I descend to the ground to wander down the cobbled, undulating streets and along wide mosaic-floored avenues, awash in a visceral joie de vivre. The light has a startling luminosity, a reflection, they say, of the river, and those hand-painted tiles, azulejos, that the city wears so well. All this vitality, this enervating urban thrust, turns every thought to lunch. Gambrinus (gambrinus lisboa.com) is old-school Portuguese, with stained-glass windows, regal red carpets and waiters in burgundy attire. I eat boiled prawns with the ethereal, fleeting sweetness of the truly fresh and plump clams swimming in parsley-flecked, garlic-infused liqueur. My appetite, barely sated by an uncharacteristically restrained lunch, craves a hit of oily sardines and spicy mackerel fillets. So I stop at Sol e Pesca (solepesca.com), on Cais do Sodré, a tiny restaurant based in an old fishing shop, where rods and reels sit alongside a menu with dozens of varieties of canned fish. It’s the Smithsonian of metal-encased swimmers. Now suitably full, my trousers stained with oil, I traipse through the various floors of the Museu Nacional de Arte Antiga (museudearteantiga.pt), lost in the sheer wealth, breadth and wonder of Portugal’s past. The panels of St Vincent; baroquely breathtaking silverware; Ming porcelain and Indo-Portuguese ivory; mother-ofpearl-inlaid Indian caskets; a Bosch triptych, with Christ bleeding on the cross, and St Sebastian, his body punctured by spears in Gregório Lopes‘s depiction of his martydom. Blood, Catholicism and the golden, bejewelled spoils of a vast Indian and Brazilian empire. Dusk is draped over the city when I stop at A Taberna da Rua das Flores (+351 213 479 418), long and narrow, and devour scallops wrapped in crisp, smoky bacon, and salt cod, the ingredient that fuelled a thousand ships, formed into fritters, crisp and softly saline. A glass of vinho verde, then on to dinner proper, a wonderful taste of an old Indian colony, Goa, at Cantinho Da Paz (+351 213 901 963). Pork vindaloo, rich with cloves, sharp with vinegar, hot with peppers, is a dish in which old Europe meets the subcontinent. The Portuguese introduced chillies to India, of course. A mouthful tells a tale of exploration far better than any dreary old book. I awake the next morning to the blissful baritones of a strolling male choir. Quite why they’re there, I don’t know. But this is Lisbon, a city where the extraordinary seems commonplace. I’m meeting Prates at her store, 39a, a cavernous space surrounded by modern Portuguese creativity in its every form: surfboards, bicycles, jewellery, clothes. “It’s an open gallery of ideas,” she says as she points out the work of local artists adorning the walls. She’s glamorous and garrulous, with a deep, throaty laugh. “We’re a small country but one known for our quality and craftsmanship. We just need to sell ourselves more to the outside world.” On the way to lunch (and all roads in Portugal lead to lunch or dinner), we talk of the difference between Lisbon and Porto, up north. “The money is up north. Down here we spend it.” Prates smiles. “In the north,” she says, “people are more traditional. In Porto, they work. In Lisbon, we dance.” We stop by Maison Nuno Gama (nunogama.pt), the headquarters of the eponymous and revered Portuguese fashion designer. Handsome and eloquent, with a neatly trimmed beard, he incorporates Portuguese flags into the lining of his suits. And the Galo de Barcelos, that famed Portuguese rooster, the saviour of an innocent man, looms large. One T-shirt has the brightly coloured bird crafted from leather and studded, like a fetish thong. Lunch is at Bairro do Avillez (bairrodoavillez.pt), the newest project of the famed chef and restaurateur José Avillez. He’s modest and softly spoken, despite having seven restaurants and nearly 300 staff. “My biggest influence is the sea,” he says. “That and flavour, flavour, flavour.” We eat spankingfresh horse mackerel wrapped in nori and silken hams from rarebreed pigs. “Like fashion and craft, food artisans are learning how to sell their product,” he says between bites. “We need to tell the story of suppliers. To get it out, to sell it.” Avillez and I are meeting up later for dinner at Belcanto (belcanto.pt), his two-Michelin-star flagship. But first, I walk to the Strada Rosa, the old red-light district down by the river, with yellow-painted bridges and pale-pink streets. The large market Mercado da Ribeira (timeoutmarket .com) has had a face-lift after being taken over by Time Out publishing group. Fish, meat, bookshops, florists and fruit. Plus casual restaurants of every hue. I eat percebes (gooseneck barnacles), which resemble dinosaur feet, at Marisqueira Azul (+351 211 318 599), their softly phallic flesh possessed with the very spirit of the Atlantic. As I twist them open, they gush juice across my front. Religion next, lavish and lovely, at the Mosteiro dos Jerónimos (mosteirojeronimos.pt), with honeyed cloisters and delicate arches where the monks once prayed for sailors, as well as the soul of the king. Then through the western portal of Igreja Santa Maria de Belém (mosteiro jeronimos.pt), where Gothic moves into Renaissance, with those intricately carved columns and the tombs of Vasco da Gama and the poet Camões, the two great pillars of Portugal’s past. I stop by Antiga Confeitaria de Belém (pasteisdebelem.pt) to buy pastéis de belém, those legendary custard tarts. Avillez had told me that 90% of these sweets started in the monasteries. Egg whites were used to stiffen clothes and filter wines, leaving a glut of lonely yolks, perfectly suited to the richest of cakes. These tarts are fittingly divine, with flaky, crisp pastry and a lasciviously wobbling, slightly scorched egg custard. On to the Torre de Belém (torrebelem.gov.pt). Built to defend the city’s harbour in 1515, the tower is, according to my wise guide, Fernando, the physical embodiment of saudade. “The last thing you see sailing out, the first you see coming back in,” as Fernando points out. “We’re not conquerors, like the Spanish, but discoverers.” Ah, the sea. At Cervejaria Ramiro (cervejariaramiro.pt), a famed beer-andseafood joint with queues even at five in the afternoon, there’s no pomp or pretence, rather paper-covered tables, cold Sagres beer on tap, and live crustaceans and bivalves awaiting their bubbling fate. Football blares from televisions in the corner, and white-shirted waiters scurry manically about. I eat a pair of huge carabinero prawns the size of my hand and suck the sweet, mildly fetid juices from the head. Sublime. Then delicately striped shrimp, sweet as morning dew, and a prego roll – fillet steak cooked rare, slathered with pungent mustard and chilli oil, and crammed into a crusty roll. A sandwich of greatness in a restaurant of simple brilliance. Night falls once more, and I meet Avillez at Mini Bar (minibar. pt). It’s dimly lit and discreetly sexy. As we eat chicken skin with spicy avocado, we discuss the financial crisis of 2008 to 2010. “The people were sad. But the football was good!” he says. “Porto was always a city of commerce and work. In Lisbon we have our 88 CENTURION-MAGAZINE.COM
Clockwise from left: Lisbon’s beautiful Antiga Confeitaria de Belém, where the famous pastéis de belém (custard tarts) are made; canned fish wrapped in paper, from Conserveira de Lisboa; shadow play on Rua Cor-de-Rosa (Pink Street) CENTURION-MAGAZINE.COM 89
