Jan Hansen Poet ABC

Fishballs and other thing

fishballs and more

At the posh supermarket in Albufeira, it sells Icelandic fishballs harvested from

Ten-year-old cod fish. They are white and round, just like other balls in size, say,

meatballs, but they taste salty and tangy, perfect with chilled wine, almost like
Eating the Portuguese dish bacalhau de nata, the way it is made
Alentejo.
The wine at this supermarket is overpriced, but some of them have fancy names.
On colorful labels to make them more appetizing, like we were going 
to eat.
The labels, too. 99% of the shoppers are British and strut around patronizing us
Locals who came to gaze at the frozen food one can buy here, as
The English housewife cannot cook and takes great pride in her 
lack of skills
Men are hopeless, too; that is why they go to British restaurants 
 Eat pie with Chips and mushy peas.
I had friends, British – can you believe it- who lived here for years, when they
Needed cancer surgery, so they went to Britain to have it done. The waiting list was
So long that both died; the Brits do not like being prodded by a foreigner.
So what was I doing here at this posh place? I had been told they sold smoked.
Ox testicles here, it was fine for my flagging potency when I asked around.
The shop fell silent. No one knew. Insipid fishballs, but I saw men putting on their
Reading glasses for a closer look at the shelves selling foreign muck

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