Europe > Spain > Catalunya > Costa Brava > Articles > Papa Noel Comes To Town

I’ve seen the future, and it’s ingenious. Actually it’s ‘El Ingenio’, Arxarquias’ answer to Brent Cross shopping centre. Opened two days ago and with 12 movie screens, it seems to be trying to prove the dictum from the film Field of Dreams, one that has wrecked the views along the Costa - “if you build it, they will come”. The vast car park was already so full I had to sneak my new, second-hand Ford Escort, pre-dented for really effective campo driving, between the oxcart and the palm trees, laid out on the verge like primeval asparagus, ready to be hoisted to add a bit of greenery to a new dawn.

I was dreading this intrusion into my rural purity, but there was no such Scroogishness from the Andalucians. They were like children in Charlie’s own Chocolate Factory. They were having heaps of fun among the endless shops, as CDs span on listening stands like neurotic Catherine Wheels, alongside a giant toy snail that baffled even the quickest, a Burger King and an ornamental piston engine from London town.

Of course, Christmas is threatening too. The Spanish don’t really have Father Christmas, but since he’s the greatest salesman in the world they’ve hauled Papa Noel, puffing and chortling, from his haunts in the frozen north down into the gaudy sunshine. Not that I have anything at all against the pretty señoritas in fluffy red Santa outfits and fur lined boots, looking superior to the shop girls on roller skates, skating along the enormous aisles, past Armadas of kitchen rolls and cathedrals of cheese.

The most popular place seemed to be the Peluqueria. Everyone appeared to be at the hairdresser’s for a perm and a gossip, from the smart, haughty wives of pick-up owners, to Angela, who always cuts impossible doorsteps when doling out my Jamon Serrano, and the enormous bearded lady who sits outside my local church. I can see grave rosaries of car lights weaving down the mountains through the olive groves every Saturday, for a sacred appointment with a blow dryer.

But most fantastic was the fish stall; lobster, squid, crab claws, whelks, clams and muscles piled up like mounds of glittering freshness. I’m surprised there’s anything left in the sea. It was far more appealing than the meat counter, where folk were avoiding the cow. Tragically Spain has had its first case of CJD, but I must confess to a twinge of Schadenfreude at the thought of being able to grunt the next time I go out for a meal, and insist on Scottish beef.

Talking of beef, my best sally at food was not here at all but during a trip to London for my father’s birthday. My brother had managed to tease out Bill Hayes, who used to be at the River Cafe, to make us a private dinner. I’ve never had a real live chef in the house before and I dread to think what it cost, but it was a treat. The Tortellini was fabulous and the Boeuf en Croute with baked squash, perfect. The cheese, Brie and Chaume and something else, was so subtly ripe it almost rescued a blown '64 Chianti. Which just goes to show it’s all about ingredients, apart, of course, from the cook. My mother insisted on making a beef joke and Spain came flooding back, but at least the outbreaks in Europe might stop governments exploiting such a grave subject as CJD for their own protectionist ends. Well, I am writing about a fantasyland. The government here kept the case quiet for two months, which probably proves you can trust Spanish politicians about as much as British.

In my lazy naïveté I thought Rapha’s fury about the British Nuclear Sub parked in Gibraltar seemed to be rather overheated. Then it turns out that we’ve been covering up a potential Chernobyl in the Med, and the thing very nearly reached meltdown. If I was seated on the thrones of power in Madrid I’d launch another Armada immediately, and force Cheri Blair to give back Gibraltar for Christmas, not only because the incident was so appalling, but because, if nobody’s noticed, we’re no longer fighting the battle of Trafalgar and Gibraltar is so bloody awful.

Terrified by the future I fled back to my mountain and took solace in Maria’s explanation of the bread oven. She comes down the path in her hair-rollers like a cheerful Valkyrie, and she’s lighting it soon to bake Christmas cakes. You know it’s ready when the wood flares and the soot black walls go white-hot. I won’t be here for the fun on Christmas Eve, but I’ve also discovered that the Spanish really give each other presents to remember the Three Wise Men, on January 6th. I take my sombrero off to the wise Spanish, since it just happens to be my birthday too.

So I’m back for New Year, ‘La Noche Vieja’ or The Old Night, and in eager anticipation of Twelfth Night I’m already rushing around like a headless turkey, making friends like nobody’s business. If anyone’s wondering, I spotted a very attractive Jamon stand, for perfectly lean cuts, in the superstore. You see, I’ve seen the future and it’s ingenious.

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