What the hell is that?

It was his Birthday last Wednesday – my mate in Olhão that is. He asked me if I fancied lunch. I said: ‘Of course!’ And we were set.

‘Midday at Sete Estrelas?’

I bloody love Sete Estrelas, so that was a big ‘Yes’.

‘But I’ll be a little late. I’m catching the 11:55am. By the time I walk down the Avenida, maybe quarter past?’

‘See you then. No problem.’

And so, things were set.

The train wasn’t on time, but nothing to write home about, and I arrived at Sete Estrelas at maybe twenty past. I found my mate inside, already ensconced at a table with his dog, Alfie. I sat down, wished him (my mate, not the dog) Happy Birthday and motioned as to whether he wanted a beer.

‘Always,’ was the response.

So, I went to the bar and waited patiently. This is Portugal after all. I’m not a regular and I know my place. I looked around at the exposed brick work, the domed ceilings, the large wine barrels behind the bar, the football regalia on the walls, the locals drinking, eating and socialising. Like I said, I love this place, and then it got even better. I haven’t been there for maybe eighteen months, and yet Eduardo (the landlord) banged his hand on the bar, proffered his hand for a handshake, and told me it was good to see me. He then left it to his daughter (I think!) to serve me. You can’t knock hospitality like that.

I ordered a Sagres for me and a panaché (a beer with a top, some might call it a shandy) for my mate. We sat and talked crap for a while (housing, Portugal, the world, rugby, Trump, investments…) and then Stanley arrived, our friend from Armona.

Another round was bought, which we drank before deciding that it was time for lunch.

My mate told me that he’d booked a table – at a lovely restaurant. I’d experienced this establishment before. I was happy.

We walked the five minutes down the road and wandered inside. I’d give you the name of the restaurant, but that might be a little unfair in light of what I’m about to tell you, not that I wouldn’t go there again in a heartbeat.

Anyway, we went in and the waiting staff were all over us – in a good way. We were shown to a table and we ordered our drinks. The menus then arrived and the conversation went quiet as we perused, discussed and decided.

Here on the coast, I’d normally have fish, but I haven’t had a decent steak for a while, and I love a pepper sauce, so when I saw that they had pepper steak on the menu, that was it for me.

Decision made, I closed the menu.

We ordered, continued drinking and chatting and then the food arrived. Well, the food of my friends at least, some picanha and some pork belly. Mine was yet to come.

Eventually, I could see my meal was on its way as a waiter emerged from the door next to the bar, but it didn’t look quite right. In the distance, all I could see was something pink on a large oval plate. I hadn’t ordered salmon by mistake, had I? How could you mishear salmon for pepper steak? Then, as the dish was presented to me, I saw that it wasn’t salmon. It was something in a very pink sauce. Eh? I’d never seen a pink pepper sauce before.

With some trepidation, I must admit, I tucked in, and to be honest it wasn’t as bad as it looked – unless you were expecting pepper sauce. The steak was tasty, nice and tender, but the sauce? Well, what can I say about the sauce? Mmmm… I tasted it and tried to work out what it was. It took me a couple of goes, but finally, I think I worked it out: a mixture of mayo and tomato sauce, sprinkled with a miserly dose of pepper – and the steak was absolutely smothered in it. I couldn’t avoid it. My God, this sauce should never have been anywhere near a steak. My tastebuds had been awaiting a wonderful gastric experience. Instead, they had to make do with this monstrosity – and there was no escaping it. It was a crap-covered steak, but I soldiered through.

But I do have to say, as I’ve already mentioned, the steak underneath was beautifully cooked, and the chips weren’t half bad, but that sauce? Blimey…

My mate asked me what I thought of the food. I ummed and aahed and then told him. Maybe that was a schoolboy error. Bloody hell, he was up like a Jack in the Box, telling the waiter that this was unacceptable, asking to see the manager. Apparently, according to my mate, the chef had to be told so that he could get things right for future customers. As far as I was concerned, I would have preferred to keep quiet and not make a fuss. I’m British after all, although I think that nowadays, things may have changed and that such a stiff upper lip, stoic approach may have disappeared for the most part.

Still, it all came to nothing. My mate came back to the table, the staff dispersed, the bill arrived for the full amount and not a word about the sauce was ever spoken again. At least not in earshot of myself – which is just as well, because I really didn’t want to think about it ever again.

The rest of the day was filled with birthday beers, happy chat and merriment until I had to catch the train home.

To be honest, it was a lovely day – apart from that bloody sauce, obviously.