Pink and black (or birthday lunch number one)

We've just got back from a week in Sicily (or, as the Ewing, who flicked through the phrasebook for five minutes would say, See-cheee-lee-uh). As ever there was food and drink. And more food and drink. And several afternoon naps. And it was lovely.

It's also been increasingly difficult to get the blogging mojo back since returning. Mostly because I have spent most my time since I've been back swathed in blankets, with the heating on full blast, bemoaning the fact I'm not still in shorts, looking out at the view above, sipping cold rose and eating cannoli.

While we ate many delicacies - including goat's intestines, gelato and granita for breakfast - but my favourite meal was my birthday lunch (part one of two, stay tuned for the next instalment) at Trattoria Al Vecchio Club Rosanero a shrine to the S.S.D Palermo, or the Pink and Black - named for the colour of their strips - the city's revered football team.

On arrival we were given a comprehensive menu but then, from my very limited understanding of Italian, informed that we should go and chose from the dishes chalked up on the boards around the room. Of course I had already studied it comprehensively on social media before our visit.

Which was lucky as it saved us standing over someone's table attempting to figure out random local specialities such as glasa, pasta topped with leftover stew, and triato, pasta with a 'chopped' sauce.

Our first antipasti was sarde a beccafico, or stuffed sardines, a dish we had seen Giorgio Locatelli cooking for Andrew Graham-Dixon on Sicily Unpacked (worth searching for online if not available on iPlayer). Made from butterflied sardines, stuffed with raisins, pine nuts and breadcrumbs, it's a peasant dish that has remained popular in Palermo.

I have say to I wasn't overly-excited about ordering them but felt duty-bound as I knew the Ewing wanted to try them. As things turned out, they were one of the best things I ate on the trip. Maybe it was the location, or the atmosphere, or the litre of vino blanco we had eagerly got stuck into, but they were simply perfect.

Equally as good was the caponata, a sweet and sour aubergine dish with celery, tomatoes, raisins and capers. Here served with the addition of chunks of spada, or swordfish, another fish found plentifully in local waters.

A heavenly mix of soft slippery aubergine and meaty cubes of grilled fish, bathed in local olive oil and mopped up with chunks of warm, sesame studded wood-fired bread that was delivered to every table on arrival. This was so good we had to come back just to order it again before we flew home.

For our primi platti, the Ewing ordered a bowl of spaghetti with sweet red prawns and briny sea urchin; with this heaping plateful being a half portion. I can confirm the full sized portions were at least twice as large, and I spent half my time trying not to stare in awe at the svelte local lady next to us who was quietly and elegantly demolishing a gargantuan heap of spaghetti bathed in a pool of jet-black squid ink sauce.

I chose the ravioli, with the robust pasta parcels pleasingly reminding me of the tinned squares in a lurid orange sauce which most 80s kids in England were subjected to as children. Rather than a mystery grey 'meat' filling, these were stuffed with a mousse of grouper fish, and served with a wonderfully glossy and buttery sauce of fresh tomato and topped with parsley and tiny pink shrimp.

In all honesty, after all that had come before, the squid was probably superfluous, but there was no way I was going to pass up ordering one of my favourite things. It was also good to see it available simply chargrilled (as well as stuffed and fried), the smoky cephalopod served bathed with olive oil, lemon and sprinkled with wild  Sicilian oregano.

In fact, the oregano was so good that I'm very  I bought a big bag in the famous Capo market and carried it home in my suitcase. I am  also retrospectively very glad I wasn't questioned more when coming back through customs.

As good girls who always eat our greens (along with pretty much everything else) we accompanied the squid with some giri  which can refer to various long-stemmed, spinach-like greens, but in this case meant swiss chard - that had been slowly cooked until soft in yet more olive oil and lemon juice and tasted deliciously sweet and delicate after all the big flavours that had come before.

We finished the meal the way all good meals should finish; with two icy cold glasses of local Sicilian amaro, a pleasingly small bill (less than fifty 50 Euros, including water and and the aforementioned litre of wine) and a long afternoon nap. The perfect way to herald the last year of the fourth decade of my existence.

An Ibizian Interlude

I have to confess, of all the places I have ever wanted to visit in the big wide world, Beefa was never one of them. For such a tiny isle, it packs a big punch and it seems everyone I know has gone there, many of them multiple times. But for every person that spoke about the 'unspoilt north', or told me 'it's not all about the super clubs', I couldn't fail to get the thoughts of short shorts, fish bowls and Paris Hilton coated in foam (shudder) out of my head.

But then #emilyandnigelaregettingmarried happened, and the venue was on a beach in one of their favourite places, the White Isle. Not wanting to miss one of the parties of the year (and realising, due to impending old age, the idea of an all-nighter at a super club soon wouldn't exist, if i wanted to go or not) I packed my straw hat and shades, downed a few lagers at the airport, and got down on it.

I'd like to say it wasn't all late night dancing and days spent in bed or by the pool, but it mostly was. We did, however manage to rouse ourselves to see some of the delights of Ibiza, and I can confirm it is a very beautiful place. Our villa, high up in the hills in the sleepy town of San Josep, was gorgeous and Ibiza old town (now a UNESCO heritage site), far away from the flashy marina and the frozen pina coladas (which were also very good) is well worth a tour.

While the trip may not have provided haute cuisine, from the serrano ham flavour crisps eaten in bed (surely a culinary highlight of any holiday), to a gorgeous wedding breakfast, we ate plenty of good grub; Here are some of the best bites.

