Friday Night Bread & Butter: “Better at 2 A.M., Drunk”

It was Friday night and all of us were pretty exhausted from our day trip to Costa Nova as well as still recovering from the whole baby pig roast we’d had for dinner. We were lounging around, reading, watching TV, checking the time now and again, because Joe had mentioned earlier that the day wasn’t over and that his dad was going to take us somewhere that night. All I was told was that whatever it was we were about to see or be a part of only took place on Friday nights from 10 p.m. until the wee hours of the morning.

At exactly 9:30 p.m. Joe, Una and I jumped into Patrick’s car and he drove us into the night. 20 minutes or so later, we arrived in a village called Barrô, next to Águeda. As we got off the car, the first thing that greeted us was the scent of freshly-baked bread and sweet cinnamon in the air.

We found the door to what I initially thought was a warehouse building, but upon entering, I saw that it was, in fact, a bakery.

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Two ladies were busy baking big loaves of bread to sell at the weekly Saturday market in Águeda  the next day, including broa, a dense but moist Portuguese cornbread with a dark exterior. I could see the bread lined up in neat rows, baking inside the wood-fired oven behind them.

Locals were starting to walk in and lining up and I was immediately intrigued because I noticed the ladies take turns taking loaves of hot broa out of the oven with a wooden paddle as the orders came in and they proceeded to do this.

Thick slabs of butter on horizontally-cut bread, seasoned with cinnamon and sprinkled with a ton of sugar. We bought a loaf for 3 euros and brought it back home. The still-hot bread center was a gooey mess of salty butter, melted sugar and sugar granules that crunched under the teeth.

A Friday night treat of the most unexpected kind. I’m going to go ahead and quote Filipe, Joe’s best friend who said, “It’s best when you go at 2 a.m. when you’re drunk and hungry.”

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Pastéis de Belém Is Legend

Expectations suck on most days. Expectations about food, in particular, have elicited countless disappointing experiences from as far back as I can remember. Don’t get me wrong here. Although I like to think I have a discerning palate–purely subjective, I know–I’m no food snob. I’m easy.  I eat everything and really do enjoy eating everything, even when my mind is not blown by whatever it is I’m eating.

This is us , tramming it to Belém.

This is us , tramming it to Belém.

Pastel de nata was something I was geared to cross off my list–kind of like a food bucket list–just because I was in Lisbon. I had to try it, at least once. I wasn’t super excited like my friend Una was because I’ve never had a thing for desserts, even as a child. I can appreciate desserts, and I’ve had my share of truly amazing ones, but even so, I don’t crave it once I’ve had it. So, I was unprepared for the jolt of shock that ran through me when I took my first-ever bite of a pastel de nata from Pastéis de Belém in Lisbon, world famous for its creamy egg custard cups.

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Torre de Belém

But first, some touristy activities were in order. Our first stop, the beautiful Torre de Belém, a 16th century defense tower at the mouth of the Tagus river, walking distance from the pastry shop.

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Love these kiosks.

And a late morning drinky at a roadside kiosk bar because we’re on vacation.

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Packed with locals and tourists.

Once there, we managed to grab a table inside the pastry shop that seats 400–me, somewhat begrudgingly, because I only wanted a taste of one and I didn’t see the point of waiting in line to be seated. I would have much rather ordered half a dozen at the counter to take out and eaten at a nearby park instead. Luckily, we didn’t have to wait long.

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1.05 euros = 1.35 dollars = 1,400 won

We ordered six–two per head to start–with coffee.

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Joe’s had these before.

They arrived shortly after, six dainty tarts on a small plate with sachets of icing sugar and cinnamon on the side. They were served warm, the yellow custard top showing dark caramelized spots and the shell deeply golden. The tarts smelled intensely buttery. I barely noticed Una taking a bite, upon which she dropped the two words: “진짜 맛있어.” (“It’s amazing”.)

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Coffee in Portugal is always served with sachets of sugar that match the cups.

I picked one up and took a bite.

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Still oblivious.

My initial reaction was confusion because it was SHOCKINGLY good. I savored every texture, every sensuous texture of that first bite, from the warm irresistibly creamy custard to the impossibly crispy flaky pastry cup. The sound of my teeth biting into the crackly shell was joyous to hear.

It was like biting into layers of deep-fried phyllo pastry, so crispy it was, and I shamelessly picked every shard of golden pastry that fell to the plate with my fingers. The whole combination was damn sexy.

