Ta’ Rikardu
4, Fosos Street,
Victoria, Gozo
Tel: 2155 5953

Don Mesquita
5A, Mesquita Square,
Mdina
Tel: 2702 6640

For both...
Food: 7/10
Value: 9/10

At long last, summer’s over. Half the people I say this to agree with me wholeheartedly while the other half look at me like I’ve just cancelled Christmas. It’s not like I’m at school any more, when summers meant three months of fun and games.

This, along with early spring, is the perfect time of the year to be a tourist in our own country. So, in the company of a couple of friends who were visiting our lovely islands, I went on a very quick tour of the spots you see on postcards. Of course, it is lovely to stray off the beaten track and, of course, we did plenty of that. But this doesn’t take away the charm of the more popular spots.

In Gozo we wound up in the tiny Citadel at one point. It’s been tidied up and has had a great deal of care devoted to it, so now it looks like the Knights were here just yesterday. Parking was easy, too. There’s a little car park at the very top of the hill and, guarding the gate, is a young man whose duty it is to inform all who enter that the spot belongs to the Cathedral and they charge a fee for parking there.

After our tour of the little city, and after much oohing and aahing at the incredible views from up there, we decided to have lunch. I’d normally escape the confines of the walled city and seek food elsewhere but we were all a bit hungry and rather tired. My guests were keen on eating a very traditional meal, as well, so we decided to stay put and see what the city would feed us.

My first attempt was at a restaurant I’d never seen before that’s built right on the edge of the city gate itself, commanding a spectacular view of all three  Maltese islands. The place was chaotic, with serving staff running around the place with plates in their hands and trying to match the dish to the table. They had little success, running back into the kitchen and yelling at each other across the beautiful terrace in an attempt to feed their patrons. I pitied the tourists who were looking around at this spectacle and wondering whether this was what one means by a traditional Maltese meal.

Luckily, I was ignored as I stood there and waited to ask whether a table would be forthcoming. So I retreated to the rest of the pack and we walked to the trusty Ta’ Rikardu. The place hardly needs an introduction. If you’ve been to Gozo, you’ve probably been to Ta’ Rikardu and you’ve likely consumed your fair share of their Maltese platter. You know the drill. Ġbejniet and sundried tomatoes, fresh bread and Maltese sausage, chopped tomatoes and olive oil. In short, it is as close as we get to a Mediterranean meal, which is odd for a nation that’s practically at the centre of the hallowed sea.

So I’ll skip the account and move onto the ravjul I ordered, with a brief detour to mention the fresh ġbejniet. These are thankfully described as fresh cheeselets, which they are. While we see them referred to as ‘goat’s cheese’, I don’t think I’ve ever tasted ġbejniet made of pure goat’s milk. The ones at Ta’ Rikardu are excellent and made from sheep’s and goat’s milk from their own farm. There’s clearly a predominance of sheep’s milk – if you’ve ever tasted goat’s cheese you’ll know the distinctive flavour – and this makes for soft, delicate, cheeselets with just enough texture to keep them from falling apart.

A story of two informal, very affordable, and perfectly acceptable meals

More of them are inside the ravjul. With fresh dough and fresh cheese, it’s hard to go wrong and there’s a thick, garlic-heavy, tomato sauce to go with it. I can’t think of better ravjul unless they’ve been made at home. The place is as informal as it gets, so one ought not expect fancy décor or service, but it’s functional, it’s quick, and it hasn’t gone the cheap way with the ingredients that matter most, so it deserves the popularity it enjoys.

Across the narrow straits, we drive inland and upward to the other walled city. Parking outside Mdina should be easier because there’s plenty of public parking around the bastions. These are patrolled by muggers who wear badges and point, utterly uselessly, at an empty white box that one is meant to park in. I’ve passed my driving test and, back then, all it assessed was my ability to park in a white box. I don’t need to pay a stranger to point one out.

Again, we toured the city and very nearly stopped at every single place that was serving lunch. Every time we decided we’d go a little further. Finally, when all decided we’d go to whatever place we spotted next, we wound up in a little square that’s somehow hidden inside the tiny city. On this square there’s a tiny restaurant called Don Mesquita, after the Governor of Mdina in the times of the Great Siege. I didn’t know this because my memory for names is like a battered sieve, but they do have a portrait of the man inside the restaurant, sharing the wall with plenty of other paintings of scenes from Malta.

The man who met us and sorted out a table for us was exceedingly helpful and happy to accommodate our wish for a table that’s not on the lower floor. We did take a quick peek downstairs and it seemed welcoming enough but I had guests and figured they deserved a little more light and cheer.

The food here is in many ways similar to the fare you’d get at Ta’ Rikardu in the sense that there are platters of local food and small dishes for a quick, informal lunch. At first I wasn’t impressed. I felt like a meal, and the notion of platters and wraps and sandwiches wasn’t quite what I had in mind. While I debated internally whether to drag everyone out and seek something more exciting I looked around at the people who were eating around us.

A lady who was having lunch alone had a watermelon drink in a tall glass and was admiring it, pausing to thank our host and to tell him that he and his colleagues had managed to make her feel special. A man who lives close by and whom I happen to know walked in, ordered a meal and walked home. He didn’t feel like cooking, he said, and felt like Don Mesquita was an extension of his own kitchen.

After all, this is what really matters. One can eat to fill one’s belly and walk away unaffected or one can be made to feel special, and the latter is what makes all the difference. Invigorated by the happiness of people around me I settled in and said nothing of what had crossed my mind.

We ordered platters and wraps and bottles of water to replace what we’d lost while walking around Mdina. We chatted and chatted and, within a short time, were served all that we’d ordered. The portions are generous, the ingredients are very fresh, and the bread is devilishly good; so good that I ate a little of everyone’s food with slice after slice of it.

I dipped into a sharp and lively tzatziki and piled cubes of seasoned feta on top; I pulled bits of well-dressed salad from across the table; tried some fat, juicy olives and even tasted a slightly unusually seasoned chicken wrap. Everything was fine, nothing was particularly memorable, and yet we had a very pleasant time.

And thus my tale of two cities came to an end. It wasn’t the best of times but it wasn’t the worst either. What I expected to be a long lament turned out to be a story of two informal, very affordable, and perfectly acceptable meals, both eaten within the safety and protection of walls built to keep hordes of invaders at bay. Today, both cities do all they can to welcome hordes of hungry tourists instead and it’s reassuring to know they can feed them perfectly well.