Now, however, the town has fewer than 8,000 inhabitants and only one public bus in and out of the town per day (but it also has the only example of an intact mosque that survived from the occupation of the Moors).
So our arrival time options were limited. By the time we dragged our bags the distance from the bus stop to our pension (approximately 3/4 mile, I would guess), it was already dark.
Once you enter the Medieval part of the town, most streets are not wide enough for a car. Its foot traffic only on the cobbled streets and the grade of the alleys is steep.
The town looked as if it was already tucked into bed–we didn’t see a soul in the old part of town. There were a few lights on in some of the houses along the way and cats darted away as we passed because of the racket our bags were making as they rolled along the cobblestones. A dog also barked fiercely from inside a house. (Each time we passed the dog the next day it again barked furiously and shot over to nip at our heels.)
The streets were still exuding heat, even though it was dark. We were sweating, tired and hungry and by the sleepy look of the place it seemed likely that we wouldn’t get any dinner. I had anticipated that possibility and had purchased two cheese croissants at a little kiosk in Beja, where we had an hour wait between buses. We hadn’t eaten them yet however, because we still had the vague hope of finding some quaint little spot that might be open. But if there was actually nothing to be had, the croissants would keep us alive until morning.
As it turned out, our pension was as far from the bus stop as you could possibly get within the old town. But it wasn’t really too hard to find–even though it was dark and not well marked–because the owner opened the door and poked his head out as we came round the corner. He could hear us coming about a half mile away, I’m sure.
He was a middle aged man–very friendly–but got right down to business. Showed us our room, gave us a couple of forms to fill out (if we wanted to, he added) then took us on a quick tour of the house. Basically, he just let out rooms in part of his house to tourists but he and his teenage sons lived there as well. He showed us the kitchen–which opened out into a little courtyard-atrium–and explained that because he worked in the morning we were just to help ourselves to anything in the kitchen.
He introduced us to his sons (who were in the middle of preparing dinner) and then we excused ourselves to go to our room and cool down. I asked him if there was anywhere in Mértola to get a meal this late in the evening, and surprisingly, he said “sure.” He offered to call the “Clube Nautico” and tell them that we were coming. He gave us brief directions then went back to his meal preparations.
We took a couple of minutes to freshen up, then trudged back up the hill to find the restaurant. It wasn’t too hard really, once we started looking. It was just beyond a little open square with a wall mural that we had passed on our way. Clube Nautico was obviously a local restaurant–no tourist decor–just cheery checkered tablecloths and functional wood tables and chairs and hearty food (but apparently, it is also really a nautical club). We feared we’d be the last in the restaurant, but there were two little balconies, each occupied, and half the town was seated at a long banquet table in the middle of the room. The World Cup game between Portugal and Spain was being played that evening, and there was a game party going on. Within a few minutes of our arrival, we determined that Portugal had lost, but the group was still in good spirits. The owner came from behind the bar and handed us some some menus. It was not gourmet fare, but certainly authentic Portuguese cuisine.
I usually try to avoid eating meat–but the fish options on the menu looked as though they were probably fried. So as I had done once in Scotland many years ago after climbing almost to the top of Ben Nevis, I ordered meat. It was raining off and on as we wandered into a small old stone pub outside of Fort William in an exhausted and parched state. Before even realizing what I was doing, I just ordered goose pâté! At the time I was totally vegetarian. I saw Foie Gras on the menu and in my famished condition it just sounded delectable. I think I was savoring each morsel quite contentedly when my companion reminded me that I claimed to be a vegetarian. I was shocked. Not at him, but at myself. I had just forgotten entirely in the heat of the moment that I was. I laughed with embarrassment. But that Foie Gras was probably the best I have ever had.
At the little nautical club I ordered the rabbit. My traveling companion gave me the same quizzical look. “That’s not fish,” he said wryly. I laughed again. This time I had ordered after a bit of consideration, but I did still feel I had to justify it. He had actually intended to order the same thing. We ordered “two rabbits” and the owner of the club gave us a long curious look as though he wasn’t sure we knew what the hell we were ordering. As he walked away I wondered if there was something wrong–did no one normally order rabbit or what? Shortly, he brought out our wine, then a salad and bread, and then a big plate of french fries. After which he brought a large serving bowl filled with big chunks of black meat and set it down with a smile. My companion and I looked at each other, then at the meat, then we just laughed and whispered our friend’s oft repeated quote from Elmer Fudd, “Kill the wabbit...kill the wabbit.”
But actually, it was quite delicious. The rabbit meat was marinated in sauce that made it black. I believe it may have had some anise in the marination, but I’m not sure. It reminded me of a recipe that my sister used to make using chicken which was slow-cooked in a pot of spices and herbs that made the meat dark–the taste was similar.
We forgot all about the croissants in my pack and I only discovered them a couple of days later in Seville. Later that same day in the bus station, just after we had returned to Seville from Italica, I had ducked into the restroom by the platform. On coming out I saw “kill the rabbit” written on the wall. I pointed this out to my companion and we just looked at each other and chuckled. After which I had to record it–for posterity.
