Before I can get my sticky mitts on my selection, however, there is a cry from the far side of the room, whom I had momentarily forgotten, amid this largesse. ‘JONNEEE! Ben akee! Come here, plees! Booty-farra! Ha ha ha ha!’ Having removed my glasses, all the better to view the delicacies on offer, I am unable to make out anything other than a large shape on the ground, but as I approach it appears something has been dragged out of the sea. Hell’s bells, it’s a creature from the deep, possibly, a humungous, brown-grey tube, thick as a tree trunk, in a perfect ‘U’ shape, which if it were stretched out straight, would be thirty feet long, easily, and tied up at each end by a thick, white length of cord, to what, prevent it escaping? Hardly, it’s been dead for thirty years, surely? A Spanish Loch Ness Monster? Didn’t see any lakes on the way in, on account of being half-asleep, but I make a mental note not to go paddling, any time soon. Then the image of Vic the Fish trying to haul this beast onto his counter flashes through my mind, and I start to laugh. Chrissie has gone pale for some reason, but Elena reacts with suitable outrage. ‘Jonneee, why you laugh, plees, ees biggest booty-farra in world, you no like to eat? Sall-chee-chon?’
Eat? I’d rather chop off…hang on a minute, did she say Sall-chee-chon? The Spanish word for sausage? I screw up my eyes and rub my hands across my face. Sounds reasonable, doesn’t it, in a sausage museum, but I told you, I’m finished for Christmas, my brain has been switched off, I am running on autopilot, the lights are on, but no-one’s home. Bonkers-lady is not giving up, however. ‘Jonneee, ha ha ha, how you say booty-farra in Eengliss, plees?’
Well, we don’t really have these weapons of mass destruction in the UK, do we? Bangers, yes, dozens of different varieties in butchers’ shops up and down the land, but here they are cured, I imagine, left out to dry for years. ‘Giant sausage’ I smile.
She turns to my wife. ‘Cristina, you like giant shosh-shage, plees?’
My dearest narrows her eyes. ‘Chance would be a fine thing!’
Elena explodes into laughter. ‘Cristina! You dirrrteee coo! Ha ha ha ha!’ I also have tears running down my face, not from this slight to my manhood, which will be a conversation for another day, trust me on that, but the image of the talking dog on That’s Life!, forty-odd years ago. Shosh-shages! Priceless.
At that moment, there is pandemonium behind us, as around twenty passengers from the coach come barreling in, fighting their way to the counter, and proceed to strip the plates bare in around twenty second flat. The savages! The lad-ronny bastardos! There was me, teaching these peasants to say Fay Boo, and what do I get for my troubles? A few miserable pieces of rind. Chrissie, a life-long vegetarian, is giggling mightily, but my ex-pupil is scandalised. ‘Ahh, thees Espanee people are goats!’ No, I wouldn’t say that, actually. I love goats, inoffensive creatures as they are. Plus, I am a Capricorn. Pigs yes, but goats no. Elena has the bit between her teeth, clearly, and totters to the counter, elbowing her way through her cloven-hooved compatriots, and addresses slicing-woman. ‘Hello, my name is Elena, ha ha ha! What is your name please? My English friends have not had any em-boo-tea-toes yet!’
The beleaguered assistant grins and rolls her eyes, as if to say well what did you expect from this bunch of Santa Marta goats, although it might possibly have been I will get the sack in a minute if I give away any more, but she responds with a smile. ‘I am Lola, what would you like?’ I indicate the gentleman’s club and the truncheon, and slicing-Lola gets to work, producing a clean plate and two perfectly carved specimens. Suddenly, the Wag waddles into view, stretches out his arm and tries to grab my delicacies. My em-boo-tea-toes I mean, not any other delicacies, in case you were wondering. Luckily for him I whip the plate away from his sweaty grasp, because this is mine, matey, and I will fight for it, to the death. Join the queue, you goat. Sorry, pig.
Gentleman’s club reveals itself to be a rich, ruby-red colour, truncheon much darker, both bursting with full, meaty flavour, and I close my eyes, and drift away to a land of…. ‘For Pete’s sake, what a disgusting stench!’ my wife cries, ‘I am getting on the internet this evening, see if I can change your seat on the plane, tomorrow. And it’s the spare room for you, tonight. Come on Elena, let’s go to the sugar museum!’ And the pair of them, arm in arm, head for the door.
‘Hang on!’ I call, ‘where’s my wallet, I want to get a kilo…’ Too late, they have disappeared. I hand my plate back to slicing-Lola, with a sheepish grin. ‘Vegetariana’ I shrug, and follow in their wake.
