Definitely lost in translation!

Arcos de la Frontera, Spain, May 2012

Spent 4 nights in this jewel of the Spanish hilltop towns, in La Casa Grande, an ancient house precariously situated on the edge, and I mean the edge, of a 180m sheer drop to a river below. The barrier between me and the drop was a rather inadequate thigh-high wall and if you leant out to look down, the updraught would take a wig off. I comforted myself with the notion that if I fell, I would be lifted back up on the thermals like the hundreds of birds hovering around me.

On our first night, we went off in search of tapas for supper and found a cosy bar, Cafe St Marco, where we were the only patrons, it being just 8.30 and far too early for the locals to eat. No Spanish from us and no English from the welcoming and cheerful young owners, but sign language seemed to work and we were soon enjoying a really good gazpacho with chopped veg, goat's cheese melted on crostini with raspberry jam and chopped almonds (mmm!), cold rice with onion, crabsticks, peppers, corn and tomatoes, and fish fritters. Then a small problem with translating the menu - pork loin in butter.

A plate laden with a mound of what looked like mashed potato with shreds of meat in it was placed on the table. I ventured to taste it and was surprised to find a) it was ice cold b) it was lard (rendering of pork fat for those who have never been exposed to this). All I could think of was a very clogged artery and so we valiantly scraped all the 'butter' (the lost in translation bit) off the meat, which was actually delicious. A waitress arrived on duty who had a smattering of English and we had a good laugh as she explained that this was considered a treat, while we considered it a health hazard. Apparently they eat it on bread (hence the butter) with fresh tomato sauce.

With two triple bypasses at the table, we passed.