Monthly Archives: August 2009
The Good, the Bad and the Tasty
It was a gloriously sunny Sunday in Sardinia and we were leaving town. Arrivederci, Cagliari! Monsieur and I would be in the car for the day, driving up to the Costa Smeralda, or Emerald Coast, where we’d be spending the bulk of our week-long break.
On the map, it looks as if you should be able to drive straight up the east coast to the Costa Smeralda, but the east coast roads aren’t made for comfort so we decided to stick to the main autostrada which zig-zags out of Cagliari to the west coast before traversing the island to its upper eastern tip. The plan was to lunch at Oristano, a small west coast town not far from the coast. I’d read good things about a little restaurant there called Il Faro, famed for its traditional Sardinian cuisine. And so we detoured away from the autostrada, entering an Oristano that was quieter than most ghost towns. We’d forgotten that Sundays are still sacred in this part of the world. Apart from a clutch of old men sipping drinks outside a lone open bar, Oristano was closed for business. In denial, we followed the signs to Il Faro, leading us in conflicting directions until we finally located it, shutters firmly closed. We left Oristano with empty stomachs, following a coastal road north.
This unplanned route was a blessing in disguise. The views of unspoilt coastline against a deep blue sky and turquoise waters brought wide smiles to our faces, still pasty from a sunless winter. Passing the occasional restaurant perched on clifftops with unsurpassable views, we realised that we too would eat, so we stopped at S. Caterina di Pittinuri. Pulling into a modest parking area next to a restaurant advertising a menu turistico, Monsieur and I were set for one of the best (and worst) lunches of our time in Sardinia. The restaurant’s name, for future reference, was La Scogliera.
The entrance was certainly unprepossing, but this was of little concern to those possessed by thoughts of lunch.
The menu looked reasonable, with plenty of seafood to tempt us, but the true surprise was the terraced eating area.
There were plenty of free tables, just waiting for hungry patrons such as ourselves to populate them. The waitress asked where we wanted to sit, so I pointed at a quiet table in the shade. “No.” she frowned. “Too far.” In rapid Italian she instructed me to pick a table that was closer to her station, presumably so she didn’t have to exert herself. Might I add that the table we were eventually permitted to take was a mere metre closer to the waitress’s station? This was far from the usual warm welcome so prevalent in the Italian region.
Unfortunately, the surly waitress was not alone in her grump. Everyone we encountered at the restaurant was to be equally unhelpful, unwilling and unhappy. Thank heavens for the view, which was a redeeming feature, as was the food, although not ordering wine or alcohol with our lunch earned us another filthy look. But let’s face it: who cares about grumpy staff when the seafood salad tastes as if it were caught mere minutes before being tossed in extra virgin olive oil with lemon juice that tastes of the sun and landing on a plate for none other than YOU?
Just as we tucked into our plates of Neptune’s deliciousness, a party of four walked through the terrace, seating themselves at the very table at which we’d wanted to sit. Apparently, the waitresses weren’t too fussed about THEM being too far from their station. I began to wonder if they just had it in for anglo-saxon and French tourists attempting to speak Italian. Granted, I can’t recite passages from Dante’s works, but I can definitely communicate in Italian and so far at this restaurant I hadn’t found myself too challenged in the foreign language department, but when I saw how the staff reacted to the locals whilst practically spitting at our every request, I realised with sadness that our treatment had something to do with the fact that we Weren’t From Around Here.
The party of four at our preferred table were wise in their ordering. A trolley appeared, on which several platters were placed. A smiling waitress then served a selection from the platters onto each plate. Clever. Meanwhile, Monsieur’s steak had arrived but my lobster was missing in action. I’d ordered lobster catalana, and at the rate it was taking, they must have gone out to catch a fresh crustacean for me. I’m not accustomed to ordering the most expensive thing on the menu, but today I felt like celebrating, hence ordering lobster. Tapping my toes under the table, and now feeling as surly as the waitress, I received a smile from her as she apologised for the delay. Almost an hour after our starter plates had been removed, my lobster made its entrance, just as Monsieur polished off the last of his steak. The lobster was big, fire-engine red and beautiful, served with wedges of fresh tomato and circles of onion beneath a drizzle of olive oil. My heavens, it was so fresh that I started to believe my theory about the staff fishing it out of the sea a short while ago. It was almost worth the wait. Almost. Had it been a lobster thermidor I might have understood, but this type of lobster preparation was so simple that even I could have done it in less time, and that includes catching the thing. But it looked wonderful, so I shared it with Monsieur-of-the-Now-Empty-Plate, so we could compare notes.
