Ed eats

Il-Fortizza
Tower Road
Sliema
Tel: 2720 4499

Food: 7/10
Service: 7/10
Ambience: 5/10
Value: 8/10
Overall: 7/10

I often wonder what attracts tourists to Malta. To be fair I do get their first visit because our islands look gorgeous in pictures. I just don’t quite understand repeat visits. No matter how pretty a country looks, I would hesitate to visit a second time if I’ve been treated badly or if the infrastructure doesn’t allow me to carry out all I’d planned to do.

I imagine landing in Malta the first time. The airport works like a well-oiled machine and looks great so I’d start with a favourable impression. I shudder to think what my taxi ride to a hotel would cost in terms of time, grief, and money. I would definitely not attempt to figure out, or depend on, the public transport. Now that the brand-that-shall-not-be-named has been wiped from our buses, we have painted them in as generic a livery as possible.

Once our buses had character. Now they’re kitchen appliances on wheels, travelling from one randomly named bus stop to another. In a country with so much character, I’d refuse to be associated with a dysfunctional system that looks so appallingly uninteresting.

Driving is risky but, with a solid map on my phone I would probably give it a go and hope for the best, provided I’m happy to bounce along the tracks that are sneakily labelled ‘roads’. Getting lost in a country so small isn’t really a worry as long as I’m lost in the vicinity of a plentiful supply of good food.

Admittedly, reading ‘Tourists are welcome’ on the signs outside a bunch of crappy eateries would perplex me. Do the other restaurants frown upon tourists? A survey of as many menus I could get my hands on would likely give me the impression that the national dishes are pizza, pasta, salmon, and chicken breast. No wonder the buses look generic if this is what gets the inhabitants of this idyllic island paradise all excited at supper time.

Like every other country, the better places are usually off the beaten track. Given enough time and patience, there is the possibility I’d come across a few of the gems our islands have to offer and perhaps even consider a repeat visit at some point in the future.

This is the summary of quite a long rant I was on one evening last week. I happened to be in Sliema, home to a number of tourist traps. It was quite late by my normal supper standards and I hoped I’d manage to get away quickly enough to have dinner at one of my usual haunts. I’d parked in that little car park next to the Fortizza, having paid a man a few euro to use a public parking spot. As I walked past the place I snuck a peak at the menu and even spotted a display case full of relatively fresh fish.

The dilemma when I’m hungry is pretty straightforward. Should I risk a potentially decent meal at an unknown location or take a little more time and get to somewhere I know to be consistent? I walked into a covered area that’s adjacent to the fort itself and turned back within a couple of metres. The white tent felt like one of those disaster recovery sites, where a tent has been set up to feed an entire village that’s been displaced by a meteor strike. Cheap tables are lined up in rows beneath the white glow of garish illumination and the darkness outside makes the view of open seas quite redundant.

I was prepared to make a dash but I snuck a peek inside the Fortizza itself and noticed that this option was also available. In an unusual display of bravery on an empty stomach, I walked in and asked for a table there. The girl who greeted us was polite and very well mannered and asked whether we’d be interested in a table on the terrace. I might have perceptibly shuddered as I replied that a booth inside the restaurant would do the trick.

In stark contrast, the interior is a very warm and pleasant place. Wood panelling, faux leather, terracotta-coloured floors and brass bits here and there make up the bulk of what’s visible. Some kitsch advertising from times gone by are remnants of the questionable aesthetics of previous occupants but they do nothing to spoil the atmosphere.

Another young lady, quite possibly even more polite than the first, was with us in a minute to ask whether we’d like to order drinks while we looked at the menus. I ordered water and had a look at what was in store.

The menu doesn’t make any false pretences. It covers the usual pasta, salads, grills and a number of pizzas and looks very well-priced. My guest that night had recently discovered that wheat was the root of all evil and was living her life delicately tiptoeing around the ingredient. If she could rewrite the Bible to replace that fateful apple with a slice of toasted Maltese bread she’d do so.

My calzone looked very neat on the outside and opened up to reveal that it was filled with everything I needed to help me feel better

She rejoiced at the availability of gluten-free pasta since this normally means that wheat has been avoided in the process and ordered a starter portion of rigatoni alla Norma. I just couldn’t decide. I didn’t feel like pasta and wasn’t prepared to risk a grill. Pizza would be the safest way out. I’d also had far too much to drink the night before and was up for some comfort food to relieve some of the misery I’d imposed upon myself. A calzone should work. And because I couldn’t possibly feel any worse than I was, I added an inexpensive bottle of red wine to the mix.

Three girls were attending to our table that night and they looked almost interchangeable. All young, all pretty, and all very polished, I was pleasantly surprised. I’ve slowly got used to having to reduce my vocabulary to the 10 words that foreign serving staff seem to understand and the service at Il-Fortizza made a welcome change.

We waited over half an hour until our food was served, possibly the only part of the service I could take issue with. We were served together though so not all was off with the timing. The pasta dish was quite lovely as Norma goes and the gluten-free pasta itself, while not indistinguishable from what we’re used to, carried itself with pride. My calzone looked very neat on the outside and opened up to reveal that it was filled with everything I needed to help me feel better. There was ham and hard-boiled egg inside the dry and slightly crisp dough, the cooking time was perfect, and while it might not win any worldwide contests, this pizza does the trick and a little more.

As I tried to make my way through the entire pizza, one of the girls popped by to fill our wine glasses and ask if all was going as we’d liked it to. I’ve been to places where I’ve paid more than the €33 I paid at Il-Fortizza and didn’t experience the attention and manners that we were happy to be treated to that evening.

As I walked back to the little car park I wondered how I’d have reacted if I’d been a tourist. I’d have probably been suckered into the disaster recovery tent, where I’d have enjoyed the food, the service, and the tiny bill at the end of it all. I’d probably plan to return for lunch when the sun would shed light on whatever the darkness outside was concealing. I’d also form quite a good impression of the people who inhabit the island, and this is what really counts.

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