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Can you see the layers of pastry?

We ended up ordering more. It is, hands down, one of my top memorable food experiences to date. Even if I’d gone with high expectations, I probably would have reacted the same way.

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Open from 8AM to midnight. EVERYDAY.

I’m sure there are excellent versions of pastel de nata elsewhere. But, I seriously doubt they will top the ones at Pastéis de Belém in Lisbon .

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There is a reason why certain eateries have established themselves as institutions over the years–177 for this pastry shop as it opened in 1837–and I just hope the heritage will continue to be upheld for many more years to come.

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The shop actually offers all kinds of savory and sweet pastries.

On a side note, Una carefully nestled half a dozen of these babies back to Korea for her boo who, unfortunately, couldn’t join us on this trip.

Now, that’s love.

Feed Me Bacalhau. Pour Me Vinho Verde.

The Portuguese passion–or, should I say, obsession–for bacalhau (dried salted codfish) is so much so that they have devised more than a thousand ways to prepare the seemingly unremarkable ingredient; I mean, it’s dried fish, for crying out loud. What’s so special about it? And why, of all countries, in Portugal where there is an incredible variety of fresh seafood, readily available and a whole lot cheaper than bacalhau? On that note, it is the only fish that is not eaten fresh in this seafood-loving country.

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One of the reasons why bacalhau went on to become so popular over the centuries and became a staple of the Portuguese diet was because Portugal, as a Catholic country, was influenced by the church who forbade meat consumption on religious days. Bacalhau was readily available and, therefore, eaten instead.

The day we arrived in Portugal, we did a quick grocery run on our way home at a local supermarket to pick up some goods for dinner. It was actually the distinct dried fish funk, hardly pleasant, that drew me to this pile of bacalhau. They kind of looked like a bleached version of the more yellowy Korean whole dried pollack, but about five times the size of bugeo (북어) and as stiff as a board; they are so hard they have to be cut into smaller pieces by saw.

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The first Bacalhau dish I had during my stay in Portugal was at a small seaside restaurant in what could quite possibly be the most charming beach resort town I have ever set my foot on.

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There is a long line of wooden houses, painted in bright stripes. Look at that sky.

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I found one in my favorite color.

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Two local grannies sunning on the deck. They waved hello when I looked up.

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I adore those red terra cotta roof tiles.

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This one is typically Portuguese, decorated with azulejos which are painted tin-glazed ceramic tiles. Joe’s family used to vacation in this particular house many summers ago.

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My friend Una, who joined us in Portugal for a week, bought this for me at a flea market in Lisbon which I now use as a trivet. Isn’t it beautiful? I would love to decorate my future bathroom and kitchen walls with these gorgeous azulejos.

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Back to bacalhau. I ordered this at a restaurant we randomly walked into by the beach. The pasteis de bacalhau–codfish fritters–were served golden and crispy on the outside and incredibly moist on the inside. But, they’re not mushy soft like the texture of a croquette. Because these codfish cakes are made predominantly with dried codfish that have been soaked until springy again (this process takes up to two days in the fridge), they have a meaty texture when you bite into it, and you can see the ultra-fine threads that make up the white fish flesh. Note the carbs that came as sides. Rice and potatoes are typically served together in Portugal.

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A lot of parsley goes into these codfish cakes, an egg to bind it together and, sometimes, mashed potatoes. But, like I said, a good pastel de bacalhau should mostly be shredded fish.

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This was the place, for those of you who are interested.

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This is another version of pasteis de bacalhau I had at Museu da Cerveja–that’s right, a MUSEUM OF BEERS (why had I not heard about this place before?!)–located in a yellow building that once used to be Portugal’s Ministry of Finance in Praça do Comércio, on the edge of the river Tagus in Lisbon.

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Una and her pastel de bacalhau. Una is a close friend of mine whom I met through work five years ago; she was a weekly guest on a radio show I was co-hosting with another good friend Kisang at the time, and we quickly bonded. She’s been a film journalist for close to 16 years, currently hosts a film-related TV show and has interviewed countless A-list Korean and Hollywood actors and actresses throughout her career.

Five days before our departure for Portugal, she texted me late in the evening, telling me that an interview which had been set up for the first week of September got cancelled at the last minute.  I told her this would be the perfect chance for her to book a flight to Portugal, hang with us for a week. So, she did (three days prior to her departure from Seoul) and here she is in my photo with her blue and tangerine nails, biting into that insanely tasty fried fish ball with a cheese-filled center at a beer museum in Lisbon. Life is funny.

