Summer holidays. Sun, sea, sex (or sleeping, if you have small children). And for coeliacs, the dark cloud of gluten following you around.
So no surprise that I was glutened very recently – on a family trip to Fuerteventura.
My Spanish is poor. What I do know I gleaned from working two summer seasons in Ibiza in my youth – so I could certainly have got the grandparents into a nightclub for free. But explaining I couldn’t eat barley and wheat due to a chronic disease, then go into the finer points of cross-contamination? No way, Jose.
So, packed alongside my passport, bikini and Factor 50 was my other essential – A4 printouts from celiactravel.com, which outlined all my gluten-free needs in perfect Espanol.
There was no need to show them to staff at the hotel, H10 Tindaya in Costa Calma, which catered for me brilliantly, with plates piled high with warm, gooey chocolate croissants every morning and a special menu I could order from for lunch and dinner. Grilled fish, giant steaks, fresh veg and salad – I did not go hungry.
The problem came when I ventured away from the hotel on a mission to find the alleged best restaurant on this particular Canary Island.
Off we headed in the hire car on the road trip to ruin, dealing with oppressive 40°C heat on treacherous terrain over volcanic mountains. At one point I genuinely thought we would die in pursuit of gluttony.
After 90 heart-in-your-mouth minutes, we finally pulled up in a pretty little village and found the restaurant outside a chapel. We sat in the shady courtyard, where bougainvillea tumbled overhead and Spaniards quietly chattered.
I presented my coeliac card information to the waitress but from the look on her face and shake of her head, you’d have thought I’d handed over a demand for rack of unicorn. But she did say they could rustle up some gluten-free pasta with tomato sauce. Which was fine by me.
And while the other three in my party tucked in to tender goat and pork stews with crusty bread, I was presented with a plate of plain spaghetti… and four sachets of tomato ketchup. “Sin gluten!” the waitress said, pointing to the writing on the sachets.
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As a further boot to the guts, I finished off with a Calippo while they had sticky toffee and apple tarts drizzled in cream.
But I didn’t moan. Much. I felt happy enough to be on holiday.
Only I did moan later that evening. And took the sun lounger closest to the beach bar toilet. Turns out I had been glutened after all.
Faced with the sad bowl of pasta, I asked if the sauce that came with the stews was safe for me – mojo sauce – a traditional Canary Island accompaniment that is heavy on the garlic. And I spooned some in from the bowl before the others contaminated it.
I’d later learn breadcrumbs are used to thicken it.
Being glutened always makes me feel wiped out, but luckily I had nothing to do other than lie on a beach reading a book while surrounded by naked Germans. And I drank plenty of water afterwards to help me get over it. I’m not sure if the bloating was due to being glutened – or the quantities of croissants. As with all gluten episodes, it’s a bit of a guessing game as to what is due to what.
You’re just always left with that overriding feeling that if you are going to be glutened, next time please can it be from something AMAZING? Not just a gobful of garlic sauce.
By Kay Harrison – croissant loving coeliac