MAS QUE NATA - PORTUGAL, FOODIE PARADISE (PART TWO: PORTO)

After a resounding triumph in Lisbon with the KNOB* (applause) I made it to Porto with the aid of a Tomtom that Jurgen loaned me. I would never have found my way to the hotel in time for dinner with Cynthia and Angus otherwise. But the stupid thing can't figure out that 'rua Dom Carlos II' is not pronounced 'rua Dom Carlos eye eye'.  

*Kurt Nachtnebel Oompah Band

I made it to the Majestic Cafe in Porto, where I RV'd with Cynthia and Angus, a mere 20 minutes after the prearranged time.  We had a drink on the terrace and then moved inside to eat.  The Majestic is a piece of olde worlde grandeur, with chandeliers and lots of mirrors, and waiters in bow ties.  I had cod loin which was sumptuous. Angus had some kind of pasta with prawns, and Cynthia had cod cooked in one of the 1,000 ways they boast over there.

On our first full day in Porto we walked down through the town, past magnificent buildings and statues of Henry the Explorer, and over the bridge to Vila Nova de Gaia, commonly known as "Gaia", which is technically a separate town from Porto.  A bit like Manchester and Salford.  Although not much. There I was persuaded by Cynthia and Angus to try a Francesinha for lunch - it's like a steak inside an all-day breakfast inside a croque monsieur - while Cynthia and Angus, having already tried this bellybusting marvel of Portuguese cuisine, opted for more sensible dishes.

 

As a pre-birthday treat, my dear friends invited me for a tour of Graham's port lodge, followed by a tasting of three vintage ports - 1983, 2003 and 2007.  We returned via cable car over the rooftops of Gaia. I normally hate being separated from planet Earth buy anything less robust than a 747, but thanks to the port, I was not remotely bothered about hanging in the air suspended by a wire.

 ...

Porto is not very big, once you've covered the waterfront on both sides and done your port-tasting, you've more or less done the town.  So on day 2 we went on the 'historic' tram to Foz do Douro, the seaside resort closest to Porto. The tram is tiny and packed and takes ages, and is also quite expensive, so I would recommend the bus which takes the same route only in a fraction of the time and more comfortably.  We were somewhat puzzled on arrival in Foz, as there seemed to be no restaurants overlooking the sea.  We found one eventually, where the food was superb but the clientele seemed to be wealthy trustafarians who double parked their Porsches on the street. Being neither rich nor young, and on foot, we felt a little out of place.  On the walk back to the bus terminus we found that all the beach restaurants were tucked away under the promenade, sheltered from the wind.

On our third day 'oop north' we went for a drive up into the hills and through stunning scenery to Amarante, picture-postcard village on the Tamega river, where the hermit saint Gonçalo is buried.  Zé da Calçada is a delightfully old-fashioned family-run restaurant on the river in Amarante, where we had a smashing lunch with Portuguese bubbly and everything. The amuse-gueule was almost a meal in itself, and I was so pleased to find a restaurant that still uses the proper cutlery.   Dessert was an all-you-can-eat pudding buffet where you help yourself. We couldn't trust ourselves to be sensible, so we demurred. Angus' massive plate of ham-stuffed trout was billed as a half-portion. 

Below us people pootled about on pedalos on the river. It was reminiscent of somewhere like Shiplake on the Thames, or Bouillon in southern Belgium, only considerably warmer.  Cynthia lost her head, and bought shoes.

   Angus and Cynthia, in silhouette, in Amarante

On our last night we had dinner on the Ribeiro, the Porto side of the Douro.  By this time we'd worked out that there is a cable car that takes you down to the riverside and back up again, giving you a spectacular view of the bridge and a stomach-churning drop on the last stretch. It's very touristy down by the river, and most of the restaurants on that side are much of a muchness, and not much to write home about.  The restaurants in Gaia, across the bridge, are better, and afford one the opportunity of crossing the spectacular bridge on the lower level, returning on the higher level if one wishes.

Portugal was a gastronomic nirvana.  There are more ways to cook salt cod than you could get through in a month.  The desserts are deadly, but what a beautiful death!  The coffee is good enough to turn a lifelong tea drinker like me.  The wines are light and pleasant and prices of both food and wine are democratic.  The service is efficient, fast, and charming, and the restaurants are often a bit old-fashioned, which is quite to my liking. Fish knives are still A Thing in Portugal.  

Oh, and the waiters are very handsome and flirty.  Which is quite important to Ladies of a Certain Age.  I am seriously thinking of retiring to Portugal.  Death by custard tart seems a suitably decadent way to go.

MAS QUE NATA: PORTUGAL, FOODIE PARADISE (PART ONE: LISBON)

I put on 3 kilos in Portugal.  Basically, I ate everything I saw.  It was all divine. 

On day one, I set out in the jalopy to Sintra. If you imagine what the Garden of Eden would look like, with hordes of tourists, that's Sintra.  I went to see gardens.  Boy, has Sintra got gardens.  Huge ones.  They take hours and hours to visit.  As a result, come lunchtime I found myself in the gardens of the Montserrat estate, where the victuals were sparse and served in a kind of National Trust type tearoom.   I had a soda and a sausage roll.  The man behind the counter told me to go and sit down and he would warm up the sausage roll and bring it to me.  When it appeared, it had been daintily cut in two and served with a paper serviette.    The bill was 3,90 euros which was certainly not a National Trust price.

