the badalhoca

Pedro was hell-bent on finding a specific little sandwich joint on our way out of Porto, and I certainly wasn't about to get in the way of this— especially when he mentioned that the ceiling was lost above a forest of hanging legs of ham. But it was the name that excited me most: Tasca da Badalhoca, which roughly translates to "Tavern of the Dirty Lady". Who was this Badalhoca? Would she be there? Would she serve her sandwiches with a salty comment and a sneer? That was a lot of alliteration.

As we stepped into the tight, dark entrance of the tasca, a greasy ham leg smacked Pedro on the head— he wasn't exaggerating about the ceiling. We walked up to a counter crammed with all manner of pork, and I suddenly became aware of the fact that the only other female in the joint was the Badalhoca herself, who was busy at work stirring a pot of something which smelled of pepper and garlic. Burly men on their lunch breaks hunched over plates piled with sandwiches, and swigged what appeared to be fizzy rosé from glass mugs.  

"I want that", I whispered in Pedro's ear.

We started with an innocent presunto sandwich and a couple of pasteis de bacalhau, but inevitably descended into the piglet and blood sausage. There was an egg involved too, but my goodness, that blood sausage...



Sure, we were guilty of a touch of gluttony and received a snickering from the Badalhoca as we kept popping back up to the counter, but she understood. She knows. These are the best damn sandwiches I have ever had. I told her so, and got a great smile.

sausage

As I have mentioned several times in the past, when visiting a non-Muslim country, I get a little pork-crazy. The first night we were in Zagreb, we headed out to look for some of that other white meat, and found a nice little restaurant hidden in an alley. I have no idea where it was or what it was called, but they brewed their own beer and had a mean sausage. The beer was fantastic, and I wish I had remembered where the place was so we could have gone back.

I was delighted to discover that Zagreb is a city that offers sausages from stands on the street— one of the best things to keep that stomach silent when you are wandering about town. Really, what's better than a delicious sausage shoved into a cylindrical bread filled with mustard? You can also accompany this yummy treat with some hot spiced wine, which is a wonderful thing in winter.

more pork

It was about that time when a good dose of pork was necessary. Some of you are already aware of the posts I have dedicated to my love for pork, and that I have become a regular smuggler of bacon, presunto, and various sausages when returning from a non-Muslim country. I will even shamelessly ask Pedro to carry some in as well, which he kindly does. So when in Spain, one must indulge in some jamón and assorted Spanish pork sandwiches. I realise now that the sandwiches in the foreground do not reveal a hint of the goodness inside, as I photographed them from above, but trust me when I say that the mysterious pork purée slathered inside was absolutely wonderful.

As usual, I was struck with food envy, and though I thoroughly enjoyed what I had ordered, I needed to try the sandwich with whisky sauce that also came to the table— so I ordered my own.



Oh my goodness.

three lunches

These may look like scrambled eggs, but they are oh so much more. It's asparagus season in Portugal, and every so often along the side of the road, crude little stands laden with fresh green asparagus tempt the eye and belly. After a visit to a heron colony (where I delighted in watching Spoonbills preening) we stopped for something asparagusy at Café do Parque in Benavente. Eggs scrambled with the little green spears sounded like a perfect lunch, with a plate of river shrimp to accompany them.

These were the most amazing eggs I have had in my life. Ever.

Until this moment, the best eggs were a buttery scramble I devoured in Prague, but these... oh man. I have no idea what was put into them (other than the asparagus), but the flavour was unreal. These were magical eggs, with the ability to transport you from your current state of being into a blissful hum. I longed for more at the very last bite, but settled for the salty sweet river shrimp, which were pleasing, but those eggs!



At the end of our meal we met the chef and his wife, who, after hearing the compliments we bestowed upon her husband, stated with a grin: "I tasted his food, and I had to marry him." They invited us to sit for a spell, and offered us both a taste of some fine, homemade firewater. I felt so at home, so touched by their kindness.

In contrast with the warmth at Café do Parque, our second lunch brings us to a bustling café in Vendas Novas, the self-proclaimed capital of the bifana. I've hardly touched upon my deep love for the bifana— steaks of pork hammered into tenderness, fried in butter and garlic, then slipped between two pillowy halves of bread. With some squirts of tangy sweet mustard, happiness is yours. You can practically taste the bifana effect on your waistline in each bite, and I can tell you from personal experience that a bifana a day will surely round you out in no time. Back in January, Pedro and I began a scientific search for the most delicious bifana in Portugal. We had at least one each, every day, and by the time I got back to Istanbul, my pants refused to button.

Naturally, when I heard about this "Capital of Bifanas," we had to test the goods. I forget the name of the café— as every single one in Vendas Novas advertised their famous sandwiches as being the best. We picked the busiest one and eventually managed to get a table, gluttonously ordering two each for comparison purposes. While the pork was ever so soft and juicy, there was no hint of garlic whatsoever. I'm not Portuguese, but to me, a bifana without garlic is a little sad. Everything else was lovely— the bread was soft, the meat was perfection, but I missed the garlic...