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Life is also infinitely better with cheese. Ooey gooey melted cheese.

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Less than an hour into our arrival in Lisbon and the day was about to get amazing.

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A batch of codfish cakes ready to go in the fryer. I really must attempt to make this at home. Or, at least a version of it as I do not have bacalhau with me nor do I think I can get get my hands on any in Seoul.

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A tower of plastic pasteis de bacalhau.

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For our final day lunch in Portugal, Lisette promised us a bacalhau lunch. She’d seen me blog a couple of times while everyone was off enjoying their siestas, and she explained to me, step by step, how to prepare her bacalhau com batatas ao forno. First, the fish. You’ve seen the photo of the dried bacalhau, completely dehydrated until flat and hard. This is what it looks like after soaking in water for two full days in the fridge. Note that the water must be changed a couple of times a day. After two days, the flat dried fish turn into thick chunks of steak. Although a lot of the salt has been removed by this point, the fish is still salty.

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The peppers are cut vertically into long strips.

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The small yellow onions were sliced thin horizontally. Both are now frying in some olive oil.

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The fish goes on next, again, in some olive oil, skin-side down.

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Flip once the skin is nice and golden.

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At this point, the aroma of the caramelized onions, bell peppers and codfish makes the whole kitchen smell something amazing.

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Small potatoes, peeled and washed. These are later cut into small cubes.

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When done, the skin should peel off the flesh effortlessly.

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A tad more cooking on the skin side.

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Once the fish is done, they’re moved to a tray. The exterior is golden brown while the flesh is extremely moist.

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Flat-leaf parsley from tia Armanda’s garden.

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Time to get our hands dirty. By hand, Lisette removed all the bones and the skin.

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Bell peppers, caramelizing over low heat. These become deliciously sweet once baked with the fish.

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The flesh of bacalhau. These will be shredded into smaller bits once cooled.

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Joe waiting for lunch.

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Lisette’s bacalhau ao forno. Cod, potatoes, caramelized onions and peppers, parsley, mixed together and seasoned with salt and pepper and then baked in the oven. This is the best thing I ate during my stay in Portugal.

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A bottle of vinho verde–“green wine” or youthful white wine, not sufficiently effervescent to be officially classed as a sparkling wine, but with an obvious sparkle–typically accompanies a bacalhau meal.

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We’ve had quite a few bottles of vinho verde during this trip, the price of a bottle ranging from 3.5 ridiculous euros–which makes it perfectly okay to drink out of plastic wine glasses we took from a kiosk bar in Belem–to a tad more euros in restaurants.

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The bottle the three of us shared with dinner on our final night in Lisbon, at a restaurant in one of the hundreds of alleyways in Alfama, the oldest district in Lisbon.

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And then 0.5 euro coffees on top of the hill with this view.

At this point, Una is close to tears as she has a flight to catch in a few hours. The same destiny was upon us five days later.

Anna’s Sustainable Garden

The best part about staying with locals when visiting a foreign country is I get to pretend to be a local, too, for a few days while I’m there. Being invited to their friends’ homes is always a treat as well; I love stepping into other people’s homes and being shown around, eating and drinking with them, sharing random stories.  On our way home after a day of fishing by the river, we stopped by Anna’s house, somewhere between Santa Comba Dão and Bolfiar, to say hello. Anna is an old school friend of uncle Antonio’s who had, in the past year, returned to Portugal after living in Perth, Australia for seven years. They had settled into the house we visited and have been busy renovating it and transforming their expansive outdoor grounds into an extraordinarily fertile garden.

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After the introductions were made, Anna and her husband José ushered us into their dining room with an adjoining kitchen and got busy, fetching us a bottle of wine, cheeses, fresh bread, homemade spreads (including Anna’s gorgeous tomato chutney) and a tupperware box containing the tiniest tomatoes I had ever seen. And, also, the sweetest. “They’re supposed to be bigger but I don’t know what happened,” Anna shrugged.

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See? Smaller than cherries.

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Figo, their 7-year-old Australian-born beagle. What a handsome boy.

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Afternoon snacking. Notice that glass jar full of red stuff with a spoon stuck in it next to the cheese plate? Upon discovering that I was from Korea, Anna jumped up and ran to the fridge. “I have something. It’s my absolute favorite.” And, came back with this.

