotel by about 50 metres, in fact) it seems to have transformed what may once have been a flourishing stopover, into a sort of wild west ghost town, strung along the deserted former road. In order to solve this problem, the local authorities, with a flourish of "if you can't beat 'em, join 'em" appear to have decided to compete with the motorway by digging up the entire town to create a dual carriageway right through it. These obras have now come to a standstill - too hot perhaps or run out of money? But the sad result is concrete chaos.
Our hotel, having lost much or all of the stopover business on which I guess it depended, decided to open its doors to the locals in the form of a "Club Desportivo" - the pool and what's left of the hotel grounds (some stolen for the motorway, apparently) are full of the local "yoof", as is the hotel dining room, mentioned in the Michelin guide book, but obviously not checked out since it most of it was turned over to a cafeteria to serve said yoof. Tut tut, M. Michelin...
Our dinner at El Paraiso is also threatened by transport as the front courtyard of the restaurant, on which the managment have continued, in their wisdom, to deploy their best tables and linen and glassware, is now a mere 20 metres or so from the roaring juggernauts on their way from Sevilla to Swindon via Caceres and all points north. Never mind, this distraction pales into insignificance upon the arrival of Julio himself (for surely it must be none other than he) complete with keyboard, microphone and electric guitar - truly a one-man orchestra, and versatile at that. We are treated to a medley of well known Spanish hits, deploying all twenty of the above instruments and at least 2 different rhythms, hits such as "Sobreviviro" and "Senorita en Rojo" (work it out yourelves.) It was all I could do to restrain Phil from volunteering to sing "Hi ho Silver Lining" in honour of the Ruta de Plata.
But the food - the food is always the thing (at least it is with us.) We decide to go for meat meat meat after all the fish fish fish. A plate of "surtido de Ibericos" (shared, thank God) reveals why there are no pigs to be seen - all the pigs in Extramadra are on our plate. We have enough thickly sliced and cured meat here to make sandwiches for the International Brigade for a month. The volume is daunting. The flavours powerful. Good country stuff, but we are weak city folk and cannot do it justice. I have ordered a Chuleta de Buey (a rib steak, literally "beef cutlet") and I know it's not going to be small. Phil has gone for the Paleta de Cabrita con Tomillo (shoulder of kid, roast with thyme.) The steak is wonderful meat -thick, juicy and perfectly cooked on a smokey wood fire with a lot of salt. Very powerful flavours again. The kid meat is just wonderful. Fresh wild thyme and salt are the only additions and the only necessary ones. It's soft, juicy, tender and tasty and falls off the bone. There is very little "goatiness" about it - the flavour is very sweet, much like lechal (milk-fed lamb), and not much bigger. I'm afraid I ate most of it and Phil ate most of the steak, but i wasn't the first time I had got his goat.... (arf, arf.) We'd almost forgoten about Julio by the time we left.
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