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.

laundry

Towels and sheets snapped in the breeze like prayer flags, from a taut web of twine held up by sticks tethered into many long-legged X's.

follow your nose

As we were studying the gulls at the marina in Vila Nova de Gaia, I suddenly became distracted by the scent of something delicious on the breeze. It was charcoal and fish, and my stomach began to nag me. While Pedro furiously photographed a gull that intrigued him, I began to search the sky above the nearby houses for any trace of smoke. I tried dropping some subtle hints about lunch, but the gull was far too interesting, and all Pedro gave me was an unenthusiastic "mm-hmm".

The idea of barbecued seafood got stuck in my brain, and eventually I declared it was time to eat. The scent had now found its way to Pedro's nose, and off we went in search of its origin.



Though I have a keen sense of smell, it was the smoke that brought us to an unassuming street corner tavern with a grill on the sidewalk and a line of people waiting to get in. With a nod of acknowledgement from a waiter who flew in and out of the building with plates and chilled bottles of wine, we took our place with the other hopefuls, leaning against a pole on the opposite side of the street. It was not long before a table for two opened up inside, and we were crammed in between a jovial group of thirty-somethings and a couple of intimidated Spaniards.

Would we like a salad? Of course. And some wine? Yes please. Yes to the cuttlefish, and yes to the skewers of assorted seafood.



I toyed with the idea of posting an unflattering photo from a series that Pedro took of my happy grin all coated in cuttlefish ink, but I will spare you the horror. It is pretty awesome though, and needless to say, the meal was incredible.



And we weren't done! There was dessert, coffee, and a mysterious xiripiti that the waiter was gleefully pouring into tiny glasses from a three legged can with a spout...



We joyfully swaggered out of the tasca, leaving behind a speedy portrait of the girl at the register, and Pedro's cartoon drawing of me with ink-stained teeth (which you can see in the above photo of the cake). The light was changing, and there were more birds to see.

a walk across the douro

dinner and a doodle

Portugal's paper placemats and tablecloths were meant for restless hands and their pens!

winter light

the prettiest train station

The Estação de São Bento in Porto is the prettiest train station I have seen, with the landscape, culture, and history of Portugal delicately painted on thousands of tiles that cover the walls of its vestibule. This is the work of famed azulejo painter Jorge Colaço, who created this masterpiece in the early 1900s— I was unaware of it at the time, but I had photographed some of his azulejo panels at the Pavilhão Carlos Lopes in Lisbon last year.



It's truly a remarkable space— wonderful for waiting in, while getting lost in your thoughts over a paper cup of coffee.

yellow and blue

My apologies for the silence, I was away and unplugged for a little spell!