We eat fantastic seafood here. I act as the team taster, the first to try unfamiliar menu items. It seems I can’t lose.
It starts on the second evening, when Wayne and Jeff have salmon. I’m not going for this farmed North Sea stuff, I want a wild fish, and go with the Robalo, which is probably sea bass and perhaps an endangered species so I’m not really doing Mother Ocean any favors, but it is pretty darn good.
The next evening, Jeff announces he is going to have Robalo, since mine was so good. I counter with the declaration that I’m going for the Pulvo, or octopus, because what-the-heck-it-is-on-the-menu-and-you-only-live-once. Everyone looks at me with great skepticism. When dinner finally arrives, I have a plate of the most exquisite chopped-and-broiled-in-olive-oil-and-garlic, tender, and tasty seafood that you could possibly imagine. It is, in the words of She Who Is Small But Mighty, “Plate-Lickin’-Good™”. My reputation is made. For the rest of the trip, people will have what I had the night before.
I continue my food dominance through a Hawaiian pizza that has bananas in addition to the usual ham an pineapple, a monkfish brochette for two (split with Jackie) that is a shish kebab of monkfish and shrimp and onions and peppers, and the Caldeirada (split with Jeff, which turned out to be a seafood stew containing lobster and monkfish and shrimp and other fish and potatoes and other veggies, garnished with hunks of fried bread.
The final night, though, I go back for one last round of octopus. Wow.