A day of rain and food and very few bones

Unbelievably, it was already time to leave the Algarve and discover pastures new. Mrs. Ottawacker was, I think, rather reticent to do this. As I rather tactlessly pointed out, if you don’t get your act together to contribute to the planning and booking of the trip, you have to live with the consequences. (I pointed this out more tactfully than that, I should say, but there was still a certain pursing of the lips in response. Fair enough, I suppose.) Anyway, we had been told that rain was on the way, so the prospect of looking at the grey beach from the balcony seat was rather less appealing than gambolling on a golden beach in the warm November sun, and that lessened the sadness of departure. Nonetheless, we were a little anxious about what the sleeping arrangements might be: you get used to spreading out…
 
The drive was somewhat longer than planned. For once, this had nothing to do with the GPS and everything to do with the arrival of the “rain”. As we were on the A22 towards Faro, heading in the direction of Spain, there was not so much “rain” as a preternaturally biblical downpour. Given the upsurge in extreme weather – and especially given what had happened in Valencia – we were a little uncertain as to what to do. As our speed dropped from 120 to 90 to 50 to 25 km/h, we crawled along with our hazard lights blinking away, wondering whether or not we should just pull over to the shoulder and sit it out. In the end, we crawled on, making very poor time but making time nonetheless. Eventually, we turned off the A22 and onto the A2, heading north. And soon we were out of the storm. It had been a bit of a white-knuckle ride, so we pulled off the road into one of the service stations, and had a coffee. There, on the television, were images of that day’s weather in Málaga, which had caused significant flooding in the area I’d been staying in earlier this year. I do have this sort of charmed existence where weather events are concerned. We missed the tsunami in Thailand by a matter of hours, and the resort we had been in in Alvor was quite badly affected by the rain this time around. (Then, of course, there is the Ruapehu eruption story, when I was living in New Zealand.)
 
Anyway, once the rain had stopped, we were able to carry on through the countryside to Évora. And what beautiful countryside it is too. I’ve never thought of Portugal as being a particularly “green” country – total ignorance, of course – and, in my head, I had always thought of it as being like a cheaper version of the Costa del Sol. I based this on a single visit to the country in 1992, during which time I’d travelled with a girlfriend and spent most of the time on a beach in the north of the country. Not exactly a wealth of experience: but, there you go, my complete superficiality in microcosm. See, decide, pronounce judgement – preferably in such a confident manner that people will believe it. Then that helps me believe it myself. :)
 
Anyway, where was I? Ah, yes. The countryside was very green and almost lush. Lots of trees, lots of pastureland. And when we hit Évora, it was to discover that it was a large town, with alleyways of trees and interesting buildings. For once, we were grateful for the GPS. It was a rabbit warren of small streets and numerous roundabouts. It was completely disorientating. We pulled over to one side and decided to make for Quinta do Louredo, the farm we were staying at, even though we were way in advance of our scheduled check-in time. The GPS took us way out of the city towards a place called Igrejinha, where we found a succession of farms, all seemingly active, along a series of increasingly narrowing roads. Eventually we found it, and drove down a long, cinder road with numerous potholes – only to find that the door to Quinta do Louredo was most definitely shut. It wasn’t so much a door, as a gate. An immense barrier to the entrance of the farm. As we were so far ahead of schedule, I suddenly didn’t feel like imposing, so we turned around (the first instance of a 234-point turn that Portugal has ever seen) and headed back for Évora. At least we knew where the place was, now – and might conceivably make it back in the dark. It was time to go to what we had been calling “the bone place”.
 
You can probably guess what happened next: that’s right, we didn’t get to the bone place. We headed for the cathedral and decided we were hungry. In fairness, it had started to rain quite heavily, so we decided to go into the first place we saw and have lunch. We managed to park near the Temple of Diana, and given the onslaught of rain, headed straight into a restaurant called Cavalariça, right next to the Palácio dos Duques de Cadaval. I suppose, in hindsight, the location of the restaurant ought to have been some sort of warning. So should the fact that it was completely empty (which at the time, we had put down to the rain). We were greeted warmly by a gang of waiters, all of them looking as if they had stepped out of a Wim Wenders film. They led us, sopping wet, to a table (we were sopping wet, not they.) They took our coats, and then the head waiter, bearded, handsome, fluent in every language, introduced us to the concept of the restaurant. I made a joke about never having been to a restaurant with a concept before. The waiter was happy to explain.
 
“Through the mists of time,” he began, “Cavalariça brings to you a fusion of Brazilian, Portuguese and Japanese flavours.”
 
Ottawacker Jr.’s mouth was already most definitely open at this time.
 
“Our chefs come from the corners of the globe to create for you a gustatory experience that is second to none.”
 
Mrs. Ottawacker was beginning to giggle.
 
“The food is sourced from local farms to reach your mouth at the optimal moment.”
 
I was dying for a drink.
 
“Let me introduce our menus and show you how the Cavalariça dream has become reality. Put your trust in us, and enjoy the ride.”
 
