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The real life is in the villages

We've been busy this weekend. Flamenco, old pals and lots of eating. Last night we went for an Indian with a couple that we met in the UK some years ago. She's Spanish, he's from the UK. We went relatively early and got to the restaurant about 9.30. It was odd, a big pink industrial unit on a small industrial estate in not the most exciting part of the region. The pink building had an elephant motif. There were lots of cars parked outside.

Inside it was humming. Nearly all the tables full. Waiters rusing here and there. The odd word of Engliish floated through the ether. Most of the diners were, like us, slightly pink from the recent sunny days and British. The Spanish member of our group took on minor celebrity status amongst the waiters which lasted the whole evening.

We had to wait a few minutes for a table. We got our drinks. We read the menus. We ordered. As we crunched through the papadums people were leaving. As the waiter handed out the various rices and main meals the noise level had dropped considerably and a group of Spaniards had recently taken their places at one of the several empty tables. By the time we'd rejected the puddings but ordered the coffee it was just us and the Spanish group left. The waiters were doing those things that waiters do that finally allow them to go home. We were the last to leave.

Indian restaurants are not that common in Spain away from the main tourist areas. This one exists because there is a golf resort quite close by. Lots of Britons who live in Spain miss curry houses and it was no surprise that we were there in force. I'd forgotten about the difference in meal times though. The same happens with the bbig Chinese buffet places down on the coast. The Britons, the Germans, the Dutch and all the other communities here turn up for their evening meal at around eight whilst the Spaniards start drifting in from around nine thirty. Good businness for the restaurants I suppose. Two sittings.

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