Catching breathlessly up with the girls, wiping bits of truncheon from my lips, the museo de Azucar is basically a sweet shop, from the front at least, although there is a one-euro entrance charge, so presumably there is something to look at, although what it could possibly be, out of sugar, heaven only knows. Hang on a moment, though, didn’t someone make a model of the Tamar bridge, from sugar cubes, a few years ago? Or was it matchsticks? Forget now, slept since then.
The first exhibit is a recreation of a late nineteenth-century sweet factory, using real implements, and tailor’s dummies, or mannequins, dressed in period costume. Or are they mannequins? Surely they couldn’t mould sugar as accurately as this? Standing behind a worktable is an old man, dressed in a cloth cap, a grandad collarless shirt and white apron, arms out like he is about to start mixing a huge bowl of flour, but his skin is perfectly formed, rosy cheeks, a red drinker’s nose, eyes staring guiltily across the room, as if the boss has just walked in and almost caught him doing something illicit. Does he have a hip-flask hidden in the flour, perhaps? Would account for the colour of his hooter, certainly. Opposite him is a grey-haired old woman in a hooded frock and knitted shawl, head down arranging a tray of biscuits, but with a knowing smile on her lips, as if she too is in on the secret. Her cheeks are flushed, clearly she enjoys a tipple, and I can imagine the pair of them, as soon as we have passed by, relaxing with a wee dram. Delightful, and whoever the artist was has certainly created a tableau of huge skill, and humour. ‘Look Elena’ I giggle, ‘that old man has a bottle of whisky, hidden in the bowl of flour!’
She roars with laughter. ‘Jonneee, no! Ha ha ha ha! Not wicky! Thees Espain, he drinking Anise! Ees factory opposite!’ Ooh yes, I’d forgotten the Anise factory……
‘I tell you what’ Chrissie grins, ‘this sweet factory is more modern than the manty-cado place we visited earlier! The staff look happier, here, for sure!’ Well yes, the manty-cado staff didn’t have chance for a swift tot, did they, being constantly gawped at…..
Into the next room, and Elena is jumping for joy. ‘Doo Kessa! Doo Kessa! Ha ha ha ha!’ Well that clears it up nicely. All I can see is a life-size figure of a spectacularly ugly old woman, pouting trout-lips like a mans-sall-mon on Vic the Fish’s counter, a turned-up nose and a bleached-blonde curly perm that no self-respecting poodle would be seen dead in. Arm raised regally, she is wearing a long, spangly red dress with white frilly edging, and a white ruff round her neck such as you might find on a circus dog. The sculptor has done her no favours, clearly, as she has a tummy to resemble Fernando. Who on earth is this? A sign affixed to the perspex screen reads Duquesa de Alba y Lola Flores. Nope, me nether. A Duchess, presumably, hence the long Spanish name, but famous here for what, precisely? Simply being a Duchess, I assume, a bit like Fergie? Although that is not a road we wish to go down right now. I have some Anise to drink, very shortly.
‘So who is this Doo-Kessa Alba Lola Flores, Elena?’ I enquire, not unreasonably, I feel.
Wrong. Bonkers-woman almost topples off one of her spikes. ‘Ha ha ha ha ha! Jonneee! You so funny! You make me laughing! Thees Doo-Kessa de Alba!’ indicating old fish-face, ‘and THEES Lola Flores!’ pointing to another figure a few yards away, a woman in a red and white flamenco dress, arm raised as if she is picking an apple from a tree, grinning like the Cheshire Cat.
Chrissie regards me without warmth. ‘You steaming nincompoop! Anyone could see that was two different names!’
Out of order, isn’t it, kicking a man when
he’s down? ‘Look, I’ve told you. It is Christmas. I am switched off, until January. It’s not my fault this place is too mean to provide two separate signs, for two different people. And besides, I personally guarantee you have never heard of either of these women, have you, eh? Come on, admit it.’
Elena is still giggling hysterically, enjoying the good-natured interplay between a man and his wife, even though she is understandably struggling to follow the dialogue. My spouse remains indignant, however. ‘I will have you know, Sonny Jim, that I do actually know all about the Duchess of Alba. Her family used to make record players, I think you will find. And Lola Flores? Well obviously, her dad used to make buttery spread, back in the seventies, the one that Terry Wogan used to advertise. The margarine for men. So there!’ And she pokes her tongue out, for good measure.