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Behold, a jar of kimchi. In a Portuguese countryside home. The label showed this particular jar had been imported from France. The description under ‘Kimchi’ reads ‘Chou Chinois’–Chinese cabbage–a tad bit misleading.

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Anna proceeded to spoon a generous amount onto a piece of bread and popped it in her mouth with relish. She’d most definitely done that before. Anna explained that she was introduced to kimchi while living in Australia, came to love it, and had bought this particular one on her recent visit to Lisbon.

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Figo’s chilling spot with a rather grand view of the the garden, the distant fields and Serra da Estrela, the highest mountain range in Continental Portugal.

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After the snacks and wine, the couple lead us around their impressive garden. Figo trotted along.

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Bird’s eye chili or piri piri, a commonly-used ingredient in Portuguese cooking.

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A couple of rows of Tuscan cabbages.

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They had tomato vines everywhere. These ones were green, but the couple had just picked close to 50 kilos of ripe Roma tomatoes which were stored in their garage.

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The cutest little eggplant.

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A Long Pie pumpkin.

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Two perfect little strawberries.

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These grape trees were planted two months ago.

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Lemon trees were also everywhere.

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And orange trees.

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Quince. So many of them.

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And, of course, figs trees. The couple picking some of the ripe fruit for us to snack on.

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Warm from the sun, sweet as honey.

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Mini paprika!

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Homegrown Oxheart tomato.

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Jojo and Figo. Gah. They have the same eyes. Kinda.

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A box of peaches, among other harvested goods, to take home. These will be made into delicious jam.

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Joe and the banana flower. This one grows in the garden of Joe’s best friend Filipe’s parents who live up the road from Lisette and Patrick. I had no idea banana flowers looked like this. Did you?

The Portuguese Uncle

This is my second time meeting Joe’s Portuguese family–his mother’s side of the family. I’d met most of them last summer in Paris where they reside most months of the year. The whole clan had gathered for a family wedding which Joe and I also attended.

Lisette and a majority of her siblings fled Portugal during the dictatorial rule of António de Oliveira Salazar in the 1970s and settled in Paris, the city with the largest Portuguese population outside of Portugal. Joe’s dad, on the other hand, is from Paris and a Frenchman through and through.

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Although born and raised in the French capital, Joe spent all of this childhood and teen summers in Bolfiar; he is a Portuguese boy at heart.

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For him, Portugal is his happy place.

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Meeting the boyfriend’s family, especially if you don’t share a common language, can be a nerve-wracking experience. So I’ve learned. Joe and his cousins converse predominantly in French while the older members of the family speak both French and Portuguese. Having spent my high school years in Italy plus the two years of French I took in grammar school back in New Zealand, I can follow the conversations  in French if I pay close attention. And, I can kind of guess the gist of the conversations taking place in Portuguese. But, a lot of the times, I still feel shy. I nod enthusiasticallly, I shake my head furiously. I smile a lot. I laugh a lot. I chime in whenever I can in a disoriented mix of French/Italian. Wine helps. And, there’s always wine. Thank the lord!

So, the family. Meeting Joe’s tio (uncle) Antonio for the first time can be a little intimidating for many; the man exudes charisma. Everything–from his booming voice, his deeply-tanned complexion, his mustache, to his raw sense of humor and his unfiltered commentary about everything he loves and everything he hates–will leave you in awe. He is presently enjoying his retirement in Portugal, constantly building and fixing things around their beautiful house overlooking the valley, fishing, cooking, eating. Drinking and smoking. I’ve been a fan of his since day one.

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Yesterday, Antonio came around and invited me and Joe to a day of fishing by the river, to which we more than happily obliged. But first, a quick tour around his house that he and his lovely wife Rosa (another one of Lisette’s sisters) are currently renovating. They live a few doors up from Lisette and Patrick.

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This is their shed-turned-barbecue kitchen. Check out this brick oven he built. I am envisioning whole baby pig roasts and pizzas.

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Tia Rosa has added her touch here and there as well. “C’est pas fini!” She keeps insisting that none of it is finished. Rosa is super bubbly, always laughing.

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Some archaic tools they managed to hold onto. Very cool.

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The view from their porch. Nothing but miles of green.

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Check out the colors Rosa has picked for their third-floor guest space, still under construction.

