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Culinary delights south of Santa Cruz 

We took a holiday driving along the golden coast of south Tenerife, stopping off regularly to feed the horses as it were. From Candelaria we progressed to el Puertito de Güímar and on to Ten-bel, El Médano, Los Cristianos, Los Angeles (no, sorry, Playa de las Américas it is called) and finishing in Los Gigantes. I found the menus even more entertaining than the good food we consumed. A translator has shewn invention and wit in home-baked translations from Canary Spanish into English. We made a note of some of the more eye-catching dishes:

Piss of Fry Fisch wit Sagging Peeshas a fine if scatological sound, but what about this: Brest of Hen from Napolitan with Abocat Salsa and not to be outdone, this tangy example of pastoral feeding:-

Filet of Cow in Mustardy but at the same Ritzy eating house you could go Italian with

Setas (Toadstools) and Gerlic served on the plate with Tagliatelly: the last-mentioned might have been a television programme; I am not sure. We moved from restaurant to cafeteria to guachinche to roadside snackeries and everywhere we found the ubiquitous Translator had been hard at work. This gem comes from El Médano:

Fockachia (well really!) with Oregon which would have made Italians brought up in the United States content. Also in El Médano we were awed by: Racula Salad (Racula, Letice Peaces, Tomato, Umyan and Some Parmesians)

Perhaps they missed the ‘d’ in ‘Drucula’? High up in the hills between the mountain villages and forts we could not miss a food cabin where the speciality of the day was: Between the Tables of the Día with Cockers (in Season)

But first we couldn’t avoid an Especial Samwicth of Spinache and Jam from York which was certainly different from your average sarnie. A little further on, dining with a spectacular view of a sanded football pitch, our horrified eyes were caught by Scollops of the Chef and we hope the scandalous operation to remove them from the poor cook was not too agonizing.

This gourmet’s tour reminded me of one of the late Ned Sherrin’s tales. This one was about the King Singers, who had come upon a restaurant behind the Opera House in Budapest where they ate Meat Gele (trembling jellied meat), Miscued Poulet Salade, some Ice-cooled Spawn, Cow-Meat suddenly roasted with salsa accompanied by Vegetarian Eatables to the liking of the Hermit. At the same eating house the great speciality was the resounding Disc of Chateaubriand with a Heap of Vegetables.

But I think our island translator easily beat his Hungarian colleague, don’t you?

By Jeremy Taylor