Keeping up appearances in a Maltese salad

"Richard!" cried Hyacinth Bucket (pronounced Bouquet, of course), "Do stop bouncing up and down! I'm feeling terrible!"

Richard slowed the hired car down to a crawl and peered short-sightedly at the muddy road leading to Wied Iz-Zurrieq. A few largish stones that had washed off the rubble walls in the recent rains completed the obstacle course.

The Buckets were in Malta for Christmas and New Year and had asked me to lunch at some Riparian entertainment in the picturesque village of Wied Iz-Zurrieq. This in exchange for me directing them and showing them around Hagar Qim and Mnajdra temples.

The day before we had been to Mdina and as soon as we got out of the car, Hyacinth, in a large hat rather like a fireman's helmet and voluminous raincoat, was immediately mobbed by some unruly tourists who had recognised her. While Richard and I discussed the baroque merits of the not so Silent City, we forgot all about poor Hyacinth, who was so busy signing autographs that the girl in national costume near the Mdina Dungeons was totally ignored and mown down. The next thing we saw was Hyacinth accompanied by a couple of retired army major types in blazers and cravats being driven off at breakneck speed in a karozzin by a very happy cabby driver. We never saw her again till suppertime.

The Wied Iz-Zurrieq expedition promised to be more tranquil and sedate. Poor Richard had not banked on the state of the roads after a night of heavy rain, however the sun was shining brightly as only a Maltese winter sun can. Potholes full of rainwater and expanses of gravel are not conducive to the smoothness level of a drive in the country that Hyacinth expects. At last we began the descent to the fishing hamlet and Richard, narrowly missing a huge honking bus half full of tourists, swerved into the relatively empty parking lot.

While Richard shot round to open the door for her, Hyacinth adjusted her blue nautical hat and dabbed a spot of powder to her nose and cheeks.

"Richard is a terrible driver you know; I do apologise for him," she declared as if butter wouldn't melt in her mouth. Richard opened the door and immediately a blast of cold air blew her hat sideways. Jamming it on again she heaved herself out.

"What a lovely spot!" Indeed it is. Despite the fact that much of the original village atmosphere has been marred by fish and chip caravans and lots of aluminium, the location is stunning. Huge, rocky headlands, patched in emerald green and bathed in the winter sun, loomed above us. Filfla, looking rather like Hyacinth's hat, floated in a sapphire turbulence. Large waves coursed into the narrow inlet. It was rough; very rough.

Not many tourists around and thankfully the few that there were seemed to have no idea who Hyacinth was. A couple of young boys trying to look macho in jeans and T-shirts with cigarettes hanging out of their mouths gaped at Mrs B in her swathes of polka dots; either in disbelief or, perhaps, in faint recognition. We meandered down as far as we could to the water's edge to appreciate the view. Mercifully the wind had died down a bit and the sun's reflection sparkled dazzlingly on the sea. I breathed a sigh of relief. So far so good.

"Luncheon!" carolled Hyacinth in her piercing dulcet tones, "This sea air has made me very peckish. Now let's see. Typical local fare; that's what I want. Something simple and fresh... with a view of course!"

With the air of an admiral before battle, she surveyed the various bars and restaurants and caught sight of one with a rather inviting rooftop terrace. Richard and I followed her as she purposefully ambled towards it. It seemed more promising than the rest. Keeping my fingers crossed I followed the Buckets up two rather narrow flights of steps and suddenly there we were with practically the entire village and the vast expanse of sea beneath us.

"Splendid. Marvellous!"

A couple of French tourists gaped in amazement as Hyacinth's hat was once again blown sideways.

"Breathe in Richard!" she bellowed "Sea air; nothing like it!"

We made our way to the only empty table and after the usual kafuffle about who would face where, sat down expectantly. There was no waiter or anyone anybody could remotely call "staff" to be seen.

"Tch, tch!" clicked Hyacinth as she fingered the rather grimy table, while casting a malevolent look at the peeling labels of the oil and vinegar bottles.

A man in his 50s, with a look one can only describe as sullen, came out of the room at the back of the roof which I realised was some sort of scullery. He plonked two plates of omelette and chips down in front of a couple who were very patently on honeymoon and who were totally oblivious of him and shuffled off. Eventually he approached us and, without a word, handed us three menus. Before I could open my mouth he was off again. A one man band serving nine tables.

"Now let's see!" Hyacinth grabbed Richard's menu. "I'll order for you dear. You know you can never make head or tail of these 'foreign' menus. Now Kenneth; what do you recommend? Never mind. Mmmmmmmm! Maltese salad; that sounds wonderful! Fresh veg and goat's cheese! Delicious! Just what the doctor ordered. Lived on it in France. Excellent! Wwwaaaaaaiiiter! Yoooohoooo! WaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAaiter!?"

Waiter, with a rather curious look, stood to vague attention. The other diners dropped their knives and forks and stuck their fingers in their ears. "Maltese salad. Yes. We will have three. Some Maltese red wine, half bottle. Myself? I never touch the stuff. Water..... any Malvern? Her Majesty drinks it all the time; do you know? No? Pity. Understood! Still water? Yes? Excellent. Mmmmm! The sea air has made us very hungry!"

He returned with some side-plates, glasses and cutlery and proceeded to lay them down rather haphazardly. Hyacinth fixed him with her gimlet eye. He was absolutely immune. While he scuttled off, she rearranged it all as if she were preparing the table for one of her candle-lit suppers and examined the glasses. I shuddered.

"Not quite up to OUR standard!"

She fished out a large immaculate dishcloth from her enormous bag and proceeded to polish vigorously.

A blast of cold air caused me to shiver even more as three medium sized plates of Maltese salad were dropped unceremoniously in front of us. A bed of knife-cut, wet and floppy lettuce in which a couple of tomato wedges hid shyly, garnished with two slices of cucumber and one green olive and one black one along with the crowning glory; a minute pickled brown and peppery gbejna (cheeselet); just one, made up the Maltese salad.

For once Hyacinth was as speechless as Richard and myself. Hyacinth's gbejna was really small so she deftly swiped Richard's while he wasn't looking. I pretended not to notice.

I tried to catch the waiter's attention to at least fetch some bread to go with it and gave up. I noticed that the bread on the other tables was of the insipid, spongy white type and there was no crusty Maltese ftira in evidence.

In three minutes flat we had wolfed the salad down. We drank the wine and water and waited for attention that never came. I slid off to the kitchenette to pay the bill and was given a chit to pay downstairs. I was highly embarrassed. I left no tip despite the notice that outdid Owl's best efforts to leave one upstairs.

The sun hid behind a cloud and the whole place was shrouded in grey.

Hyacinth shivered dramatically.

"Let's go home Richard. I'm cold. Do hurry up!"

As we made our way to the parking lot a very battered car swung in. Its wobbling exhaust pipe gave off a loud bang. Onslow, Daisy, Rose and Father tumbled out.

"Quick Richard. Run for your life. It's them!"

"How nice!" exclaimed Onslow, wriggling his brawny tattooed arms and scratching his tummy, "How nice?"