Breakfast most days, alongside some of the best chocolate croissants I have eaten, was sobrassada, a raw, cured sausage made with pork and paprika that's a specialty of the Balearics. Unlike most sausages, the sobrassada remains almost pate-like inside, a result of the curing conditions (high humidity and mild cold) which are typical of the late Balearic climate.

The size of the sausages range from thin winter sobrassada, stuffed into intestines, right up to bisbe (or bishops) that are stuffed into large pig's bladders and made in the warmer months. The one I picked up from the supermarket deli stood somewhere in between the two, and was rather good spread onto crusty bread and served with a handful of sweet Mediterranean tomatoes, especially with the view from our veranda across to Sa Talaiassa.

Another local dish is the ensaimada, a spiral of coiled dough made with saïm, or a type of reduced pork fat. Apparently you can tell a true ensaïmada if it stains a piece of paper with the lard - how you would differentiate between  the mark made by lard compared to another fat, it isn't clear.

I tried the traditional ensaimada, which, if I'm honest, was underwhelming when compared to the rest of the pastries we sampled from the local baker's counter. Apparently you can also get filled versions, stuffed with pastry cream, chocolate or strands of candied pumpkin. Even better, you may also find greixonera, a kind of bread pudding made with yesterday's stale ensaimada, eggs, cream and cinnamon (yeah, if you ever manage to see daylight and or make it outside the villa - TE).

On our cultural day - which, of course, was also the greyest - we made it out to Cala d'Hort (thanks for The Ewing for transporting us) (that's ok - TE) a small, secluded cove on the western coast with great views of the tiny island of Es Vedra.

There's two restaurants at Cala d'Hort, del Carmen down on the beach and Es Boldado, our choice, up on the cliff. As is fitting for a seaside gaff, the menu offers a whole gamut of fish and seafood dishes, with a particular focus on rice dishes including arroz a la marinera (fisherman's rice); Arroz negro (black rice) and Arroz ciego ('blind' or boneless rice) alongside the Ibizian specialty Bullit de peix con arroz a banda, a bright yellow fish stew that was flying out the kitchen on our trip.

Of course, as Brits we couldn't come to Spain and not order the Paella. We chose the mixta, featuring both meat and seafood, and after twenty minutes drinking cold Mahou and eating green olives, bread and obscenely garlicky aioli, our lunch was ready.

Ropy photo aside (hen party 'jinks' had seen both my phone and camera end up at the bottom of the swimming pool, leaving me at the mercy of the Ewing's cracked and battered iPhone) (think yourself lucky you had a phone to borrow - TE) this was exemplary. a mixture of chicken, crab, prawns, langoustine (which always look so beautiful, but taste, oddly, of not much), mussels, and chunks of squid in a saffron and squid ink infused savoury rice with just the right amount of stodginess.

 

While there are, reportedly, still plenty of hidden 'foodie' gems, Ibiza has won it's party reputation for a reason - with sustenance often coming off second best to giant gin and tonics and beach-side dj sets. That said, who could resist the copious menus offering pizza, pasta and things served with chips. 

Our local haunt in San Josep did a good crab tagliatelle and rigatoni amatriciana and also got extra points for serving the cava in wine glasses and graciously putting up with our raucous pre-hen party. We also ate decent pizza in Ibiza old town, topped with blue cheese sausage and broccoli (my one concession to green vegetables during the week) with raspberry panacotta and a round of limoncello on the house.

We also had a - slightly stressful to organise, with people coming from all across the island - but ultimately lovely - pre-wedding dinner at Pinocchio's, again in Ibiza old town. I had a fabulous classic holiday salad, topped with grated carrot, olives, tuna, ham, sweetcorn and a lone white asparagus spear followed by a decent milanese cutlet with proper chips and a couple of bottles of rioja.

After our exploits over the previous week it was a miracle we made it so fresh faced (or at all) to the wedding; the bride and groom both looked radiant, the location was stunning, the photographer (and a few of the congregation, sitting in the sunshine) was hot, and the 'sand man' was a legend.

It was also the only wedding I have been to with pedalos, or should that be 'wedalos'. Whatever you might call them, they were great fun, as were the classic garage tunes and bad wedding dance moves ala Croydon circa 1999.

Possibly the thing I had been most looking forward to all week was the 'sea bream a la mama' recommended by the bride to be when they made a little recce to the venue and sampled the food earlier in the year. It didn't disappoint - despite drunkenly swallowing several bones - with the bed of roasted tomatoes the fish nestled on being an unexpected delight.

The rest of the food was equally delightful, from the sharing platters - bowls of mussels, veggie stacks and buttery salmon pate with bread sticks - to start and ending with an assiette of deserts, a sorbet, a perfectly judged chocolate and sour cherry fondant and one of the best creme brulees I have eaten. (Fellow guests, please feel free to correct me on the menu recollection; horrible pictures with flash and lots of white sangria can lead to unreliable memories...)

They say you haven't lived until you've drunk coconut liquer out of a ring-shaped, flashing shot glass, or something. And of course, no right thinking bunch of sensible individuals fast approaching their mid-thirties would turn down a luminous thimbles of petrol. Just as well really, as we seemed to be offered quite a few of them. 

So a huge congratulations to Mr and Mrs James-Walsh; it was a ball and a pleasure to be there to celebrate with you (a delight! - TE). And while I thought - at least after I got home, sat at my desk at work, head in hands - that I could never face the White Isle again, now I've had time to recover, I kinda miss the place. Here's to Ibiza 2016.