When I ventured inside to find the ladies’ room, I noted with disappointment how unhappy everyone looked. The barman frowned, the cashier was slumped on one elbow, the picture of intense boredom and the grandmamma of the restaurant stared at me as if I were a hooker. I can only think that my shorts were not to her taste. Not one waiter or waitress smiled, at least not at me. This place wouldn’t be winning any awards for service soon.
The loos were far from ideal but the owner’s ideals were plain, as seen in the notice below. In this place, what’s good for the goose has nothing to do with the gander. As the ladies’ was in dire need of such basics as a new loo seat and a tap handle, with a fair amount of grime on all surfaces, I can only think that the proprietor might have to wake up to the fact that he’s not a ‘civilized’ person. He also can’t spell in French (‘GENTS’ should read ‘GENS’).
We asked for the bill. It didn’t arrive. Having waited an hour for the lobster, we didn’t want to waste another hour waiting for the opportunity to pay. Taking one last look at the seascape, we went directly to the bar to pay.
I was expecting the bill to be expensive, especially as I’d ordered the lobster, but considering the fact that we hadn’t ordered wine, the total price was a shocker, forming the topic of discussion almost all the way to Nuoro. Had we been ripped off? Should lobster really cost €12.00 per 100 grams? Was that lobster really 400 grams, hence the €48.00 on the bill? It didn’t look like a 400 gram lobster to me, more like 300 grams. Had we, the trusting tourists, been duped? Later in our Sardinian travels we discovered that actually this was a fair price for the region’s five star restaurants to charge for lobster, but at La Scogliera, with its angry atmosphere and peeling paint, it felt like daylight robbery, especially with such unfriendly staff in all directions.
Back in the car park, we surveyed the bay one last time, smiling at the artistic signwriting evident on this particular gate:
And so, back onto the coast road we drove. Our bellies were certainly content but we couldn’t wait to get away from La Scogliera’s unhappy, unfriendly, unwilling, unhelpful staff. Never again in Sardinia did we come across such crotchety folk. Thankfully, this bunch were the exception to the rule, but unless you have the skin of a rhino, I’d avoid this place like the plague.
In summary:
THE GOOD POINTS: La Scogliera has wonderful views and the food is fantastic. Should you brave the Grump Bunch, do as we observed others doing and order a selection of dishes to share. You don’t have to order the bank-busting lobster; you can certainly eat lobster at more reasonable prices in the more reasonable establishments of Sardinia. There is a competitive menu turistico and the seafood salad is to die for. Monsieur said the steak was “all right”, although nothing special. My recommendation is that you stick to what La Scogliera does well – seafood.
THE BAD POINTS: Who died? The staff were horrible to us but couldn’t do enough for the local diners. Don’t dare to dine here if you don’t speak Italian. Order wine to avoid further wait-staff disapproval. If you’re female, don’t wear shorts, lest grandmamma’s eyes narrow at the sight of them. Don’t expect to choose your own table and be prepared to wait. And wait. And wait.
Tinnura, Sardinia – Where the walls don’t only have ears…
Sardinia is an island of secrets and quiet beauty, the most precious delights of which are likely to be tucked away from tour bus routes. Driving into the island’s hinterland on a warm May day, Monsieur and I rounded a bend on a country highway to discover one such unexpected treasure: the painted village of Tinnura.
Tinnura’s church lies behind these painted walls,
the priest and members of his congregation immortalised for all to see.
I wondered who this chap with traditional flat cap was:
What tales would he tell us in his mountain dialect?
Are these flowers of gratitude for an answered prayer? Or perhaps this member of Tinnura’s faithful has volunteered her flower arranging skills to the parish.
Even the pedestrian crossing adds colour to this quiet little town, made all the more quiet by the heat of mid-afternoon. Apart from the rare few souls we spotted venturing beyond the shade of their shuttered interiors into the cauldron-like streets, the only population we saw in Tinnura were painted into its walls.
The painter’s brush does not limit its work to celebrating the townsfolk of Tinnura alone; their animals also feature. Here a pair of horses ready themselves for a trot out of their frame and onto the street.
On the side of a house a short walk from the main street, we see the ominous masked faces of players in an ancient Sardinian rite that some say dates back to prehistory. The matador-like man or isohadore looks all set to lasso a friend or woman in the invisible carnival crowd, taking his chosen one prisoner with a rope of plaited reeds. Meanwhile, the mamuthones in hook-nosed masks and shaggy sheepskin cloaks, are the fruit of a union between fire and moon, bearing the weight of cumbersome cow bells on their backs.
No masked beings from the underworld here, though. Life goes on in these walls, simple, daily life. These women are practising the art of basket weaving.
