Petiscais, Olhão

While the lyrics of the eponymous Squeeze song are clear enough, I was unaware of the origins of the phrase up the junction. I discover that, highly appropriately, it has something to do with Clapham Junction railway station. Now before you pose the obvious question, allow me to answer it.

Today's venue was formerly the goods yard for the local railway station here in Olhão in the Algarve, winter home to chums M & I whom we visit on a regular basis. It just happens to be M's birthday; that birthday just happens to be a big one; and our boy just happens to be a bit of a railway addict. I have him to thank for the sensational sketch of Olhão station.

We toddled along the day before to see about the table. The greeting from owner Rui couldn't have been warmer. So that justifies the venue. What about the food? The proof of the pudding as it were... (For modern day bakers that makes no sense until you translate proof as test.)

On the day in question, having gargled some fizz and sung songs from South Pacific (don't ask) we turn up on time and eager. The welcome, this time from Rui's wife Rebecca, is equally genial.

Had we known what was in store we might have passed on the bread. Fig and walnut bread from the wood fired oven (I thought there were rolls too, but I've been overruled) came with butter, olive tapenade and something called lupine pate the latter apparently from lupin beans. Lovely, but what did lie in store?

You are asking a lot of questions today, are you not?

A couple of examples. 100+ grams of goat's cheese with more bread, or a dish containing many, many  slices of very good choriço (Portuguese spelling), made from top quality Iberico pork then flamed in fig brandy. A breakfast sounding dish of prosciutto, egg and a half ton of sweet potato chips. Six, yes six, big prawns in a fabulous sauce. And bear in mind, best beloved, that we are talking starters.

Interestingly, L & I had been commenting on the fact that as a result of our hosts' generosity, overeating had been rife. Really not sure why we didn't just pay and run at that stage. Twelve choices awaited for main course. There is a certain idiosyncratic charm to the menu. Take the grilled picanha, for example, served with (not very good) chips, roasted garlic mayo and, of course, fried banana.  Slow cooked pork cheeks, an Iberian standard. But the plum jus and raisin rice? The asparagus in October? Yet it was a standout dish. Many stars.

Pernil de porco (pork shank) was cut up and served with a pear and celery syrup and sauté potatoes. Very fine, but if I tell you that famous trencherman M was defeated, and that a large doggy bag is lodged in the fridge as we speak, you get an idea of the struggle we faced.

Pud? I certainly couldn't have ordered anything. As ever in Iberia the dessert list is short, but in this case intriguing. The iced cheesecake would certainly have been a first, having an accompaniment of home made tomato jam. But something was required for the birthday boy. I think it was the chocolate brownie with nuts plus a lime and lemon gel., and, of course, a couple of candles. I took a spoonful then made my excuses. Next time perhaps.

I could have done with a boxcar to carry me home. A fine dinner. It may have been in the goods siding, but definitely not up the junction.