Moving on, the three of us rocking with laughter, we come face to face with Michael Jackson. At last, someone we’ve actually heard of, as, between you and me, I don’t believe the story about the hi-fi and the Flora. A passable impersonation of the King of Pop too, arms raised, milking the applause from an imaginary audience, trilby hat, dark shades and red sparkly jacket. Incredible detail, the clothes on these figures, made from piped icing sugar, I imagine, a skill beyond my wildest imagination, bearing in mind my one and only attempt at icing a cake, when the kids were young, resembled a massacre at the North Pole. Elena, still totally wired, stands next to Wacko Jacko, raises her arms, and starts to sing. ‘Billie Jee, es-no-my-lubber, she-jus-the-gir, say-that-I-am-the-won, the-chi-es-no-my-son!’ Incredible, her vocals are more legible than the man himself! Now then, I can Moon-Walk. Yes seriously. Usually after six pints of McEwen’s at the rugby club, admittedly, but I cannot hear a Michael Jackson tune without an overwhelming urge to get up and boogie. And we only pass this way once, right? Elena changes the record, ‘Eddy-are-you-okay, are-you okay-Eddie’ and I begin my routine. All right, I cannot actually Moon-Walk, bearing in mind I resemble Farmer Bill’s Cow-Man, rather than old twinkle-toes, but what the heck. Another group from the bus come hurtling into the room and suddenly there about a dozen of us, arms raised, stomping round the room. It’s what I love about the Spanish, their complete lack of reticence. All right, so this lot have clearly been partaking of the Anise, but they throw off their inhibitions at the drop of a hat.
Next up is Marilyn Monroe, which explains the comment on the coach, earlier. Dressed in her famous little white number, hem wafting provocatively in the up-draught from a New York subway ventilator, red garter placed tantalisingly on her thigh, this time it is Chrissie’s turn to perform. She is wearing jeans, so unable to heft up her skirt, and I have no idea about the garter, quite honestly, but she grabs an imaginary microphone and in a breathy American accent, begins to sing. ‘Happy Birthday Mister President, Happy Birthday to you!’
‘Oh my gaad, Cristina, you much sexy!’ Elena grabs her in a massive bear-hug, and the pair of them are rolling round the room.’Appy Birthday to yooooo!’ And why not?
My wife has a mischievous gleam in her eye. ‘Is it time to visit the museo of anneee, now, Elena? My throat is a little dry!’ Oh my gaad, again. I had forgotten her liking for this particular Spanish spirit, got tipsy on it last year, on a pre-christmas night out with the library girls, I seem to recall, then directed a stream of abuse at my choice of shepherdesses for our Nativity scene. Accused one of them of sleeping with the Roman centurions, of all things. Gonna need to keep an eye on her, aren’t I?
‘Ha ha ha ha! Thees way, plees!’ So that’s a yes, then? Stumbling into the bright sunshine, across the road, and into the next port of call, the Anise museum appears at first glance to be a bar, a long wooden counter, shelves on the wall, crammed with bottles, and a slim little man standing proudly behind.
‘Welcome to the museo de anise!’ he beams, ‘the most famous drink in all the world! My name is Rico. Four euros please, includes digustation.’ Four euros? Bit steep, isn’t it? Unless digustation in here is code for getting absolutely slaughtered. You just never know, in Spain, do you? And what’s all this about the most famous in all the world? I’m sure the Scotch whisky industry would have something to say about that. Never heard of the stuff, before we moved here, and I thought it was a woman’s name, first off. Anneee. Drank Pernod once or twice in my youth, of course, but I’m not sure it’s the same stuff. Was my beverage of choice in nightclubs, for a while, mixed with blackcurrant, and sloshed into a half of cider. You should have seen me dancing to Tiger Feet after a few of those. Lethal, I was. Literally.
Chrissie hands over the money and our new friend reaches for two bottles, which causes Elena to start cackling. ‘Hello Rico, my name is Elena! Ha ha ha ha!’
He eyes me warily. ‘And what is your woman called?’
‘Cristina!’ cries my wife, who intensely dislikes being addressed in that way. Strangely, Rico doesn’t ask what I am called….
He delves under the counter for three small plastic tasting glasses, and with millimetric precision pours three identical measures. ‘Dulce.’
‘Sweet’ translates Elena.
We knew that already, but good practice for her of course. So now, what is the form here? Swig it back, sip it gently, or bung it into half a cider? Can’t see any bottles of Taunton Natural Dry to hand, so I decide on the genteel route, take in the aromatic bouquet, and imbibe, gently. Huuuuuuuuurrrr. Oh my gawd, as Del-Boy might have said, my throat is on fire, my eyes have crossed, and it wouldn’t surprise me if steam was issuing from my ears. I remember this stuff from last year, in the house of a sweet old couple who had organised an open house, to view their Belen. The girls, meanwhile, have necked theirs, and are holding up their glasses for more.
