A Man For All Seasons...

I think it’s fair to say that we tend to think about colour when we think of autumn. Colour is always with us, so presumably as green leaves turn to red, it is the contrast – striking and beautiful – that gains our attention. Pumpkins and squash appear in supermarkets with their intense reds and oranges. Berries appear on trees with similar fiery colours. Lawns and pavements turn brown and red with fallen leaves. Some people like to ‘kick against the pricks’, I prefer kicking autumn leaves along the street. Pure therapy. I retain a memory – from so long ago that I don’t know when it was – of being knee-deep in leaves and kicking them along Kelvin Way in Glasgow’s West End.

Yet, actually, all seasons, when you think about it, are about colour. In spring, we’re grateful for any colour that appears. Pink blossom, for example, always thrills. In summer it’s green as the trees burst into bloom. It’s warm sunsets, it’s fruit and flowers on trees. Even winter has colours, usually grey, but frosty whites and crisp blue skies, ideally. There’s a fine film called A Man for All Seasons. It’s based on a book about Thomas More. In case you don’t know, Thomas More was a mate of Henry the Eighth, until Henry decided to have his head chopped off. I always liked the title. I suspect it might be ironic. More was a principled man. I like to think of myself as a man for all seasons though in a more literal way. I like the four seasons of our climate. I also like Frankie Valli’s band, the music by Vivaldi (well, a little) and the pizza too. However, let’s stick to the topic. I love autumn and its aforementioned colours and atmosphere. Equally evocative are the first misty mornings, the first cold evenings when you can see your breath, the melancholy and wistful call of the Robin red breast at night. All of these are special. They can’t entirely take away the loss of summer but you have to embrace the changes. Be a man or woman for all seasons, literally and metaphorically, if you can manage. I’m trying that.

            It is, thus, with a certain pleasure and a certain amusement that my garden remains partly dominated by summer colours. The weather’s been pretty good, it is a sun trap, and there’s not been much rain, so certain flowers remain in bloom and the colours are stubbornly representative of summer. Purples, yellows, pinks, whites and blues. Red from the few tomatoes, which is definitely a summer red. The yellow rose is in amazing shape. Literally reaching out to touch the sky. The stubbornness of nature is wonderful, despite autumn being undoubtedly in the ascendancy. There’s even still the odd bee, and the odd wasp flying around. Stubbornness is actually unfair, it has a negative sense. Let’s credit her with a Quaker-like discipline. Let’s say ‘strike while the iron is hot’, ‘make hay while the sun shines’, even “when ze cat’s away, Mister Fawlty” to quote Mrs Peignoir. Nature once again remains an inspiration and a teacher.

Tapas anybody?

Tapas has become very trendy hasn’t it? Lots of things have become very trendy, particularly regarding food and drink. It makes sense in a way. Britain invented trendy, a guy called Beau Brummel. And the food and drink culture was in a pretty dire state till quite recently. Personally speaking, I don’t care much for trends, maybe because I doubt the sincerity but enough polemics. Back to tapas. I was lucky enough to recently spend ten days in southern Spain, Western Andalucia, to be precise. Seville, Ronda and a tiny village of two hundred people in the shadow of magnificent mountains.  Like many of us, until relatively recently - about 1999 - I thought of southern Spain as sun, sea and sangria. Tacky Brits with skin like lobsters, drinking beer and eating calamari. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but it’s limiting. There’s more to life and there’s more to southern Spain. A whole lot more. A unique place, partly due to the Arabic influence on the architecture and the cuisine, partly due to the geography, the proximity to Africa, partly due to the intense heat and climate.

            And the food is equally impactful. Lunchtime, inside an authentic tapas bar

is a memorable experience, for me, one of the greatest culinary experiences. There really is something in escaping the blue skies and searing heat, it feels almost furtive. There’s plenty of time to eat outside, later in the day, when the sun has gone down. You start with a cerveza. Ice cold, Cruzcampo, ideally, made in Seville. It doesn’t last long. Then tapas frias, cold tapas. Ensalada Rusa, Russian salad, apparently named after a Russian fellow who came to Spain, invented it and took the recipe to his grave. Made fresh every day, there’s potato, mayo, sometimes egg, usually tuna and always grated carrot. One we had included little chunks of sweetcorn. And there’s the salad of Pulpo. Octopus sometimes done in a similar way, sometimes in a more classic salad; tomato, onion, peppers and so on. Boquerones, small white anchovies in vinegar, garlic and parsley. That’s got things started so let’s go for some hot. Albondigas. Mini meatballs, usually made from pork, in sauce; tomato or almond. Croquetas. Meat filled balls deep-fried in breadcrumbs. One of our favourite places does them with mushrooms.  A delightful little bar in a small town called Cortes. Intense blue skies contrasting with the white buildings. A hot wind blowing through the narrow streets. Classic Andalucia. The delightful patron, Alphonso, always welcomes you with a smile. He, or rather his talented wife, does the aforementioned albondigas in almond sauce, the less common of the two. Pure exalted pleasure. They also do another classic; Flamenquine, cheese wrapped in ham, again done in breadcrumbs. I consider it my local, ever though I only manage to visit a few times a year.

Another of our favourite places, a hectic, crazy bar in Ronda - a tourist town with an extraordinary bridge over a deep gorge, surrounded by spectacular mountians - into which the odd bemused tourist strays, does a black-pudding sandwich. Doesn’t sound like much but believe me, it is. Spanish Morcilla as they call it, is spicy and sweet, probably due to that Spanish marvel, Paprika. It also serves a plate of sharp crisp lettuce, served with white wine vinegar. Simplicity is the key. Then there’s the fried fish. In another place we had Hake - so beloved of Michelin Starred chefs in London - deep fried. As a man from Glasgow, I like things deep fried (just don’t mention Mars Bars, a dull cliché). And in Andaucia they know how to fry. There’s Camarones, like a deep fried prawn pancake. The list goes on. Harder to find, but recommended is Cauliflower with paprika! There’s quail’s eggs in vinegar. There’s the extraordinary Garbanzos con Espinica. Chick peas and Spinach. A wondrous legacy bequeathed by the Arabs to southern Spain using spices such as cumin. There’s Solomillo, pork in a whisky sauce. Both these dishes are specialities of Seville. And so much more…

 It’s ultimately often simple stuff but the flavours are so good, the atmosphere so unique, that it’s perfect. Little Andalucian men in hats, skin like leather, shouting in their almost incomprehensible dialect. Spanish mothers with their noisy babies drinking ice cold beer. Completely in the moment, no showing off, no looking over your shoulder. Even in classy and more fashion-conscious Seville, most people are happy ensconced in the olfactory pleasures of the moment. Beau Brummel would have hated it. As for further drink, if you don’t want another beer, have a sherry. A Fino or a Manzanilla, salty and tangy. Perfect to wash down the fried goodies. Unlike Frasier and Niles Crane, I only drink Sherry in Spain.

I feel sorry, in a way, for the people who spend a fortune in trendy and pricey Tapas bars up and down the country. I think it’s great that our modern cuisine options are so varied but when when you’ve been fortunate enough to have access to the real thing for so long…

Smugness is also a modern affliction, no chance of that here, just pure gratitude. Mucho Gracias, by the way.