It's been quite a long time since my last post, but then again I can't say I've been 'travelling' much. Indeed, life in England is pretty much the same; the usual research, MCR, and port and cheese nights...
But port and cheese? Have I got a story for you.
If you ever come to Portugal - and particularly Porto - be sure to try the wine. Then again, you won't really have a chance. I arrived in this beautiful city on Friday, fresh off a 4 hour delay at Gatwick and anxious about my two impending presentations. I checked into the flat I'm renting (if you've never heard of airbnb.com, check it out! You'll never stay in a hotel ever again) only to realise that I brought the wrong electrical socket adapter.
I was off to a great start. Alone. 8:30 pm. No prospect of an electrical tether to the world, and no Portugese on my tongue except Bem-vindo (I saw it in the airport). Telling myself to relax, I forced myself to wander down the street (after looking up 'Falla Inglese?' in a guidebook) to a restaurant the flat owner had recommended. Taberna Santo Antonio. It's funny how the hole-in-the-wall restaurants tend to have the best food, the most local flair... and take the most convincing to set foot in. Memories of China in my mind, in I went. The small restaurant had stone walls, a glass counter, New York pizzeria style paper table cloths, and a coca cola fridge. The walls featured a few old guitars and a couple instruments, a sort of poor-man's take on Hard Rock Cafe. The ceiling was decorated in that cheap plastic frilly bunting you might get for a children's party.... but that's apparently typical here.
I uttered my feeble, poorly rehearsed Falla Inglese to the guy behind the counter, who laughed warmly and ushered me to a table with a smile. I was seated across the aisle from a group having a big dinner party, and I had a prime view of the Portugese soap operas on TV (and eventually "Quem Quer ser Milionario" - who knew that was still on TV?!). The server brought me a small, green, plastic photo frame, in which had been inserted a hand-written menu for the night. He also kindly translated. I don't know what I picked, but it was his recommendation.
Then he asked about a drink. It seemed like a good idea to be in Rome doing what the Romans do, so I ordered a glass of the house red (vinho tinto de casa). Out came the starter.... and a carafe of wine?! Uh oh. It turns out that where in Germany beer is cheaper than water, in Portugal wine is cheaper than water. Fair enough, I have a half bottle of house red in a carafe. Do what the Romans do. As for the starter, I had been warned that Portugal is a country where the things on the table to begin a meal are not complementary, but you don't pay if you don't eat. I was starving, so I didn't care. They were two veal deep fried empanadas, tasty though perhaps slightly cold.
Soon enough (a glass and a few sips to be more precise) out came my meal: deep fried veal cutlet topped with a slice of deli ham, loads of gooey melted cheese, and a fried egg... all of which was swimming in a spicy orange-brown gravy. I admit that it wasn't much to look at in its beige glory (shout out to Dave M), but it was delicious! On the side, I was given a plate of home-cut 'fries', although I hesitate to use that term since they were basically lightly fried potato slices. It was great. The receipt says it's called refeiçao... though that might just mean 'main dish'. Meanwhile, the host - who spoke very good Inglese frequently stopped by to ask how I liked it and to give me a welcoming pat on the back. It wasn't hard, therefore for him to talk me to making the evening a traditional Portugese meal...
And what do I mean by that? Well next came dessert. He promised me it would be the best chocolate mousse I had ever eaten. I don't think he accounted for the fact that I go to Oxford, but nonetheless, the mousse was quite good. It was extraordinarily chocolatey, though I would say it missed the 'best mousse ever' mark based on texture. It was too wet, taking the consistency of unset marshmallow rather than light and airy mousse. I would order it again, but it wasn't quite the best I'd ever had ;-) To complement dessert, it's traditional to also have an espresso, so I obliged when he asked if I was interested. Surprisingly, he didn't only bring out my coffee... but also a square, unmarked bottle of golden liquid with a wooden ladder inside and a large cork in the top. 'Enjoy,' he says, 'with my compliments!'
Opening the cork and smelling the mysterious unlabeled substance confirmed my intuition: brandy. I had read somewhere that the Portugese enjoy a brandy with their dessert so it was less surprising (though very generous) that my host had offered their homemade brandy to me. He left the bottle on my table with a liqueur glass. Three glasses of vinho tinto de casa down, however, I only indulged in one shot of the beautiful golden nectar. And I'm glad I did, because it was fine. Warming, rich and spicy, it was a delightful end to the meal.
So that was the first night in Porto. I returned to the flat to the sound of music and revellers filling the streets, a sound that washed over my flat long, long into the night... but I didn't care. I was in Porto.
****
What's happened since then? I've picked up a socket adapter, learned a few more phrases, and done a fair bit of walking and cycling. On Saturday I perused town, going to a bakery and an open market for some food, checking out the romanesque cathedral and quaint (though hill-laden) city centre, and eating everything. I had dinner at a Portugese tapas place called Trasca... which takes me to another point. If you've heard Portugese before then you might agree that it sounds like someone speaking Spanish with a mouthful of marbles. Most of their s's are to be pronounced as 'sh', so Trasca actually sounds a lot like 'trash can'. The tapas were lovely (bacon-wrapped dates... mmmmm) and the setting was a low lit, hipster, underground bar. It was brilliant.
For Sunday's fun, I rented a bike and went on a 13 mile excursion in search of fresh fish. The neighboring town of Matosinhos is on the Atlantic coast with some great beaches, so I cycled along the river Douro to its end, then followed the coastline north. Arriving in Matosinhos, there is one street behind a typical fenced-off waterfront shipping facility which looked a bit run down. But in front of every door was a non-descript awning and man or two grilling sardines over a non-descript coal-fired barbecue. Sitting down at one such establishment ('Uno... por favor? Falla Inglese?'), I watched as the frantic team of waiters would bring whole, raw fish out to various tables on a platter for the customer to choose between. The waiter would then be seen a couple minutes later walking from the door to the grill area, carrying the aforementioned fish (now gutted) by the gills. Slapping it down on the cutting board by the grill master, the waiter ran back inside without missing a beat. The chef (Perhaps I should say chef/parking attendant because the driveway for the place cut through the middle of the cooking area) would come over, vigorously chop the fish in half, chuck some coarse sea salt all over the place, squeeze two lemons on it, then throw it on the coals. Meanwhile, you'd see him toss a few handfuls of sardines with some sea salt (again, going everywhere) and put those on the grill. Then he'd call a waiter to claim a grilled octopus. You get the idea: organised chaos.
Anyway, my bacalhau a lagareiro - a grilled cod steak with grilled peppers, potatoes, black olives, and onions in oil - finally came out in dramatic fashion. Perhaps it was meant for two to share... but I would not be denied! Sure enough, the fish was moist, flakey, and delicious. Certainly the best I've had in a long time. After cycling back into town and picking up a sun burn on the way, I took a couple hours to stroll across the Ponte Luis I bridge waiting for sunset (of which a photo has been circulating already). The sunset behind the city was stunning, and the weather was perfect for such an evening stroll.
Since then, I've mainly been in the conference. Apparently if one went to a session every slot, they could hit 64 different talks. Thankfully, I did not! Instead, I was grateful for the opportunity to meet with the authors of all the papers I've been reading for three years and discuss my work with them. Oh yeah, we also had the benefit of a fancy tour and dinner at the Ferreira Port Cellar... but perhaps that's something to save for the next story.
I hear jazz out in the streets; time to investigate!