And this trio kneads, shapes and bakes loaves of bread to feed the Tinnurese – an apt scene for Tinnura’s Bread Street or Via del Pane.
But in Tinnura it’s not a case of all work and no play makes Giovanni a dull boy. Oh, no, the Tinnurese tap their feet to the songs of their friend, the accordion player, as one wicked reveller stumbles off with the wine.
This man plays the pipe, not just one but three at at a time.
Here we see that even the painted ladies of Tinnura have shadows.
Behind these folk busying themselves with the day’s chores, an ancient nuraghe sits on a hillside.
If you’re peckish, why not visit Tinnura’s baker? Rest assured, his loaves are never stale.
From this angle, the Wine Thief looks set to trip over the curb, spilling his liquid loot all over unlucky passers by..
This pair of monochrome images look like photos from an agricultural history book. See how they tilled the land?
With a living population of 268, Tinnura’s numbers are swelled by its painted people. Monsieur and I were only there for a fraction of an hour, yet this Sardinian surprise will stay in my visual archive for ever.
U2 does a 360 at Wembley Stadium
U2 (and my youth) Revisited…
Seeing U2 at Wembley Stadium last Friday night was a revisitation of sorts for me. I’d first seen U2 live in New Zealand when I was a teenager, with many of their songs like Sunday Bloody Sunday and tracks from the Joshua Tree album becoming anthems that still bind a faithful group of friends. Wembley Stadium is a place where I’ve seen Elton John in concert and attended one of those positive thinking seminars where you finish a day of mumbo jumbo by walking on hot coals, but that was the old Wembley. I hadn’t yet been to the new Wembley Stadium.
So what about Wembley Stadium?
Last Friday saw me there with Monsieur, who’d decided that a concert date was in order – how right he was. The new stadium was state of the art, with a great sense of space achieved through the wraparound glass exterior. Uniformed greeters stood everywhere, almost overwhelmingly present and annoyingly chirpy “enjoy the concert!” “thank you for coming!” “do you need help?” “let me see your ticket so I can direct you,” and so on. It might sound surly because in the States this sort of behaviour is expected, but here in service-challenged England, it’s such a Stepford-style oddity that it made me wonder where in the world I’d woken up that morning.
As for the food…
There were eateries everywhere, including champagne and seafood bars, snack stops and take-away counters. We opted for a quick turn-around mass service-style brasserie where we ordered at the bar and ate very expensive yet average food whilst watching the crowds continue to arrive from our table by the neverending glass perimeter of the building. But £32+ for two mains that, although good, didn’t warrant their £12.50 price tags, and a couple of pints of lager. I could have sworn I heard Monsieur’s pocket scream OUCH!
No queues for the loos!
A quick pit-stop impressed me because there were no queues for the loos, everything was spotless and those faster-than-the-speed-of-sound hand-dryers practically blew me into the next century. This was one efficient venue.
No later than they ought to be…
More importantly, finding our seats was easy, thanks to a surplus of the Stepford Staff to help us. But did U2 keep us waiting? Nope. They kicked things off right on time. How refreshing, given the number of prima donna acts who turn up more than a little late, not giving a monkey’s about their faithful fans’ patience wearing thin.
The stage hits a bulls-eye.
The stage was supposed to be visible from all sides, hence the name of the tour, but one area of seating remained empty as visibility from that bank of seating was impeded by a tower covered in Blackberry signs. On stage, its open nature with a pair of movable bridges linking to a full circle of track, allowed the band members to interact with the audience in more parts of the stadium than a regular stage, especially benefitting some super-keen fans who’d bought tickets for the space in the midst of the bull’s eye created by the 360° stage. Bono, The Edge and Adam Clayton took full advantage of the track’s closer proximity to fans by crossing the bridges to play on the track at different times throughout the performance, making this stage, with its massive 4-pronged claw, something completely different. This didn’t change the fact that the band members still looked like grasshoppers from a distance, but it didn’t matter because we were really there for the music and the screens helped keep the eyes busy.
But it doesn’t come without criticism.
No, the ‘Claw’ with what looks like a radio tower at its zenith and a jigsaw of LCD screens at the centre, uses a lot of power for the various lighting and effects that it creates. Not the greenest option for a ‘green’ band, but The Edge has promised that U2 are arranging to carbon offset all their concerts and the fact that a modest 200 lorries are required to get their kit from A to B to C and on to Z. There are 44 international dates for the 360° tour, after all. That’s one heck of a lot of carbon offsetting bills.
Ready, Mister Music?