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After the quick tour of the house, off we went, our destination none other than the late dictator Salazar’s hometown of  Santa Comba Dão.

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In Portugal, like many other countries around the world, you need a license to fish. The license you obtain here, which will cost you 6 euros a year, allows you to fish with two rods.

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Antonio uses a homemade cake for bait he swears by, made with random ingredients he finds in his kitchen pantry including cornmeal, flour, sugar and cinnamon. He also uses live maggots he buys from the store.

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We’ve been lucky with the weather on this trip. Rain had been forecast on this particular day, but this is what we got.

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Joe…I have no idea what he’s doing.

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Carp. A small one at that. Antonio is not impressed.

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In the meantime, I am perfectly content doing this.

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After dinner,we walked over to their house for some cooking lessons from the uncle himself. This is Antonio showing us some old family videos and photos.

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Then, it was time to cook. First, aletria, a traditional Portuguese dessert made from vermicelli/capellini noodles, egg yolks, lemon zest, milk, sugar and plenty of cinnamon. There are no measurements here; he eyeballed everything, like the seasoned chef that he is.

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Mix cold water and milk in a pot. The ratio is around one part water to two parts milk. Turn on the heat and add the peel of one lemon into the pot.

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Add sugar and leave it to boil. From what I saw, he dumped 1/3 of the bag of sugar in there.

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Roughly crush the noodles by hand and add it to the boiling pot.

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Once the noodles are cooked, turn off the heat. Beat the egg yolks and slowly add it to the pot, constantly stirring the mixture.

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Taste the noodles to check if it needs more sugar. Ladle the noodles into a shallow vessel…

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..like so. If you want your custard to completely set, it should have less liquid than Antonio’s version.

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Sprinkle the cinnamon on top.

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He freakin wrote my name.

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Gah. Too much cuteness.

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The poor man was pooped.

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But, there was more. Time for some lessons in the art of piri piri sauce. Crushed piri piri, sweet paprika, salt in a bowl.

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Some good olive oil as well.

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Showing me how his revolving spice rack works. Look at that face.

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Some white wine goes into the spicy marinade. Again, there are no measurements. “Watch carefully,” he kept repeating.

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“Brush the marinade onto the chicken.” It’s hilarious how nonverbals become super exaggerated between two people who do not share a common language. Just to make sure your message was properly communicated.

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Rosa’s home-preserved olives are amazing.

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After the cooking class, a grand tour of his basement was in order. Well, of course he owns an ancient rifle. Duh.

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And an environmentally-friendly heating system imported from Italy that recycles water from  the river and uses compressed wood pellets as fuel.

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He has sacks and sacks of these wood pellets in his basement.

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The pellet fuel is fed into this furnace which heats the river water which subsequently heats the water in the orange-colored tank to the left which can store up to 500 liters of water they use to shower and wash the dishes and such.

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His son uses the same heating system in Paris.

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Last but not least, Antonio showed us his vinyl collection. He has good taste.

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We wrapped the evening with the aletria and a bottle of locally-made sparkling wine.

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Thank you for a grand day and all the laughs and the cooking tips, tio Antonio.

The “Humble” Sardine and Artisanal Salt

The smell of fresh sardines grilling over charcoal is an inseparable part of the Portuguese experience. You will notice it everywhere–walking around coastal towns and touristy restaurant disctricts in larger cities alike. The smell of grilling sardines is, for lack of better words, intensely “fishy” because of  their high oil content. Once you smell it, you will remember it.

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Sardines are packed with nutrients, containing a high concentration of omega-3 fatty acids. Because they are an oily fish, they are delicious when grilled, soft in texture while rich and smokey in flavor. However, sardines have always been considered a poor man’s fish, often used as fish bait and snubbed by even the fish lovers because they are considered a nuisance to eat with all their fine bones (which are so fine they are soft enough to chew once they’ve been cooked).

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Last Saturday morning, we woke up to the sound of rain. After breakfast, we headed over to the weekend market in Agueda to buy some sardines to grill for lunch. Portugal boasts the highest seafood consumption in Europe and I am amazed by the variety of fresh catch I see everytime I step into a local fish market.

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Squid, calamari, cuttlefish and octopus are extremely popular here.