That evening I ventured into Estoril, the resort where I was staying just outside of Lisbon.  There were a number of unpromising looking restaurants either side of the esplanade in front of the casino (the very same casino that inspired Ian Fleming to write Casino Royale) and I was starving, so I went into Pinto's, a simple looking pizzeria.  This being Portugal, of course, there was more on offer than pizza.  I had an absolutely delicious veal steak with bacon, with a couple of glasses of white wine and a dessert.

The next day I took the local train into Lisbon, where I totally fell in love.  I had been to Lisbon before, for a New Year weekend, but now it was warm, people were eating outside, and Harold wasn't with me.  I felt my boxes being ticked all down the line.  I ate lunch at a small corner restaurant called A Campesinho off Agusta in the Caixa (shopping district) where I had a salt fish croqueta from the shop on the corner where they were made, with a salad and a glass of wine.  A gipsy accordionist was providing the ambient music.  I had just bought two pairs of divinely beautiful and comfortable sandals at a very democratic price.  Life was good.

The old vegetable market in Lisbon has been transformed into a trendy food court called Mercado.  The top restaurants in Lisbon have outlets here where you can sample their menus seated on high stools at long tables.  It was packed on Saturday evening.  Better to come with some friends though, you'd feel a bit of a gooseberry sitting there on your own, unless you are of a particularly gregarious nature.

Opposite my hotel was a cake shop called Zenith, outside which I found a sweet spot to park the car.  (Sweet spot - ha ha - geddit?)  It was a modern style cake shop, and I noticed they did have pasteis de nata.  It would have been rude not to.  I bought 4 which were daintily packaged up in a box, for me to take back to my hotel room, for a furtive afternoon delight.  Oooh missus.  The man in the cake shop told me that their pasteis were better than those from Belem, as they didn't have to make them in industrial quantities.  He could have been right.

On the Sunday it was scorchio so I went to the beach at Carcavelos.  Toda Lisboa was there.  I strolled along the promenade with an independent air, humming "Copacabana", and ended up sitting down for lunch in Ondo Grande (Big Wave) where I had garlic prawns with a tomato salad, a glass of wine and a pudding.  Nearby some young men were playing beach volleyball in shorts, so I lingered over a coffee, and then another one, taking in the view.  

On my last night on the Estoril coast I went into Cascais.  The main square is a mass of tables, so that you can't see where one restaurant ends and the next begins.  I took a table in a sidestreet, since the main square was rather awash with celebrating football fans, Benfica having just won the Portuguese league.  I ordered sardines, which came with boiled potatoes.  As I was taking the photograph you see above, I noticed the chap at the next table whisper something to his wife.  I knew they were English, and thought "Oh no they think I'm one of those hipsters who's always photographing their food!"  so I looked straight at him and said "I'm a food writer."    He looked quite delighted.  "I just said to my wife," he declared, "I bet she's a food writer!"  I smiled indulgently, waiting for the predictable question.  "I say," he began, "You're not that .. Daphne Wayne-Bough, are you?  Yes, you are!  You're our favorite food writer!  Can we have a selfie with you?"    I get this all the time.  Jay Rayner would kill for my retweets.

My next port of call was Lisbon proper, where the KNOB* were performing, but I had time to swing by Sesimbra on the way.  By this time I had managed to figure out how to use my phone as a GPS, and hence drove straight there and not via Madrid!   What an absolute godsend that GPS is.  I was quite hostile to it for years, but have realized the error of my ways.   In Sesimbra I finally got to try the famous bifana steak sandwich - not necessarily beef, despite the name.  I could hear the chef bashing the life out of it in the kitchen. Next time I'm having the piglet sandwich. Sesimbra is a quiet seaside town with half a dozen or so decent restaurants and no tourist traps. 

* Kurt Nachtnebel Oompah Band



After the brass band competition we were invited to a buffet dinner for all the bands at Restaurante Clara.  It was a set menu, so we weren't expecting anything exciting.  After a fairly dull soup, we had Bacalhau a braz: comfort food. So comforting I had two helpings. Followed by a tasting of as many of 10 desserts on offer as I could get on my plate. I now feel extremely comforted. The restaurant had a gorgeous garden, but it was quite windy that night and a bit cold, so had to photograph it through the window. And PROPER FISH KNIVES! And silver service ... a bit old fashioned but frightfully elegant - so moi.  The dessert buffet is very common in Portuguese restaurants.  Reminiscent of the sweet trolley in our own restaurants of the 1970s.

We were all staying in the Hotel Sana Lisboa, in the upmarket part of town.   I must say it is an excellent hotel.  The staff were highly efficient and charming with it, particularly the doorman who was the spitting image of Cristiano Ronaldo.  I must however compliment the pastry chef, whose creations were the jewel in the crown of the buffet lunches. As you can see, they were too good to have just one.