Our third lunch takes us to the Castro in Castro Verde, where we dined on more pork (some of you may remember my ferocious appetite for the other white meat from this earlier post on pork) and  migas. Migas are comfort on a plate— a squishy crumble of softened bread cooked in lard, and since it was aparagus season, the migas we ordered came with hints of green. Paired with pork that melts in the mouth and a lovely green wine, I found myself eating ever so slowly to make the meal last longer. I really don't remember much about the dessert— I know it was good, but oh how I can still conjure up that delicate flavour and cosiness of the migas in my mind.
 


You really do eat well in Portugal.

the portuguese boil

I can't think of a better way to start 2013 than being with a warm and kind family at a table heaped with delicious food. How lucky am I? I was warned in advance that the New Year's Day feast, known only as The Boil, would involve copious amounts of meat— but I never imagined this:



The Portuguese don't mess around with food. Nor with portions, as you can see from the above photographs. Our dear hostess, with a little mischievous grin, generously piled my plate high, in spite of my previous moaning about the growing pudginess of my belly. Suddenly I felt like I was in Lebanon, with my aunties lovingly creating architectural masterpieces upon my plate. Food that comes from the heart is the most divine— and goodness, do you feel cared for with each spoonful.  

The Boil, includes a variety of Portuguese sausages including chouriço de sangue, and the tasty but deadly farinheira. Then there's the boiled pork, cured pork, pig ears, rice cooked in pork fat, the beef, beans, boiled potatoes, cabbage and carrots. Bread. Wine. Lots of wine.

It's amazing.



But wait— there's more! Following the main part of the meal (oh and I forgot to mention the shrimp and presunto appetizers): roasted chestnuts, fruit (to cut the fat of the meat), coffee, and ginjinha. I was deliriously happy and full, and feared this meant I would be a lousy co-pilot on our road trip to the interior, which was to begin shortly.

Sleep was descending heavily...

pork

When you live in a Muslim country or any country where the pig is not a typical source of food, the thought of sinking your teeth into "the other white meat" becomes a bizarre obsession. You begin to find yourself asking people you barely know who are heading to Budapest on holiday to smuggle back some sausage between the folds of clothes in their suitcase— and anyone who brings a package of bacon in from the outside suddenly becomes everyone's best friend. Meat in general, does not move me the way an avocado or ripe persimmon does, and I rarely eat it— but when something is inaccessible or ridiculously out of your price range (a measly little packet of bacon is around 20 lira at a major supermarket— and alternatively that same 20 lira can get you kilos of beautiful veggies), you start to develop a craving. It's the old forbidden fruit cliché; so when you're in a country which celebrates the pig and its meat, you can yourself, get a little piggish.

I don't think the photos do justice to the enormity of the platter of pork— it was a serious mound. A Tasca do Careca, which translates to "The Inn of the Bald-headed Man," is a little local joint in Vila do Bispo in the Algarve. You'll dine on simple, tasty Portuguese food, surrounded by some odd décor choices (colourful football-related stuff, for some reason combined with wooden and porcelain phalluses). It's the kind of place where you feel you'd better finish your meal or hang your head in shame— no wimps allowed.



It took us two hours to conquer the mound of pork— and from time to time, a bald-headed man who may well be the namesake of the little restaurant, popped out to check the progress of his diners. Unlike the table of Dutch tourists next to us, we were determined to finish every scrap on the platter, and as you can see from the above picture, we succeeded. Then, there was mention of a certain orange cake.

It took a lot of determined coaxing from Pedro for me to believe that this cake was necessary, as the waistband of my pants began to dig into my belly— but we were in Portugal, and there was this orange cake that I simply must try...



It was gorgeous, and went well with the post-gluttony coffee and local firewater, medronho, which I am told is 'unlady-like' to imbibe. We left with a little swagger and a slow stride, our stomachs tipping off our balance— but at least our heads were held high!

should your stomach groan...

I have always been swayed by the salty rather than the sweet— and my goodness, does Portugal offer some tasty salty snacks! Meet three of my favourites:

Pastéis de bacalhau e ginjinha– that's codfish cakes and a spot of cherry liqueur. Next to preserving and pickling, the next best thing to do with a fish is to make a cake out of it. Ok, I exaggerate— I love fish in all forms of culinary creativity, but there is something so satisfying in a fishcake. The traditional ginjinha is a wonderful touch, something I could thoroughly enjoy on a regular basis.

And now my friends, behold the bifana:



A heap of tender pork steak, dripping flavour into its humble bun, mustard flowing carelessly over the mounds... Oh yes....

Lately I find myself craving bifanas— but in a country where pork is hard to come by without busting your wallet or trekking to some mysterious Armenian butcher shop, all I have are memories and a groaning belly.



Clockwise from the top in this lovely little box of goodies, we have fine examples of rissóis de leitão, rissóis de camarão, and pastéis de bacalhau— that's a pastry with piglet, a fried turnover with shrimp, and the omnipresent codfish cake. Though I intensely loved every crumb of all three snacks, only one them sprouted the roots of an obsession within me: the rissóis de camarão. The dough was delightfully crispy with the creamiest shrimp filling— so sweet and... shrimpy? I found myself casually seeking them out behind every glass counter, even indulging in its lesser airport version.

I must learn to make them...