SO, the sards are back.
This is a good thing, as they are not as regular as they used to be and are to be welcomed.
We well remember our first local sard experience not long after we first migrated to the coast, a long afternoon of washing, gutting, trimming and packaging for the deep freeze a large bucket full of them.
We enjoyed them for months, rolled in breadcrumbs and fried or grilled Portuguese style (we have very dear Portuguese friends who taught us the way of the sard).
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Our first experience of the ultimate Portuguese sardines was, quite naturally, in Portugal, in a time long, long ago.
We were in Lisbon and it happened to be the Day of St Anthony, the 12th century patron saint of Lisbon (naturally), of lost people and spiritual things, but perhaps most importantly, of lovers.
We were staying in the main city of Lisbon, but the centre of St Anthony’s festivities was on the southern side of the Tagus River in the district of the Alfama.
We sallied forth in our hired car, crossed the Tagus and ended up in the steep and windy cobbled streets and alleys of the Alfama.
We were intentionally early, to avoid the crowds.
We ambled about and enjoyed the festive atmosphere and the flag and bunting bedecked roads, filled with stalls selling just about anything, but mainly food.
We ambled and sampled.
My wife insisted on trying a huge Catherine wheel of sweet pastry squeezed out into boiling oil and sprinkled with even more sugar. It was declared good.
We tried all sorts of things, and then came to a sardine braai.
The man in charge flicked a grilled sard onto a breadroll, and with a swift twist of its tail (it had already been beheaded) extracted its spine and all the innards. It too was declared good.
We had had starters so we went in search of dinner proper, up a tiny alleyway with tables spilling out onto the cobbles.
We selected a likely looking one and sat down.
A smiling chap came out and we conversed, mainly by hand signals.
We ordered wine and he came back with glasses of wine and a basket of bread.
We enjoyed both and when he eventually came back we asked for a menu.
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He looked puzzled, then smiling broadly explained that this was a private house, they were preparing dinner for the family and that although we were welcome to a glass of wine and some bread, dinner might be pushing our luck.
We were hugely embarrassed, but it surely conveyed the legendary Portuguese hospitality.
Anyway, having already enjoyed a memorable feast of St Anthony we felt we could comfortably make our way back over the Tagus.
We still enjoy our sards, although these days they tend to come in a packet from the North Atlantic via our friendly neighbourhood fishmonger.
I’ve tried, but I’ve never mastered the trick of slapping them into a breadroll and deboning and degutting them with a deft flick of the wrist.
Anyway, enjoy the sards while they are here.
Bon appetite!
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