I admit I wasn’t crazy about the first few songs from U2′s recent album No Line On The Horizon, which really hasn’t done it for me (in my humble opinion I think it sounds lazy and repetitive), although the fault could well be mine judging by the possessed bodies gyrating madly around us from the start. Then again, they may well have been born without the Taste In Music gene.
Things for this particular groupie kicked off with Beautiful Day, a feel-good song that never fails to lift ailing spirits. Then old favourites like Stuck in a Moment and I’ll Go Crazy got the crowd well and truly pumping. One chap in our row was very tall with a Midnight Oil approach to individualistic dance style and a pair of girls in front were Very Well Behaved with their Much Older Boyfriends until the music started. Then their arms jabbed at the air as they shouted along to every word of every song in a Very Excitable Manner. By the end of the evening, the boyfriends looked knackered and a bit bewildered, as if they had a new appreciation for their former wives and quiet dinners at home.
The Complete Set:
Breathe, No Line on the Horizon, Get on your Boots, Magnificent, Beautiful Day, Blackbird, Elevation, I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For, Stuck in a Moment, Unknown Caller, The Unforgettable Fire, City of Blinding Lights, Vertigo, I’ll Go Crazy if I Don’t Go Crazy Tonight (** FANTASTIC remix), Sunday Bloody Sunday, Pride (In the Name of Love), MLK, Walk On, Where the Streets Have No Name, One, Mysterious Ways.
Encore:
Ultra Violet (Light My Way) – with everyone in the audience waving their mobile phones to create starry starry night effect, which was absolutely beautiful,
With or Without You, and Moment of Surrender.
My all-time favourite?
Was and is and probably always will be Sunday Bloody Sunday, which had a few lines of Rock the Casbah by the Clash worked into it for this concert. It worked very well.
But do you know why?
I’m so old that I can tell you that Sunday Bloody Sunday and Rock the Casbah were released around the same time – 1983 and 1982 respectively. For such seniors as myself, this was a clever mix, transporting me instantly to an era of legwarmers and shoulder pads. (The first time around)
Politics, anyone? Who was mentioned this time?
Well, there was a bit of Nelson Mandela, some Archbishop Desmond Tutu, a plea for women’s rights in Iran and Martin Luther King is an inescapable U2 presence thanks to the success of Pride. But the main focus of U2′s attention was Aung San Suu Kyi, the Burmese politician being held under house arrest because she’s such a threat to the current government of Myanmar that they dare not let her out, lest she win the next election. I have mixed feelings about mixing politics with pleasure, though. Fair enough, the people U2 choose to support are worthy individuals and it’s better that U2 do something positive with their fame rather than snorting it up broken septums whilst trashing hotel rooms. And fair enough, some of U2′s best songs concern politics. But I’m not sure I feel comfortable with their politics being force-fed to a crowd of 88,000 people. It’s not exactly as if you can turn it off until they’ve finished preaching. Perhaps their tickets should be sold with a political content warning? Or perhaps they should pick one cause as a theme for each concert tour and stick to it, that way they’d avoid sounding like a charity pick ‘n’ mix.
ONE
Speaking of which, who were all those people in black tees emblazoned with ONE and smart red netbooks? ONE is a charity co-founded by Bono, and the black tee brigade were signing up new supporters. I loved their red netbooks. SO smart. Must remember to tell Weldon Kennedy, ONE blogger and BLOG08 buddy, next time I catch up with him, which could be a while, given that he’s following the 360° tour in the name of ‘work’ at present. What a great job!
Click HERE for more info on ONE.
Time to leave
On leaving, the layout of the Stadium was impressive as it allowed people to exit their respective areas without the usual elephant stampede. The crowd was orderly, not worthy of the attentions of mounted police stationed at regular intervals. Successfully avoided all horse manure, reaching the tube within minutes. There we found the expected crush with smelly armpits and the opportunity to study the nasal pores of fellow concert-goers at closer proximity than their dermatologists but, once moving, we were home well before the hour of pumpkin metamorphosis.
In summary?
A really good night out. U2 are getting older, as am I, so this concert understandably lacked some of the va-va-voom of the Joshua Tree Tour that I caught as a teenager, but I still wouldn’t have missed it. Result? Overall, in my eye’s, success.
What did the critics say?
In one of this week’s free evening papers, U2 were slated as being overrated. Possibly there’s an ounce of truth in that, but nobody can deny that they’re still excellent performers with a great catalogue of music. Now if we could just lower their concert tour’s carbon footprint, lose No Line on the Horizon and stick with a maximum of one charity or idol per tour, we just might be onto something. Then again, that would be so very UN-U2.
