English Version | Unlikely flavors? Try them!

18 Jul 2023
By Nuno Miguel Dias

On my summer vacations, under the scorching sun of Ermidas do Sado, my grandfather always took me with him to the meal. He would pick the best, we would sit in the shade of the fig tree, he would take a piece of bread out of the taleggio (a cloth bag with embroidery that read, curiously, "bread"), he would open the razor that he always carried in his pocket and we would have lunch. When I say this to "modern" people, I always get an astonished "Melon with bread?" from those who give €10 for a melon with ham in rooftop restaurants.

On my summer vacations, under the scorching sun of Ermidas do Sado, my grandfather always took me with him to the meal. He would pick the best, we would sit in the shade of the fig tree, he would take a piece of bread out of the taleggio (a cloth bag with embroidery that read, curiously, "bread"), he would open the razor that he always carried in his pocket and we would have lunch. When I say this to "modern" people, I always get an astonished "Melon with bread?" from those who give €10 for a melon with ham in rooftop restaurants.

Finally, and after so many years of browsing social media with posts of absolutely unnecessary information, songs that nobody wants to hear, complaints about poor service, indirect poor service, hints to ex-girlfriends, and pictures of green wristbands in hospital waiting rooms, I went viral. A photo shared to exhaustion, usurped by others to the point that it is no longer possible to know its origin, which was the camera of my cell phone. It's every teenager's dream (or anyone of any age with too much time on their hands), right? Everything leads me to believe so. Because having never happened to me, I was accompanied by an exacerbated glee, a good warmth in my belly, even a facial cramp or two from the smile that did not fade even when that aselha made the traffic circle from the outside (and if there is one thing that takes me out of my mind it is traffic circles made from the outside, as hundreds of angry posts on my networks attest),

I even lost my mind and decided to give an unjust €7 for the worst bitoque ever in the neighborhood café, which is so bad and so constant that it has become chronic and requires the consumption of an even worse wine. This goes back to the reason why my post went viral, a scandalous photo. Let's put it in perspective: St. Anthony's night in Lisbon. Which in itself is promising when it comes to very low standards. Yes, we know we're going to get ripped off and pay a lot of money for half a dozen frozen sardines (by then, sardines are usually still thin and dry) while we wander around a city that sees June as its golden goose, with all the opportunism and dishonesty that goes with it.

What we don't expect is that there will be someone who, in a restaurant on Rua de São Paulo, between Ribeira and Bica, asks for his dose of sardines to be accompanied by fries. Worse, no one expects the establishment to comply with the request with a naturalness that, to me, was pornographic. I believe that is precisely where the problem lies. The servility that prostitutes us. And which is turning Lisbon into a Magaluf, a Benidorm on spring break, or worse, a Rua do Ouro in the 90s. There is absolutely no antipathy in replying: "The sardine comes with boiled potatoes and bell pepper salad", just like that, without an apology. No one is judging those who, on a whim or taste dysfunction (yes, there is a little judgment here, but it is mine and I assume it), order fries to accompany a Portuguese gastronomic bastion.

And homemade ones, not the pre-frozen ones, at such an ideal frying point that they were wasted there instead of standing, like queens, next to a roast chicken or a steak with cerveza sauce. No one explained, with the righteous eyebrow of the deep connoisseur, that the sardines are eaten on a slice of bread (Alentejo, Saloio, or broa) which, in the end, moist from so much fish belly squeezed there, marries perfectly with the last sip of red wine. Would you like to accompany sardines with white rice? With Doritos? With goji berries? Do it. But at home! On one of the sea voyages my father undertook to earn a living, the ship broke down and he was forced to stay in a shipyard in Rotterdam, delaying his long-awaited return home by almost a month. When it happened, I didn't recognize him. He had put on a good 10 kg. To save the money he was entitled to, he had been eating all that time at McDonald's, something that, in the distant 80s, was only available in American films advertised on the gigantic posters that covered the facade of the Condes cinema. For him, it was bush. He also often talked about New York pizzas, while I drooled and waited for these delicacies to arrive in backward Portugal. Until they did. And that man, from Alentejo who had traveled the world, accompanied the poor copies of Telepizza with... bread. Strange? Not for him. Bread is life. And life without bread, I know today, can very well be lived, but under a cloak of immense sadness and a chronic lack of energy (due to the absence of carbohydrates) that does not allow us to "be to love", sometimes even literally. I'm talking about pizza because it is the owner of one of humanity's greatest divisions, which divides those who can't conceive of having pineapple and those who even eat them with chocolate. For now, we have the right to elitize the discourse a little to decree that pineapple is only found in the Azores. Everything else is pineapple. It's not our fault that the English don't understand any of this and that for them it's all "pineapples." Then, and taking what resulted in a viral publication (the demeaning photo of a platter of roasted sardines covered in French fries), which was only possible not because someone asked for it but because someone granted that request, we come to the passionate Naples, the homeland of pizza. Being today a mere shadow of what made it famous, it is of course possible to order what has come to be called a Hawaiian or Tropical Pizza without being butchered, limbs divided by several bags, and distributed to different garbage dumps and pig farms across Campania. But there will be a sneer of disdain before the firm and resounding "NO."