And, so we did and so he did. Bringing forth a menu that was simple, yet extravagant, he recommended to us a selection of Alentejano breads (“made in our kitchen this very day by our master baker, Cristiano”) with three cheeses for a mere 17€; an Alentejo tortilla, for a mere 8€; and a lamb empanada with its green seaweed sauce for God knows how much. For the main course, it got serious: there was Monte do Roque chicken, with herb fricassé sauce, and Pleurotus mushroom, triple-cooked home fries smoked lard, and black pepper. This was a price so extravagantly expensive that I cannot bring myself to write it down. We ordered, and then sat and waited.
 
Of course, when it came, every part of the meal was presented. I had half-imagined it would be, but somehow, disappointingly, they had neglected to include the liveried trumpeters I had believed would be hitting a high C between breaths. Instead, it was a relatively simple presentation of where the cheeses were made, what the name of the cow was, what the weather was like when the cheese was first produced, the size of the cupboard in which it had been aged, etc. For example, the wheat from which our bread was made was planted by Pepe Conceição and harvested by his wife Fatima on August 23 at approximately 17:35, and kept in bags of pure muslin since it had been milled (the bags had been sewn by a renowned local seamstress, who had once been employed by a member of the Danish royal family). The milk for the sauce had been collected by our waiter himself. The food, itself, was delicious. And it was only as we left – our coats dry from being lovingly sponged by one of the otherwise idle waiters – that I noticed the restaurant was recommended by the Portugal Michelin Guide. And quite rightly so, too.
 
As we had found a parking spot so close to where we wanted to go, we decided to first have a look at the church that was right next to the restaurant and the Roman Temple (the Igreja de São João Evangelista). It was quite stunning. It might or might not be connected to the Palácio dos Duques de Cadaval (I can never tell this sort of thing), but it had the superb blue tiling all the way around the building and into each of the chapels (the azulejos), and there was an aura about the place that I was unused to. Through a grille in the floor, you could see a pile of bones, but with no explanation, I had no idea whose they were or why they were there. If there is one criticism of Portuguese sites, it would be the lack of interpretative features. You can’t even get books at the end to fill in the gaps. One thing was sure though, it wasn’t the famous Capela dos Ossos.

Mrs. Ottawacker decided we simply had to go to the Cadaval Palace next, since it was included in the minimally priced ticket we had bought for the church, and who was I to argue? So, we went to the Cadaval Palace. Again, it was nice, there were some incredible pieces of artwork in there, a few of them showing Jesuits being decapitated or tortured by barbaric blacks whom they had travelled so far to civilise. There was the typically cartoonish portrayal of the Africans, almost Tintin-like, and it was a little bit shocking. This prompted a good series of questions from Ottawacker Jr., who had just recovered from the description of the bread-making process in the restaurant, and so we talked about how Europeans had perceived those from other continents and cultures over the years. I’m not really one from hiding pictures like that – but, of course, I am not the one being portrayed as a bloodthirsty savage. From my perspective, if it helps educate, keep it. The tearing down of statues of slave owners in England did have an educational effect – but far better, for me, to keep the statues and include the whole educational aspect intact. If you start destroying things, where do you stop? Having said that, when I have been portrayed as bloodthirsty and savage – and I have, as a Liverpool supporter, been frequently accused of that – my reaction is not one of such tolerance.
 
Anyway, it was then that I started to think I might be having an allergic reaction to something. As I am allergic to tree nuts, we had given clear instructions to the kitchen and the kitchen had come back with absolute guarantees that there were no nuts in the preparation of the food we had just eaten experienced. Clearly, something was wrong, though, so I went back to the car and popped a couple of antihistamines. It passed, so I was deemed fit enough to go for a walk through the old historic centre and on to the Chapel of Bones. For some reason, the old centre reminded me a lot of Saarbrücken in Germany, although I suppose it might have just been the light, which was fading fast. Clearly, we weren’t going to make it to the Capela dos Ossos, which had been the main reason for choosing to visit Évora.
 
Still, we did have to negotiate the entrance to the Quinta do Louredo, and this would be done better in the light. We made our way back along the narrow roads, turned onto the cinder-track drive and made our way stealthily to the gate (I’m never stealthier than when driving an uninsured rental car). There was a number on the gate, which we called, and within minutes we were sitting down with Daniela, chatting about the farm and where we had been. She asked if we wanted dinner, as we were the only guests and they would have to fire up the woodburning stove to cook it. We said “yes” before she had finished the question. The room was excellent, split off into nooks and crannies, and Ottawacker Jr. had his own double bed as well.
 
Dinner was an experience – although not quite in the way that lunch had been. The chef turned out to be the owner, Daniela’s husband, and he had prepared a chicken casserole with fruit and rice. It was excellent – but what stood out most was his moustache. He had one of those incredible handlebar moustaches, thin and waxed like Salvador Dali’s, which contrasted beautifully with his polished pate. The thing had a life of its own and Ottawacker Jr. couldn’t take his eyes off it. Ricardo (the chef) was brilliant. Engaging and funny, almost every sentence started off with a laugh and an explosive “Jesus-Christ”. He explained how difficult things were for the farm, how they had been having floods (“all those potholes in the drive are from the floods”) and how they were having to diversify to make ends meet. At the end of the meal, he brought over all, and I mean all of the digestifs he made, and insisted I try them all. Well, who am I to refuse?
 
We finally made it back to bed, where, after the requisite ablutions, we slept the sleep of the just.