Albufeira: Little Britain in the Algarve

My cousin had flown out a couple of days before the rest of our family. He'd already grabbed the hire car and explored the immediate area. He'd found the nearest restaurant and enjoyed the food.

Upon our arrival, we descended en masse on Scooby's Pool Bar, in Galé. It was owned by a British couple.

The menu looked exactly like any you might find in a pub anywhere in Britain. The bulk of it was *insert meat* with chips and peas, or vegetables. Which isn't to say that it wasn't delicious.

My father was practically drooling at the sight of his steak and kidney pie with chips and peas. He uttered a satisfied sigh as soon as he dug in. Then recommended it to everyone in the vicinity.

I fared less well.  As a vegetarian, my only options were a jacket potato with cheese, cheesy chips or a salad. For someone who had been anticipating fine Portuguese cuisine, it was less than underwhelming. (I had much better luck around the corner at JKs.)

But it was also a story repeated just about everywhere else we went. You couldn't have chucked a stone in Albufeira, Sesmarias, Galé or Joinal without hitting some purveyor of staple British food. It was actually intensely difficult to eat anything but British food.

Even the handful of Dutch restaurants in the town seemed to cater for the British. Their walls were orange and photographs of the Nederland royal family adorned the menu. Yet the food was British.

Which is all a great shame because, as my friends from the rest of Europe diplomatically tell me, Britain is not known for its cuisine.

It became a beautiful, little morning ritual. As the villa stirred with people rising, a group of us would meander down the road to the mini mercado to buy baps for our breakfast.

We had been told in advance that our villa was situated in a residential area. Most of our neighbors were Portuguese people working in the tourist spots of Albufeira. Therefore we expected that their local shop would focus upon Portuguese groceries. It didn't.

Flanking the entrance door was a rack of English tabloid newspapers. Inside you could purchase baked beans and other British favorites. Behind the counter, whole shelves were devoted to the brands of chocolate found in any British supermarket.

At least the lady serving behind the counter provided a little Portuguese flavor. She taught us a word or phrase in her language every day, then greeted us each morning with a hearty 'Bom dia!'

Every grocery shop that I entered in the Algarve appeared to import its stock from Britain. When my mother announced her intention to cook a Sunday roast, she was able to purchase Bisto gravy and cranberry sauce. As a vegetarian, I had a choice of Quorn products in the larger supermarket Apolónia.

"We're all going on a summer holiday," sang Sir Cliff Richard. He apparently had Albufeira in mind at the time. "Fun and laughter on our summer holiday, we'll make our dreams come true."

My family and I piled into a tour bus to learn more about the area. As we were conveyed along the picturesque cliff-top road, linking the marina with the old town, we were on Rua Sir Cliff Richard.

The English language commentary blithely informed us that the singer 'discovered' Albufeira during the sixties, then the rest of Britain followed him.

From that moment on, Albufeira grew from a sleepy fishing village into a massive tourist town. The reason why the Algarve feels so incredibly British is because the bulk of the tourists are from the United Kingdom.

The second largest cohort are from Ireland. Despite the handful of Irish bars sprouting up, no-one bothers to translate any menus into Gaelic. The Irish speak fluent English. (Though, to be fair, I did see menus in French and German, so those nationals could enjoy the British food too.)

Everyone could top off their meals with a nice Vida Nova - the wine made at Adega do Cantor, Cliff Richard's own vineyard and winery in Albufeira.

I wasn't really hungry. My family had colonized half of the outdoor seating area of a beautiful restaurant in Albufeira. I gave the menu a cursory glance over. It was the usual British fare, but most of all, I wasn't ready to eat again just yet.

Instead I set myself a mission.  I would wander off alone through the winding alleys and broad avenues of Albufeira. I would find Portugal. After all, how hard could that be? I was in a Portuguese town!

Just in case I did get hungry later, I even jotted down what I wanted to eat: 'comida de vegetaranio à Portuguesa'. I hope that said 'Portuguese vegetarian food'. I never did find any.

In fact, I found little which appeared at all foreign to me. The architecture was the main exception. It was wonderful and so much prettier than you'd find in Britain. No two buildings appeared the same. Designers out-did each other to create truly unique edifices, which were really pleasing to the eye.

But they were all adorned with signs which were sometimes bi-lingual, but often merely English. There was nothing that I looked at which I couldn't read. I even came across a job vacancy notice for a waitress. It was in English first, with a Portuguese translation directly underneath. The final line returned to my language. It said, 'Applicant must speak English.'  That pretty much said it all.

Later on, I spoke with the owner of JKs Restaurant and Bar. He was born and bred in London. I asked him where I could find something authentically Portuguese in the Algarve. He told me that the whole region is British now. He appeared quite sorrowful, as he added, "I do wish that there was more of a return to the old Portuguese. It needs it."