Ed eats
The Stone Crab
Xatt ix-Xlendi
Xlendi
Tel 2155 6400
Food: 5/10
Service: 7/10
Ambience: 8/10
Value: 7/10
Overall: 7/10
Travel really helps to define us as individuals. It tends to bring out the best or the worst in people. Taken out of our daily routine and our customary stomping grounds, we tend to turn into a different version of ourselves.
I’ve seen perfectly balanced guys who normally stick to the straight and narrow transform into insufferable maniacs when unleashed on unsuspecting foreign soil. I’ve also witnessed the reverse – those who treat a foreign country with reverence that I’d never thought possible.
I know someone who has a picture of himself on the front page of a foreign newspaper with a headline that states that football fans of a particular club had endeavoured to destroy the city that was hosting a match.
It is something of a trophy for him. Had he been the type to go ballistic every time he watched a match, he’d have never bothered keeping the paper. But this picture shows a side of him that possibly was as much as a surprise to him as it is to the rest of us who know him as a perfectly sane and very clever man.
I wish there were a reliable method of predicting which of these outcomes to expect. It would help me pick travel companions more easily. It is also hard to tell what’s going on when I observe my compatriots abroad.
You’ve been in a situation where you’ve heard Maltese (or our particular brand of English) being spoken while you were traveling. Most times, I find myself steering well clear of the source of my own language for fear of embarrassment. Of course, the people speaking the language could be of the ilk that decides to behave a bit better when abroad but I’m not taking chances.
And while we’re separated from our sister Island of Gozo by a slender sliver of shimmering sea, we’re not spared this change in behaviour. This makes me avoid frequent visits to Gozo in the summer. I’ve watched in horror and embarrassment as people I know step off the ferry and into an alternate reality that requires no manners or decency.
Gozo in the winter, however, can be a real treat. It is lush and verdant and tranquil. It is the version of Malta that we sell to foreigners when trying to lure them over.
The swathes of rural bliss punctuated by sleepy villages, the helpful nature of anyone you stop to ask for directions, and the unspoilt countryside free from washing machines and fridges as rubble-wall alternatives. And if you’re lucky enough, you can even get to spend a weekend there without paying a cent of VAT.
Would I risk visiting again if I’m not sure what end of the spectrum I’m about to encounter?
Surely, there’s a price for this bliss. Well, that depends on what you’re prepared to give up. If you’re overly enamoured with the trappings of 21st century living, such as a convenience store on every corner, and forgetting what the sign that says ‘closed’ looks like on shop doors, then you might be in a spot of bother.
If you can actually plan ahead and stock up on stuff you might need, you’re pretty well sorted. There are other quirks but they form part of the charm.
There are a few restaurants that, quite sensibly, realise they can’t offset the running costs during a quiet period so they prefer to open just during the busy season. But you’re never going to starve in Gozo. There’s always someone to feed you.
I was in Gozo for a weekend that did not include a public holiday. That would have thwarted my plans for avoiding rowdy bipeds. I played safe at lunchtime and headed to Xlendi, certain that any amount of tourism would keep the restaurants there open.
I took the path of least resistance and picked one of the restaurants that has a stretch of sand as one of its borders. I walked into the first restaurant I saw, only to be told that there wouldn’t be a table available for at least threequarters of an hour.
The lady who asked exactly the same question about 10 seconds later, so much so that I was still within earshot, was told that she’d have to wait an hour. I was tempted to wait another 10 seconds and ask again, just to see if the prediction climbed any further. But I don’t want to be that sort of tourist so I simply walked to The Stone Crab and asked for a table.
These guys were more helpful. I got two very dubious looks which then turned into hopeful scans of the terrace. At the far end, just on the water’s edge, a table had been vacated. They said they’d clean it up and have it ready in a jiffy. Which they did.
I glanced through the menu in search of a surprise but there was none. So I waited for someone to take our order and asked about fresh fish. No surprises here either. Awrat, spnott and ċippullazz were available and I picked the pink delight. The better half was undecided so she opted for the mixed seafood dish that promised a bit of everything.
We added a bottle of French sauvignon to keep things cool and crisp and settled in to watch a stream of tourists who just refused to learn from each other’s fate. One by one they took off their shoes and dipped their toes in the water. And every time they were surprised by an errant wave that soaked them to the thighs.
The Germans have a word for the pleasure one feels when watching the misfortune of others. I think Maltese is a language that desperately needs a translation for schadenfreude.
We soon had a little plate of appetisers to keep body and soul in contact. There was some tasty bruschetta, an incredibly fresh sheep ġbejna, and some nondescript broad beans. The tiny cheese was just perfect and it filled me with hope and enthusiasm.
We waited for a while for our food.
We’d decided to skip starters to make quick work of the meal but the restaurant was packed solid and we waited for just under an hour to be served. Seated out there on a lovely day and with a bottle of cold wine, one cannot possibly complain about an hour’s wait.
My fish was served with white wine, olive oil, cherry tomatoes, black olives, onion and capers, all neatly tucked into an aluminium foil cocoon. I was a little wary at the number of ingredients but these had little impact on the flavour of the succulent flesh. The cooking time was just right and I systematically dissected the fish, keeping tasty morsels like its cheeks for the end.
Across the table there was significantly less happiness despite a significantly larger dish. The platter was piled high with razor clams, clams, mussels, battered squid rings, prawns, octopus and even a fish fillet al cartoccio, cooked in the same method and concoction that mine was.
I tasted the octopus in an attempt to understand the silent rumination of the better half. Well, I chewed it for a while and then swallowed it whole. It was quite terrible. The fried squid was soggy, the mussels were quite tasty and the prawns were an unmitigated, rubbery catastrophe. It was hard to believe that the same hands had prepared my fish and this dish.
Both dishes were accompanied by middle-of-the-road roast potato and totally insipid steamed vegetables.
So, there I was trying to reconcile the sheer variety in food quality. Would I risk visiting again if I’m not sure what end of the spectrum I’m about to encounter? For the first time that weekend I felt like a tourist in my own country. Which is a pity really, because the service was polite and understanding throughout, the price perfectly reasonable, and the location quite idyllic.
Ever thus to tourists, I figured, suddenly understanding Ceasar’s final disappointment. We’re the ones to order that kind of dish and we’re not coming back to complain. And depending on what type of tourist we are, we could very well deserve it.
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