Rico chuckles and goes through the same ritual. ‘Seca.’
‘Dry. Ha ha ha ha!’
‘Hang on a minute!’ I protest, gulping down my remains, ‘I haven’t finished this one yet!’ Hell, it is strong, quite viscose too, or should that be vicious? Both of those, actually, and I need to be careful, having eaten only sand, a square of Too-ron and two slices of shosh-shage since before dawn. Don’t want to get shoshed, do I?
Our host then steers himself round the bar, and heads through some double doors. ‘This way please, we will begin the tour now. Come please, Elena and Cristina!’ I assume I am included in this, unless Rico thinks I am a complete waste of space, bearing in mind I haven’t started upon my seca yet. Well I’m taking it with me, OK, enjoy it on the way round, unlike these two gannets. He switches on a bank of lights, revealing four rows of antique glass cabinets, each crammed with bottles, jugs and containers of every shape and size. He steps back and holds out his hands, proudly. ‘Estupendo, no?’ It is, actually, a really impressive collection, there must be over a hundred different brands on display, in this row alone. ‘As I was saying’ he continues, ‘Anise is the most important alcoholic drink in the world, much bigger than Scotch whisky, for example. It is drunk in the Spanish-speaking world, south America, in Africa, Asia, Europe, and England also!’ Well it certainly was in Chaser’s Disco, that’s for sure. ‘Phenomino, no?’ That is quite phenomenal, actually, I had no idea it was that popular. I remain sceptical about the Scotch claims, but clearly have no way of knowing.
He continues along the same vein. ‘Look at the artwork on the bottles, phenomino, no? Compare with Scotch whisky, how you say, Tea-chairs?’ Is he saying Teacher’s? He’s correct though, isn’t he, the label on that fine spirit bearing little more than the name, and a small crest, whereas the brandings on this stuff are like small portraits, many of which feature smoldering, dark-eyed senoritas clicking castanets, strumming guitars, or picking apples. Others depict bullfighters in ridiculously tight trousers flapping capes at two tons of charging, horned flesh, Roman goddesses crowned with laurel leaves, and Don Quixote-like figures astride laden mules. ‘Estupendo, no?’
Blimey, are there no other words in the Spanish language? And is it really necessary to keep banging on about it? Yes the drink is phen
omino, the artwork is estupendo, the antique bottles, the posters, the thing with pipes sticking out of it for boiling up the brew, or whatever, it is all estu-flipping-pendo. We agreed with you the first time, so just shut up and let us enjoy the exhibition in peace. AND STOP TAPPING ME ON THE BLOODY SHOULDER. Nothing I hate more than being prodded, when I’m trying to enjoy a glass of seca. The problem is, our responses are hindered by our lack of vocabulary. Que bonito is one, beautiful or pretty I imagine, pressy-osa another which we have picked up, which appears to be on similar lines, and we have employed both on several occasions already in the last few minutes. I did actually hear Que Mono used as a term of surprise and delight recently, which is something to do with a monkey, literally, but Marie at the library suggested it was an expression used by teenage girls, so possibly not a phrase to utilise in front of Rico, who clearly thinks I am a bit of a wuss for not sloshing back my drink. And sometimes, these words do not exactly translate. Stupendous is not a term we use a lot in English, is it, but here they do. Juan ‘The Dustman’ is particularly fond of it, which causes additional problems due to his absence of front teeth. It is bad enough trying to learn a foreign language on the hoof, let me tell you, without having to keep a wary eye out for incoming projectile spittle.
Suddenly, I become aware of a change of atmosphere, somehow. Is it something wrong with my hearing, a strange ringing in my ears? I glance across at Elena, who appears to be in a world of her own, away with the fairies, in a trance-like state. Has gulping down the rot-gut left her tonsils in turmoil? Is she spaced-out on the anise fumes? Or is she just biding her time, waiting to grab an empty bottle, and bury it in the back of Rico’s head? Now, let me tell you. I’m typing this by hand, on my laptop, two fingers maximum. So it takes a long time, right? Been at it for months, already. Then I have to correct my frequent mistakes, review what I have written, then re-read each chapter. And I’m only two-thirds the way through, with plenty more to tell you about. Then I have to take a photograph of a sunset, convert the whole text to some Amazon thingy so they can review it for inappropriate content, then wait while they transfer it to e-book format, and the paperback, when that comes out. So none of this happened the Christmas just gone, OK? But trust me on this, I have it down in my diary, in black-and-white, 23rd December, half-one in the afternoon. ELENA SHUT-UP FOR TEN MINUTES!!!! Estupendo, no?
Sunsets and Olives 2: Back to Spain...... the madness continues! Page 27