Alcatra

Normally I write fiction. I let my mind and my heart rove. Sometimes I walk in beautiful gardens of fragrant flowers, other times I walk in places less pleasant. Setting things down, pleases me. The turn of a word, rolling it around in my mind and spilling it out onto print. It's like having your favorite meal and drink. You take small bites, and sips, enjoying the sensation and layers of flavor. Writing is like that for me.

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Several years ago I found myself separated from my wife by military assignment. I volunteered for a temporary assignment to the Middle East, where I had been before. Shortly after I volunteered she received orders to Spain. There are allowances within the military which allow couples to be rejoined after such a separation and we had done our work to make sure that it happened, but it represented almost a two-year separation. She had just returned from a temporary tour for months, I was getting ready to leave for one and would be gone when she left for Spain.

I had a very large balance of leave and made arrangements for a stop in Spain with three weeks of leave. The military allowed for such things and so we were to spend three months in Spain, I fell in love with the country, its traditions, history and lifestyle, but before I got there I had the adventure of my life.

My orders read that I would start leave for Rhoda Spain, unfortunately, someone forgot to explain that to the weather. The military flight I was one was full of happy GI's and their family who were returning to the States from all over the world. I was to disembark on Terceira, a small Portuguese island in the Atlantic where a US military presence was maintained, mostly to service ships and planes crossing the Atlantic.

High winds were making a landing improbable and my heart sank as I heard that the plane would be changing course and heading directly back to the United States. Everyone on the plane, except me cheered, happy to be returning to their families and country, some after several years abroad... A crew member found me and explained things to me. I tried hard to put my feelings aside but from her reaction knew that I was unsuccessful. She asked me what I was doing going to Spain on leave and I told her, "To see my wife". I explained that by this time we hadn't seen each other for five months and wouldn't for another year if I missed this opportunity. I also told her that I knew that no one had control of the weather and that I would be OK.

She returned to the flight deck and a few minutes later there was another announcement. The Captain told my story, there was a pause and then he announced that there was a slight break in weather that would allow them land and allow me to disembark.

I waited for the groans that I had heard on other world crossings, but they did not come. What came, was a collective and spontaneous cheer, which still moves me to tears when I think of it.

When we landed at Terceira and I walked forward to leave the Aircraft, I was completely alone. People wished me luck and some patted me on the back as I made my way down the aisle of that 747. The last man was a one star general, I wish I knew his name, he shook my hand and said, "I'm glad we could make this happen for you son." He slapped my shoulder as I left. I was grinning from ear to ear.

When I got off the plane at Lajes Field, a sensation of being far from home washed over me. In the near distance I could see the blue-black depths of the Atlantic, there was a sulfurous smell from a local volcanic crater and the air had that feel that you only get on an island.
I watched my plane depart and then went to the terminal to arrange the next leg of my journey to Spain.

The terminal agent informed me that there were no flights currently booked for Spain, seasonal winds would make landing impossible for two months.
Again my heart crashed. I was assigned temporary quarters and given directions to key points on base. I asked where the best hamburger on base was and was sent to the bowling alley, which did have a very good greasy spoon style burger with crisped edges and a fresh bun, not quite a burger from my hometown, but pretty close.

I struck up a conversation with some of the other patrons and confirmed how long the winds could last.
After dinner I walked across the base to the exchange where I bought toiletry items and a Portuguese dictionary.

Many years before I had met my wife she had been stationed on Terceira and she spoke very highly of a dish she had eaten there called "Alcatra" which means "the pot." She told me it was the most tender and tasty beef dish she had ever had. And she like me was a world traveler, so this meant something special on many levels.
One I knew the food would be sumptuous. Two I knew that there would be a cultural experience involved as I threw myself headlong into the local life, questing for a food I knew nothing about. Third it meant I was doing something she had done, it allowed me to reach back through time and experience something she had known before she met me almost two years later.

I first went to my trade brothers the Portuguese firefighters and asked them anyplace they recommended. They were stunned and then talked among themselves, amazed that I knew what Alcatra was and that I was making a trip just to get it. They called a cab for me, spoke to the driver and said that he would help me. He asked me where I wanted to go and I said, "Where there is Alcatra." He broke into a big smile and asked me how I knew about Alcatra. I explained that my wife had been there a couple of years ago and that she had it and spoke very well of it. He promised to do the best he could do and we began weaving through the beautiful city of Terceira. I think that we stopped at several private homes where he would leave the car and go speak with the occupants, returning to say "No Luck!"

