Food in Portugal

I've spent more time in Portugal than any other country outside the United States except Germany and perhaps Vietnam, and I've definitely eaten better there than Vietnam. I was married to Herminia (Mimi), a Portuguese lady, for nearly twenty four years, and although the marriage went bust, my taste for Portuguese food remains. The first time I went to Portugal, my (now - ex-)wife's niece took us out to lunch the very first day we were there. We went to a place in Cascais that was somewhat crowded with people who appeared to be on their lunch hour. Mimi and Anabela ordered without letting me have any input, and even when it was served, they wouldn't tell me what it was. On the plate were three tubular shaped things (for lack of a better word) that were stuffed with a combination of something chewy and some chouriço with garlic. Also on the plate was some salad and boiled potato chunks. Immediately, Anabela offered me a small pitcher and told me it was to pour over my potatoes. One taste told me it was a very nicely flavored olive oil. To this day, I prefer olive oil on my boiled potatoes. When it was obvious that I was really enjoying my meal, they told me it was stuffed squid. I chided them both because Mimi especially should have known that I am willing to try almost everything at least once.

That day also happened to be the Friday before the annual Festa de Santo António, or Feast of St Anthony, a Portuguese Saint, and we'd been invited to a family get together in the country. After a brief afternoon nap, Anabela picked us up at our hotel and we went to the party. Now, while Mimi and I had been married for a time, I'd never been to Portugal and had never met any of her family. Well, that night changed it all. There were cousins, aunts, uncles, brothers, sisters, babies, old folks, teenagers and this one American who spoke no Portuguese other than a few phrases. The country home where the party was held was a decent size small villa, about the size of an American ranch-style brick house, only square rather than rectangular, and covered with stucco, and a large back yard, completely surrounded by an 8 foot stucco wall. The ground was mostly bare from grass and tamped firm, but along each side there were two large oak trees from which hung two small wooden barrels. As I was introduced around, one family member or another would hand me a tasty bit, sometimes on plain bread, sometimes a small, rolled-up pastry stuffed with bits of meat, and always, my wine glass was kept full from the barrels hanging in the trees.

As the party moved into the yard, I was approached by two pretty, young ladies of college age, who spoke perfect English, albeit with an accent that suggested London more than New York, Washington or Atlanta. In exchange for telling them about life in my country, they kept me fed. The most interesting course was grilled sardines about the size of the brook trout I used to catch in New Hampshire. The fish is prepare by washing under cold running water to rub away the tougher scales, salted with a heavy salt, and grilled. Note I said nothing about gutting the fish. They don't. You hold the grilled fish by its tail and peel the meat down both sides to a piece of crusty bread. When you've peeled away the meat, there is a small, curled up bit of flesh inside the rib cage, the remnants of what they don't clean by gutting. But - the fish is delicious. Not just tasty, it is delicious. Rich in flavor, decidedly moist, and slightly fishy. Delicious, it is by far my favorite Portuguese meal.

They had been roasting a pig all day and it was the next course. Not unlike our barbecue, but without the sauces that are so common in my country, you just get the smoky, rich goodness. Following that was the only course I didn't like, blood sausage. My mother had liked it but my father apparently didn't and I'd never eaten it until I was an adult. It's not the name that turned me off, it was the taste and texture. I just didn't like it, so to be polite, I ate the serving I was given, but politely declined the offer of seconds. When I'd lived in Germany, I had tried several different types of their Blutwurst, and the Portuguese experience just reinforced my opinion that it was not to my liking.

Once the various meat courses had been finished, out came the sweets. Arroz doce, or sweet rice, a rich pudding made with rice, eggs, milk and a lot of stirring, was an early favorite, along with cakes and pastries of all sorts. Then came the topper. Pastéis de nata, an egg custard pastry that is to die for. Nothing had prepared me for it - were I not stuffed full of red wine and sardines and pork and sausages, I'd have eaten a dozen.

At this time, the fire over which they'd roasted the pig was stoked up, more wood added and the younger children began leaping over it as if it was a traditional game. I was surprised that no adults seem to be paying them much attention, as if they knew what the kids were up to. I found out later that a couple of the older boys were watching pretty closely.

Soon, the fact that we'd spent the entire previous night in an airplane over the Atlantic Ocean became apparent and we started hinting that it was time to go.  We finally got back to our hotel around 3 AM, exhausted.