Before we had time to grow impatient our hostess, looking like an adult copy of her child, appearing, spread the table neatly with clean linen and shining crystal, then set before us a dish of rolls, one of olives, and small plates of spiced sausage and ham. Then the host entered carrying a bottle of a good brand of imported claret that he had taken from his shelves, and a syphon of seltzer.
We were nibbling at the appetizers, trying to restrain ourselves from making a meal of them, when an excellent soup was served.
"If I could choose, I know what I'd have next—a big fat omelet," the Boy said, as he finished his plate of soup. And on the thought, as though in answer to his wish, the landlord entered bearing a fine opulent omelet stuffed with green peas. When we had eaten that, he was waiting to replace it with a dish of delicately browned veal cutlets, savoury potatoes fried in butter, and more green peas. A sweet course is so rarely served in Majorca that it was a pleasant surprise to find the cutlets followed by a mould of the native preserve, membrillo (quince) jelly, and pastry turn-overs. The dessert consisted of a pyramid of mandarin oranges cut with stems and leaves. It was a surprisingly complete meal to be served on an hour's notice in the back shop of a little unknown out-of-the-world town.
The rooms allotted to us comprised the whole floor above. The salon, which was to the front, had two handsome wardrobes—wardrobes would seem to be as often placed in sitting-rooms as in bedrooms in Majorca—a chest of drawers, several comfortable chairs. The beds, with their lace-trimmed and monogrammed linen, were perfection. As we fell asleep we blessed the happy chance that had led us to so much more comfortable quarters than we had anticipated finding.
Breakfast, of French chocolate and hot buttered rolls, served to confirm the good impression of the previous night.
The ambition of my infancy—to keep a little shop—threatened to return as, from the stronghold of our neat little dining-room, we watched the life of the shop, a portion of whose trade appeared to consist of barter. First a woman entered with a basket of glowing sun-kissed pomegranates which she exchanged for macaroni and other groceries. She was quickly followed by a man who had a hamper of lemons and a bag of the scarlet waxen pods of the sweet pepper to dispose of.
While the chocolate was still in process of consumption our host, courteously solicitous respecting our comfort of the night, waited on us, his tall, slender form begirt with an apron of spotless purity, on which was also embroidered the family monogram.
From our concerns the conversation naturally passed to his, and with the simple friendliness of the Majorcan he told us his life-story. Told how, like most of the Andraitx lads, he had early left home to seek his fortune, but while most of his companions had become sailors, he had chosen to make cooking his profession. A course of years passed as a chef in Havanna and other places had gained him the nest-egg he desired. Returning to his native town while still a comparatively young man, he had taken this shop, married to his liking, and settled down in comfort.
There was neither sun nor wind. The air was calm and cool. It was a splendid day for exploring a new locality. But Andraitx was still a sealed letter to us. We did not even know what to look for.
When we arrived on the previous night the town had been shrouded in darkness. So it was a charming surprise after we had mounted the commonplace street to find that in situation Andraitx resembled a miniature Sóller. Hills, some crowned by windmills, enclosed it on every side. Passing through the market square we climbed the eminence on which perched the quaint old church, and looking back, saw the town lying in the hollow beneath us; and to the north-west, its mouth guarded by sentinel hills, the wide inlet of the sea that marked the port.