Some More Madeira, My Dear
I’ve ripped the backs off live blue-claw crabs to prepare them for a pasta sauce, and I’ve threaded hairy worms on hooks to catch fish. I’ve eaten alligator on a stick in New Orleans, and Caribou Pie in Alaska, though neither was to my liking, nor were chocolate covered ants or tripe. I’m often an adventurous sort when it comes to food. That's what I tell myself as I stare down still wiggling shrimp, or bistecca Florentina so rare you expect it to moo. One of the oddest food experiences I ever had occurred one afternoon in the stunningly beautiful Mediterranean island of Madeira.
My husband, son and I were taking a whirlwind tour of the island. We rented a car for a day and wanted to see as much of the terraced beauty of the place as we could. As we drove, we pulled off the road often to take in the scenery. We were entranced by the large flowers and well-tended gardens. I stopped and bought an intricately embroidered tablecloth at a roadside stand. We sampled the famed Madeira wine and bought two bottles.
Eventually, our stomach clocks went off and we started looking for a spot to dine. We passed several dingy roadside places and I became discouraged and more irritable. We were famished. Then, off on the right, on a high promontory we spotted a blue and white tiled restaurant that looked homey and inviting. It perched over the road and had a beautiful view of the water.
“If it’s open we’re eating there,” said my son, Bret, an incredibly finicky seventeen year old.
We were in luck. Not only was it open the proprietor and his wife greeted us as though we were long lost friends. None of us speaks Portuguese, but that did not matter. The owner brought out platters of what he had to offer and we picked from the different types of vegetables, meats and fishes. My husband, Tom, and I chose a fish that glistened in the afternoon sun. The owner nodded his head approvingly. Bret was more of a problem. Finally, on a tourist menu that the owner found in a drawer, Bret found beef on a stick. He figured that would be a safe bet, as back at home he often would have shish-kebab.
The place had only a few customers, all of whom nodded and smiled at us. Some spoke and said hello. We explained we were visiting from NY. One couple had relatives in the states and could speak a little English. The first course arrived in lovely ceramic bowls and we dug into our soup, a soothing broth that took the edge off our hunger.
After the soup bowls were cleared away, out came Bret’s smoking hot beef. As the smoke cleared we could see this beef was threaded on something other than the usual polished skewer. The meat had been threaded on a long branch from a tree in the yard. The stick was black, charred from the fire and though the meat was rather chewy and tough, Bret gnawed at it and seemed happy. I tried hard not to imagine what part of the cow was on that stick.
Tom’s and my fish arrived. It was mouthwatering and tender, spiced with something exotic. The owner proudly placed a side dish of rice next to the fish.
“Local specialty,” he said in accented English.
We thanked him and he retired to the kitchen. Eventually, I took a bite of the rice. There was something different in it, something unfamiliar and crunchy. I watched my husband as he took a bite and then dug around in the bowl.
“Gee. It looks like they put pumpkin seeds in the rice.”
“Pumpkin seeds? In August? In Madeira? I don’t think so.” I poked one of the "pumpkin seeds" and examined it closely. It was oval, orange, and flat, with a dark rim, and was the size of a thumbnail.
“What do YOU think it is then?” asked Tom in a wary tone.
I squashed one of the seeds against the side of the bowl and a couple of legs and a pair of jaws popped out.
“Ohmigod,” I said.
“What, what?” said Tom.
By this time Bret was giggling at the look on my face.
“It’s some kind of bug,” I said.
“It can’t be a bug. It doesn’t have wings or anything like that.” Tom poked around some more.
“Squash it" I said. "
He did and his eyes grew wide.
I waved over the owner and pointed at the bowl. He nodded and smiled approvingly and I smiled back.
“Limpets,” he said.
“Limpets?” said Tom.
“Limpets?” said Bret.
“Limpets!” said the owner and he made a swimming motion.
We were eating sea bugs.
The owner returned to his other customers. Neither Tom nor I ate another bite of the limpets and rice. I tried not to make eye contact with the bowl for the rest of the meal.
The rest of the afternoon was as lovely as we could have hoped. I do recommend that you put Madeira on your list of must sees with one caveat … beware of limpets!
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