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A bag of plump sardines in hand, we returned home, hungry and happy. Lisette wasted no time firing up the grill. There is something about barbecuing that renders a simple fare immensely festive. It’s the time and love and effort that goes into the whole preparation. Smelling the smoke. Watching the flames. Tending to it. No matter how busy it gets inside the kitchen, the grill outside is not forgotten.

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Green peppers from Armanda’s garden (Armanda is one of Lisette’s sisters who made us a delectable orange cake the night we arrived in Bolfiar).

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I do love me some roast peppers. I use red, orange and yellow bell peppers at home, roasting them over the grill until black and blistery, throwing them in a plastic bag and letting them sweat for a bit until the skin peels off effortlessly. Then I tear them into long strips by hand, toss them with olive oil, salt, minced garlic, anchovies, toasted pine nuts and parsley. They are divine on crusty toasted bread. With wine. A meal on its own–sweet, salty, crunchy, olive oily.

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By the time the peppers were peeled and dressed, Patrick had cleaned and salted the fish and sent them out. Look how big they are! He had used the fleur de sel we had bought from a salt farm in Aveiro on our way back home from our beach trip to Costa Nova the previous day.

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Aveiro, located 30km from Bolfiar, is hailed as the Venice of Portugal, with its pretty maritime setting. It is famous for its expansive lagoons and canals, colorful moliceiros (boats traditionally used to harvest seaweed, now used as vessels to transport tourists around the city) and artisanal salts. SAMSUNG CSC We bought a kilo of gorgeous pale-pink fleur de sel from this man… SAMSUNG CSC

…for 5 euros.

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The sound of sardines grilling is positively joyful to hear. The oil from the fish drips as they cook, sizzling and sputtering while their skin is fried to a crisp that shatters like a delicate chip under the fork.

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I think I helped myself to four of these. A light salad of those delicious homegrown tomatoes, onions and lettuce, the roasted green peppers with a drizzle of good olive oil and minced garlic, a pile of fresh bread rolls and a bottle of local vinho verde (“green” wine or white sparking wine) made this rainy day lunch anything but humble.

Eating Farm Fresh, the Portuguese Way

I can confidently say that I have never eaten better in my life. The folks here in Bolfiar take the concept of ‘farm to table’ to a whole new level. All of the fresh produce I’ve been eating at Lisette and Patrick’s (Joe’s parents) since our arrival a week ago have been picked off the stems or pulled from the soil literally minutes before preparation. Nothing is bought in advance, save for cheeses and hams and butter. Want wine and you’ve run out? Take an empty bottle to a local producer and fill it up for one euro. SAMSUNG CSC The tomatoes here are the best I’ve ever tasted. We’ve been having them with every meal in salads with small yellow onions sliced thin and hand-torn crisp lettuce leaves tossed in a simple vinaigrette. SAMSUNG CSC The preserves, homemade by Lisette and her sisters with homegrown figs and tomatoes, are unrivaled. The flavors are so intense, as if the fruit had been left to ripen under the scorching sun until their flesh turned into mushy jam and scraped from their skin staight into jars. SAMSUNG CSC And, the apples. SAMSUNG CSC The apple compote Patrick makes with apples picked from their relatives’ trees are deliciously sweet and tart and, best of all, sugar free. SAMSUNG CSC These may not be the prettiest-looking fruit you’ve seen ever seen. In fact, no piece of fruit… SAMSUNG CSC …or vegetable is uniform in shape or color. But, they taste incredible. The eggplants, the gigantic orange and the beet were pulled from the garden and personally delivered to us this morning by Lisette and Patrick’s next-door neighbor, who also happens to be Joe’s aunt, Maria (many of his mom’s siblings live in Bolfiar). The flowers and the rosemary in the pink bucket are from Lisette’s garden. SAMSUNG CSC A local fig tree. I really love figs. SAMSUNG CSCSince day one, we’ve been getting up before eight every morning for breakfast. You know what? This is one of the things I will miss the most–daily fresh bread delivery. The local baker comes around every morning and drops these freshly-baked rolls into the cloth bag that hangs outside our gate. The rolls are kind of like ciabatta on the outside but have a fluffier interior. SAMSUNG CSC Fig jam, tomato jam, quince marmalade, ham, local cheese, butter, fresh bread. And, fresh strong coffee.

The days are long here, the sun strong, the food fresh as can be and we are a couple of happy kids enjoying the tail end of summer. Time to head out for a dip in the river. Then, fishing with Joe’s uncle Antonio who deserves a post of his own.