On our last stop he came back and announced that there was one serving left. I hurried from the car into what I thought was a home and nodded greeting to everyone there. It was a small place with four tables. Two tables were occupied by large heavily tanned men watching a soccer game. An older couple sat at another table and seemed to be enjoying some sort of seafood based soup. The last table was mine, the Madre of the house came to me and asked me what I would like.

The sensation had nothing of the restaurant to it, it was more like I had wandered into someone's house and they were asking me what I wanted to eat.

I said, "I would like Alcatra" and the matriarch seemed stunned, she asked me how I knew about Alcatra and so I told her my wife's history and she seemed even more stunned.
She asked what I wanted to drink with it and I said "Whatever you think is best" she said red wine so I had red wine which she brought to me with several rolls and butter. The rolls were crusty and heavily salted, as was the butter, somehow it worked extremely well with the wine, I could have made a meal of just that.
She asked if I wanted potatoes or rice and I asked what she had it with, she said potatoes, so I had potatoes.

It was only a moment before the food was at my table, the soccer watchers interrupted their observations when they smelled the wonderful dish. They all nodded appreciatively.
The meal came in a large white bowl, that any traveler is familiar with. From Seoul to Honduras the giant bowl is king of rich and fragrant fair. She set down in front of me and realization rolled over me. I had been a firefighter for about fifteen years and am a very good cook. What was being sat down in front of me was "pot roast" even that name of the dish, said as much, "Alcatra" -the pot.

That being said it is also necessary to say what comes next. It was incredible, it was fantastic, it was perfect. I have had steak at "Luger's" in New York City and steak at Cattleman's near El Paso, which consistently tie for best beef in the nation, this beef established itself as superior to both.

It was bathed in a bath of garlic and onion broth that had a smoky pungency that is unique. The broth was also savory with a hint of spice from black and white pepper. The potatoes supped up the sauce and I ate it with that incredible local red wine which could have been a meal to itself.
The crusty rolls kept coming and I was in culinary heaven, no master chef in Paris could have prepared a better cut of beef.

I had shared an experience that my wife had on a wonderful little island.
As I basked in the warmth and wellness of the meal and sipped on that rich wine, I watched the soccer game with no idea who was playing or where.
The other men watching were acutely aware of the where's and whose and as I have said, they were large, and heavily tanned. Their forearms were covered in muscles and tendons that looked like cables.

The game was suddenly over and these six men began to argue loudly. They had blocked the door and there was no way out, the woman had disappeared as had the old couple. I sipped wine and lit a cigarette, trying hard to be casually invisible. Then a shadow covered me. As I looked up from my glass a large man was looking down at me and the others where looking on intently.

He said something to me, in a voice that only a lifetime fisherman in the deep Atlantic could have, a man who had faced monstrous storms and clubbed giant fish to death with a bat. A man who was embroiled over a soccer game as only Europeans can be embroiled.

I have no idea what he said, but I knew from his stance and the look in his eyes that he could not have asked me a more important and serious question.
So I thought for a moment and realizing that I spoke no Portuguese, or knew anything about soccer, I remember a poster I had seen once, of a man turned upside down kicking a soccer ball.

I looked that rough and tough fisherman in the eyes and said "Pele".
His brows furrowed and I was sure I was about to be tied into some elaborate sailors knot. Then he nodded and repeated the name to himself. He turned and shouted it to his buddies, who all nodded sagely and soon they were toasting Pele.

I still have no idea of what question I answered, but if there is a universal name which implies what is key to soccer, it is Pele and if there is a universal meal that implies warmth and hospitality it is pot roast. It doesn't matter where you are or how you got there. It doesn't matter what mood you sit down in, or who your company is. It certainly doesn't matter how posh the setting is, actually I would say the simpler the place the more significant the meal. Bad people can't make good pot roast, they ignore it or they bother it too much leaving it mush or dried out. And only a simple place like Terceira, with pots that are generations old, made of simple earth, can heal the heart of a lonely traveler.