No matter how much you ask, gesticulate, or groan, no Neapolitan restaurant will put pineapple on a pizza. No establishment in Rome will make a carbonara with cream instead of eggs just because someone is allergic (ask for amatriciana, cacio e pepe or coda alla vaccinara). No Marseillais chef will put cod in his bouillabaisse, no Andalusian will make a paella with basmati rice and no Greek salad can see the feta cheese swapped for whatever the diner prefers. In short, no one who has respect for their cuisine, which is a very important expression of their culture and an unshakeable reflection of their identity, will allow anyone to disregard it in such a discourteous way. Without wishing to enter into allegories, the truth is that time, that great advisor, has already proven to us that when these small pleasures are carried out, which we think are mere reflections of our friendliness and hospitality, we open a door. And an open door lets in much more than just what we want. Now a mere shadow of what made it famous, it is of course possible to ask for what is called PE - an open door lets in much more than just what you want. And when there are a lot of people coming in and out, you might as well put a red light on the threshold and call it "Joan's House." Because that's what it's all about. And we don't even prostitute ourselves, which would be a personal decision and therefore one that no one would have any say in. Except that the issue here is pimping. Because what we are doing is handing out a priceless legacy on a platter to be desecrated at the will of the customer. It all started, and notwithstanding the legend that speaks of a certain Brás who lived in Bairro Alto, when someone thought that the Spaniards who flooded Lisbon for Easter, in love with cod and unable to say no to anything that has huevos revueltos, would like the mistela, a little olive here, chopped parsley there. And they did. Only in good Portuguese: "Bacalhau is either boiled or roasted or spoiled." The same happened in the city of Porto, which doesn't know when a croque-monsieur with sauce surpassed Tripas in popularity, Bacalhau à Gomes de Sá, Sopa Seca, Biscoitos de São João or Ovos Charutos. "The tent was set up" and today it is Pastéis de Bacalhau with a mountain cheese filling, as if it were a chicken drumstick and as if Catupiri were in Covilhã. It's carob Berlin balls filled with Nutella, dulce de leche (which in European Portuguese is boiled condensed milk), strawberry jam, apple jam, in short, anything that serves to bring our beach food bastion closer to a mere donut in a box that tops a sheriff's desk in any series. You may not believe it, but from naivety like this to sardines with fries is a bit of a leap.

It's a fun exercise, to say the least, one that leads us to imagine what flavors we would never dare to combine. We just can't do it during a meal, for the risk of losing our appetite. I can suddenly imagine vanilla ice cream with cauliflower pickles, mayonnaise to spread on a stuffed palmier, mustard to cover a pastel de nata, ketchup to "season" coffee, or opening a can of tuna to go with cornflakes. Now for the best part. The one where the highly unlikely combinations surprise us for good. And this invariably takes me back to that day when I met up with my "ridondeiros" friends, i.e. from Redondo (not Redondo) who had just performed, with their cante, alongside the underrated and perhaps even forgotten bros Janita and Vitorino. Of course, we had to have a drink. Just as it is clear that, as Alentejans, you can't drink without eating. The only possible solution, given the scarcity of supply, was beer with fractures. Strange, isn't it? For me, yes. For them, for whom Spain is "already there", it is customary to drink a caña (imperial in a small glass) with churros. I can only say that the contrast of sugar and cinnamon with the bitterness lent by hops (which are used in the brewing process, usually during the boiling of the wort, to balance the sweetness coming from the malt) filled me up. Not denying, in advance, an unknown science, a wise phrase of Alcina Lameiras, an astrologer contactable, in the 90s, by 0641 133 133 (cost per minute 202$70), was what led me to eat, in Thailand, and a single night, ants, silkworms, frogs, grasshoppers, and cockroaches. Which I paired, of course, with some Singha beers (especially during the cockroach tasting).

But it's also what led to the creation of supposed delicacies that are now nothing strange. Let's hear it for those who dared to market a chocolate bar with chili. Or dipping a slice of fried bacon in chocolate, so that the contrast of salty and sweet would amaze so many people. A big slainte mhor (the toast in Gaelic) to the Scotsman who decided to "wrap" a hard-boiled egg in fresh sausage meat and then breaded and fried it, thus creating the Scotch Egg. A hearty cheer to the American who had nothing in the fridge but peanut butter and jelly and created the now classic peanut butter and jelly sandwich. More modern creators have given free rein to their imagination and, in recent years, creations have appeared that have "caught on" in such a way that however strange it may seem to us now, they will not be long in coming to Portuguese lands (read here first). Examples are the Sushi Burrito (sushi ingredients rolled into a burrito), the Cronut (a puff pastry donut identical to the croissant), Chicken and Waffles (yes, the very southern KFC-style fried chicken accompanied by sweet waffles), the Banoffee Pie (banana and salted caramel pie), the Spaghetti Ice Cream (vanilla ice cream pressed through a spaghetti machine with strawberry sauce topping and white chocolate flakes, so that we are reminded of tomato sauce and parmesan cheese) or the Ramen Burger (the "bun" of the burger is made with ramen noodles), all are eccentricities for little open minds and more conservative palates. I, for example, who eat everything so that I can then give my opinion (and increase my abdominal circumference), opine that I refuse to eat Rancho Beirão because I think the pasta ruins my chickpeas. That's just a quirk.

Translated from the original on The [Un]Popular Issue, published July 2023.Full stories and credits on the print issue.

 

Nuno Miguel Dias By Nuno Miguel Dias

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