June 19, 2006--Monday On Mallorca

In our village, Puerto Andratx, at the western-most extreme of Mallorca, for centuries, men, men only, set out to sea every morning, before dawn to fish the Mediterranean. Though the Sea some claim is being fished out, we still await their return in the afternoons in the hope they will bring back some merlusa or lubina for our dinner. Either, simply cooked on the plancha—a hot steel plate--sprinkled with Mallorcan olive oil but especially with locally gathered salt, also from the Sea, is a nightly treat. Some call it the Mediterranean Diet; we call it heaven.

At the next town east, Camp de Mar, an over-developed spot where Claudia Schiffer has a place, though somewhat spoiled by all the building, there is an almost perfect beach where children, and some adults, lie naked in the sand and tentatively take to the water—it still carries a chill.

Beyond the beach, approached only by a 100 meter long wood planked walkway, half a meter wide, is a small island, actually a craggy, flat-topped rock. On which there is perched a restaurant, well-named La Isla. One would think it is a Mallorquine tourist trap—there are quite a few of those—that serves more-or-less fresh fish for a price. Actually, it is run by a local family and prepares and serves the freshest fish in the area, simply prepared, and at modest cost. sardinas a la plancha, for example, is six Euros—about seven dollars—and for this you get six or seven crackling sardines, also salted, a salad, a small tub of local olives, fresh baked hard rolls, and a glass or two of vino blanco, each about two Euros. Divine. And what a view back to the beach, out to sea, or off to the Tramuntana Mountains.

The other day we had come to the end of our sardines and were still on our third glass of vino, it was about four in the afternoon, and right on schedule the daily Llevant wind came up from the east to cool the air. We had been watching some children toss bits of bread into the water to attract the fish, easily visible in the clear water. That’s how one passes a few hours on a June day on Mallorca—a little food, wine, watching the kids chum for fish.

To alter things that day, just outside the boundaries of the restaurant, near to our seaside table, an old man with a fishing rod and a creel, clearly a local, came along; and while sitting on the rocks, baited his hook with a large chunk of bread and began to cast his line out, of course quite expertly. We thought, aha, the children had been attracting fish with the feedings and he was now here to take advantage of the situation—using, cleverly, bread as bait. We wondered, though, about the size of the bread pieces that he was casting out away from the island, but assumed he had been doing this for at least 40 years and thus knew what he was up to, what would work.

In fact, he managed to catch nothing in that spot during the next half hour and so picked himself up, we assumed in frustration, and moved over to sit on the wooden bridge to try his luck there. He did the same thing—baiting his hook with what looked like half a roll and continued repeatedly to flip his line out to sea. With the same results.

After another half hour, we were well onto our fourth or fifth glasses, memories grow hazy in this sun and it might have been just fifteen minutes, he closed his creel, disassembled his rod, and left. We thought how sad—he had come all this way and achieved nothing. And how much grief would he get from his wife! He was supposed to have brought home something for dinner.

But then wondered—what did we achieve that afternoon? Not very much. Actually, just the right amount of nothing.

And came to conclude that he was there, in fact, not fishing, but rather feeding the fish. Along with the children.