In the village of Sannat, on the island of Gozo, a culinary disaster could have unfolded. But, it was thwarted by the kindness of local people. A tale of courage, folly and—most importantly— a whacking great big joint of beef.

It was September 2023. Four friends (yours truly and three companions) were staying at another friend’s farmhouse in the beautiful village of Sannat. We had set ourselves a mission: secure the ultimate Sunday roast before we went to, and returned from, a brief overnighter in Malta.

Armed with a list, ambition and a mind keenly focused on a Sunday roast dinner (in 28 degree heat – yes, we’re not normal), we entered the hallowed fortress of Dwardu Butcher Shop (an excellent butcher, I must add). There, gleaming under the fluorescent lights, lay our prize: a humungous joint of beef. Alongside it, wine and prosecco — because even heroes deserve bubbles. We paid and secured the staples for our Sunday dinner battle (we’d already bought the vegetables, before you ask).

Or so we thought.

In our excitement, we had made a very grave error. We fled the butcher’s, hearts racing, visions of roast dinner glory whirling in our heads… unwittingly leaving the the very heart of the roast dinner behind… the exquisite hunk of beef destined for our oven.

And then… she appeared.

The Mama. Pushchair in hand, eyes blazing with determination and feet moving faster than the laws of physics would allow (given that she was not only manoeuvring her baby and her own shopping, but now an extro several kilos of things that used to go ‘moo’). She had been dispatched by the butcher himself, a sworn protector of all things meaty. Across cobblestone streets she charged, resolutely unshakeable.

Time slowed. The wind whipped. We could only watch, helpless, as she closed the distance. We wondered why she was calling to us (quite loudly at this point); we wondered what we’d done wrong. We froze. Then, in a moment that would be etched into our memories forever, she pulled the slab of beef from the pushchair like a gleaming meat boulder of destiny. Victory — and shame — descended upon us simultaneously.

Humbled and grateful, we retrieved our prize. The mission complete, we stowed the beef safely back at the farmhouse before setting off for Valletta: neon lights, EuroPride chaos and glitter swirling like a tornado around our ecstatic heads. Yet even amid dancing and song, our minds were anchored to the feast that awaited when we returned.

The next day, the Fast Ferry back brought us back to Gozo and we arrived, once again, at the farmhouse. The roast was devoured, the wine flowed freely and a legend had been cemented in culinary history in Sannat.

The moral of the story?

Never underestimate the speed of a kind-hearted Gozitan mama… and never, ever forget the joint of beef when you leave the butchers.

Also, grazzi hafna to both Mama and the butcher – your kindness has never been forgotten.

Whilst the above (true) story is recounted with humour, it’s always important to stress just how lovely the Gozitan people are – there are so many people there I know who would go out of their way to help or to listen to you if you are stuck with something. This certainly extends to all Maltese people I have interacted with – but the Gozitans I know and have experienced have been testimony to this. They are the very best people.