Ed eats

Crystal Palace
St Paul Street
Rabat
Tel: Reservations aren’t that frequent

Food: 7/10
Service: 10/10
Ambience: 8/10
Value: 10/10
Overall: 8/10

There are few establishments that, to an unashamed hedonist like myself, enjoy the unimpeachable glory that French cuisine does. It is to this day the measure by which so many other cuisines are forced to stack up to.

The Crystal Palace experience is much larger than the sum of the ingredients of a pastizz. It is a tradition we’d be foolish to lose

An unfair proportion of Michelin-starred restaurants worldwide are restaurants that have a kitchen in the French tradition, or at least can claim to have started there before they departed onto their own journeys of discovery.

This is often levelled at the guide as a form of criticism, particularly by restaurateurs who have deliberately avoided the French approach and who, despite their best efforts, have failed to attract the attention or the favour of the guide’s writers. Then they either stew in their own anonymity and lash out at the guide or gradually shift their kitchen to one that will garner the Francophile’s favour.

And while anonymity is by nature an orphan, glory is a child of many parents. Not content to allow France to claim their kitchen as their own, many dispute its paternity and stake their own claim.

The English version of the story claims that when a king who took a wife every season (and chose beheading over divorce) fell out with the Church, the English monks fled south and took up residence in France. Since they were undoubtedly the best chefs in the country, they took their outstanding cuisine with them, enlightening the French kitchen while leaving England’s impoverished.

Italy’s claim is a slightly more romantic one. When Catherine de Medici married King Henry II, she took an entire brigade of Italian chefs with her, touring the country and throwing spectacular gastronomic feasts that in­spired the previously unenlightened French chefs.

It is a grossly overstated version of the actual, rather terrible, events that followed that wedding, but it is a story that is told nonetheless.

I have yet to hear the Maltese version. We probably taught the French how to grow onions back when dinosaurs still roamed the land. We’re known for firsts.

I’m not sure any country has ever attempted to tarnish the paternity of our pastizzi though. It could be because most cuisines have their equivalent (or equivalents) of our three-bite calorie bomb. From samosas to arancini and from falafel to pies, every country has its very own little morsel that defines the traditional street snack.

Then there is the matter of the shape of the little pie. The French have been berated for baking their bread in a naughty shape. We restored balance when designing our own snack. No country has so far felt cheeky enough to say they were the ones to come up with it, and thus our claim to the pastizz has continued unabated.

I was having a discussion about food with a man whose culinary abilities outshine many of those within the kitchens of this nation’s restaurants. When discussing what could be considered ‘cult’ about our food he mentioned not a recipe but an experience.

Is-Serkin, as Crystal Palace is more often referred to, was what he considered as cult as our food gets. I guess it is so uncool that it is considered cool to have been there, snapped an Instagram, and regretted the calories. And that has the making of a cult classic.

As a much younger man, back when clubs like Gianpula were appropriate to my age and demeanour, I used to visit Crystal Palace during the early hours of the morning. With sunset only a few more drinks away, we’d drive to Crystal Palace and rub shoulders with those who are up for hunting different birds than the ones we’d been after.

The place veritably buzzed at that time of the morning and pastizzi sold like hot cakes at a few cents a pop. Coffee in a glass gave us the energy we needed to drive home. And many a life was saved as a result of the greasy stomach lining and caffeine kick that Is-Serkin administered.

Visiting during the day was a very similar experience, only this the time the light is brighter, the hangover has built up in earnest, and the hunters have been replaced with the ever-present group of men to whom Crystal Palace is a social mecca.

The same man served more coffee and pastizzi at any time of the day I visited. I was convinced he had superpowers, getting by without sleep for days on end and dishing out an endless stream of pastizzi.

Since then, I only ever visit the place whenever I’d like to share that part of the experience of our islands with someone, usually foreign, who can appreciate its significance.

I popped by a couple of weeks ago with an English guy who has Maltese heritage and he was impressed at the apparent time warp, in love with the pastizzi, delighted at being served tea in a transparent glass, and relished the ability to share a bench with men who had solutions to all of the world’s ills.

He couldn’t understand a word of what the Three Wise Men were saying, but he valiantly shared a bench with them, nodding appreciatively when they looked at him for approval. He agreed to many more unlikely solutions to the global energy supply issues than he would normally care to but emerged pleased as punch, grinning from ear to ear and asking whether we could go back the next day.

As he dusted flakes of pastry from his clothes he vowed to try the version of pastizzi I’d ordered. I ex­plained that it was a qassata. I suspect he didn’t believe me.

Then, following my conversation with the gourmet about the cult status of Crystal Palace, I felt I had to visit again. I’d do so with the intention of writing all about it later on.

I dragged my parents along because I can’t stand listening to them proclaim the virtue of a healthy diet any more. They needed to be stuffed full of greasy goodness to offset the boredom of multigrain brown loaves and non-dairy cream.

I parked a little after they did and was delighted to see my mum share a bench with the Three Wise Men. Two of them were the same as the wise men from a fortnight before. One of them had changed to an Even Wiser Man. If world leaders would listen to them, all our problems would vanish in a puff of Rabat logic.

Into the little coffee shop I walked, and ordered three cheese pastizzi and three others filled with peas. Tea to go with all of that please. And thanks for a pocketful of change from a fiver. It felt like he’d given me more money back that I’d given him.

The pastizzi are served out of a metal tray, as is customary, and flicked onto a plate at an incredible speed with a deft and very well-rehearsed flick of the wrist.

Tea is prepared by pouring a little bit of very dark tea out of one kettle, topping it up with hot water from another kettle, and adding a dash of tinned milk. If you ask for sugar, the only difference to this process is the selection of a glass that already has a teaspoonful of sugar in it. And all liquids fall into the glass from a great height for added drama.

We sat outside, our feet crunching occasionally on the pastry flakes of those who’d eaten pastizzi here before us. We blew across our tea to cool it down enough to drink it. And we dug into our food like it was illegal.

I have to be honest about the pastizzi not being anywhere near the best I’ve tasted. They’re re-heated, so the pastry is a little harder than it should be. There is much less fat than pastizzi should, in my opinion, contain.

And yet we enjoyed every bite because the Crystal Palace experience is much larger than the sum of the ingredients of a pastizz. It is part of who we are and a tradition that we’d be foolish to lose. It is an anachronism that remains exceedingly relevant, particularly in an age where social networking is rapidly losing its physical dimension.

And while it will never achieve a Michelin star, it would be the first place I’d decorate with one were the decision ever mine to take.

You can send e-mails about this column to ed.eatson@gmail.com or follow @edeats on Twitter.