Portuguese clementines: the definitive review (7/10)

One of the main reasons I was looking forward to our jaunt to the Algarve was to see the lobster-skinned English folk roaming the region, trashing bars, fucking everything that moves and generally trying to ruin the world with our collective Small Man Syndrome that we as a small island nation seem to suffer.

No, wait – what I meant to say was: the fruit.

Fruit on the continent always seems to be better than back here at home, for whatever reason. I’m sure it’s very obvious reasons, but hey – let’s go with “whatever reason”. But now that always has to be changed to ‘usually’. Or sometimes, or rarely, or whatever I want to knock it down to.

Not always. Never always. The Continente supermarket in Loule made sure to ruin that particular dream.

In hot, sunny Portugal where would you expect their clementines to come from? We tend to get ours from Spain, possibly South Africa and a few other places between. But Portugal is sunny enough, surely? Even if it isn’t, they can literally get a truck to drive a few hours from across the border to bring some fresh, juicy deliciousness with them.

That was my logic.

What I was met with was a heap of dried up, tasteless and 40% inedible pieces of orange-coloured shit direct from – I kid thee not – Uruguay.

What’s the fucking point in that? At all? It makes no sense. Surely that can’t be cheaper than just growing them down the road and having an oxen pull a cart full of the bastard things straight to the market?

Anyway. Portugal: your clementines are shit. Because they’re from 5834 miles away. Sort it out.

(N.B. Clementines in Waitrose down the road from me travel 6146 miles and are delicious, so it’s clearly an issue with how they’re transported or ultimately stored at the market in question. But that’s too close to analysis, and I’d prefer blind reaction to thought any day of the week.)


7 of 14 catch up entries to go.


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