Last day in Porto. You might think that lights a fire under our butts – there are only 50 amazing things we haven’t seen yet. But our tanks are already full and the desire to explore further is slaked by the conviction that we will return, hopefully many times. Our previous day’s exploits still fresh in our minds, it’s another day to do only what feels natural. For myself, that means a riverside run; for Stasia a chance to crush some chapters in her new books and catch up with friends.
The Way of Water
Porto in springtime appears to be a grab bag of weather conditions, which is to say, prepare for rain. You’re welcome to look at the forecast but you’d be remiss in trusting it. I actually do hope for a drizzle today. The cool air and chance of precipitation make it prime jogging weather, so with a kiss to my sweetheart, I’m out the door and weaving through trams, tourists, and tiled terraces, the Douro whispering “I’m here, waiting for you“.
No need for maps, gravity dictates my direction, and as long as I keep descending I can pick and choose which street to take at random. I am feeling a touch conspicuous jogging about the old city – it’s not the right place for it. People are out, and other than the occasional young backpacker, they’re all looking good, as in well-dressed… which is the normal state of affairs here.
This would be a good time to bore you with an interesting observation, so pardon me as I step up onto this soapbox right here.
Aesthetics matter
Generally speaking – and at the risk of sounding judgy – the dress code is higher here (and in much of Europe I’m told) than, let’s say, where I come from. You just don’t see as much around-the-house stuff being worn in public – like wrinkly old t-shirts, gym clothes, pajamas, sagging pants, and skin-tight leggings. It seems that men and women dress more like grownups here. Putting in the effort and seeing others look nice is a way of showing respect and makes one want to take better care of a place – which may explain why we’re not seeing trash on the streets.
The long and winding shore
I’ve found the waterfront and it has a nice, paved lane. I rejoice in the proliferation of other joggers. Here’s where they all are! Under 3 of the 7 bridges I shamble, stopping on occasion to pocket some souvenirs through my camera lens. The confluence of old world and new development, public art, and illustrative graffiti are all of interest.
Cruel mistress
… All the mothers
Fernando Pessoa, Portuguese Sea
Who had to weep for us to cross you!
All the sons who prayed in vain!
All the brides-to-be who never
Married for you to be ours, O sea!
I finally reach the westernmost tip of Porto, the mouth of the mighty Douro, and I see why earlier civilizations were trepidatious about venturing westward. The sea here is a beautifully cold and cruel mistress, pounding the shores, and presenting quite a daunting prospect to wayward adventurers. Barrier breakers provide protection and visual drama, like garrisons holding back an invading horde.
Growing up in California, the ocean has always been a tranquil place with playful little waves tussling under a serene sky. It is called the Pacific after all. The Polyponesians catamaranned all over the thing and while that was no doubt an incredible feat, I can’t imagine them having the same experience here. One look at the thrash and I’ve completely forgotten my initial goal of jumping in the water. No wonder these shores are home to international surf competitions and shit like this – the world’s record set just last year a couple hours south from here.
Nope, I think those suntanned pontoons would be smashed to pieces out here.
Hamburgueria do Mercado
I wander in town a bit and find a delightful place to grab a bite. It’s a delicious approximation of a burger and fries. Visiting pigeons edge close and while I snake out my phone to capture this moment, one makes a break for it and grabs a couple fries, cheeky little bastard.
Back on the road and suddenly I’ve had enough. The mood is shifting and it’s hot and dry. The inner roads no longer offer the sweet surrounds my seafaring prequel offered… and suddenly there it is – a pick-up-and-ride electric scooter rental on the street right in front of me. It’s a wonderous age of technology we live in and I am able to download an app and kick off in style – the pavement whizzing by with no effort from me whatsoever.
This is fun but I know myself too well. Zipping around traffic with no helmet is a bad idea and I never get away with anything. Before I tempt the fates much further, I find a place to park and hail an Uber to whisk me back home, where I find Stasia grooving with her watercolors in the airy, spring afternoon.
Foodie fantástica
There is thingy tonight we’re looking forward to. A gastronomy workshop at a local’s house where we’ll prepare a three-course meal over drinks and tapas. It’s exactly the kind of thing you’d be itching to do if you were us. I’m a bit tapped out and withered from my grand outing, so I shower, down an espresso, small glass of port, an ibuprophen and finally alot of water. I’m ready.
Nuno the Culinarian
Our culinary collaborator tonight is Nuno, a lovely local Portian whose made a living out of giving these cooking classes for visiting gourmands, sometimes twice a day. Speaking as someone who puts in an hour or two in daily food preparation, that is a lot of work! He’s not classically trained but very astute in the ways of Lusidian gastronomy.
He has a full schedule planned for us which you can sense from a certain immediacy in his energy. It’s not an easy job – to be host and teacher and historian and friend with so much to do and a finite time to do it. He shares his house with others, so keeping on track is important lest the evening sprawl into the shared hours.
After introductions and a tour of his herb garden, a delicious Douro red is poured, and we jump into tapas. A chouriço is sliced (3/4 through), placed upon a special cooking dish and set on the table followed by a plate of local sheep and goat cheeses which will soon fulfill its destiny with a basket of assorted freshly baked loaves. A bowl is brought out and we combine olives, oil, minced garlic, oregano, coarse salt, pepper, and a bay leaf. Another sausage, the very same one mentioned in a previous post employed by Jews to avoid the Inquisition, is tossed without oil into a pan to brown. Stasia heats a quantity of olive oil in a pan then adds a couple dozen whole chili peppers, which sizzle and blister beautifully – moments later poured into a bowl and dusted with salt.
Fogo Stasia começou
Wines in hand, we’re ready to taste the fruits of our labors, which are all, of course, delicious but there’s a dramatic presentment. Nuno pours some moonshine into the trough under the chouriço, gives my girl a lighter, and ‘poof’, the sausage sizzles in a table-top bonfire. We are delighted by this theatrical way of cooking socially – fire in every form is a central gathering point, a reference all humans can relate with.
O fogo is visited upon us again with the surprisingly spicy Piri Piri condiment. I can’t speak highly enough about this stuff – super hot and super tasty. Stasia and I employ it liberally, being the heat lovers we are.
Round 1 down the gullet, it’s time to get dessert prepped so it can chill and be ready when we need it. Tonight’s offering is a special crème brûlée. We separate egg yolks (and learn that creme dishes like this resulted from an abundance of yolks leftover from a time when egg whites were used as a starching agent for clothing). Stasia mixes yolk and sugar, then milk and cornstarch. Combined over direct heat (no double boiler here) with a cinnamon stick and dash of vanilla, we wait for the telltale boil bubbles before dishing it out into serving bowls and putting aside for later.
Here comes something amazing – a big bag of fresh clams just begging to get bathed in onion, garlic, wine, lemon juice (+ slices), and oil – which being their friends we happily accommodate. They then tell us they’re ready by opening and we’re off to the table again. WOW. Simple and elementally delicious, we devour them all and sop up that unctuous broth with the bread, washing it all down with a sparkly green wine, also from Douro.
Course three commences and I couldn’t be more excited to see Stasia filleting an ocean bream for the first time. She murders it completely in true Sicilian fashion. The pride in her countenance is priceless! She salt/peppers the filets and gets a hot pan started. Meanwhile, I am tearing fresh cod directly into the onion/garlic/water/tomato/rice concoction we just threw on. As I rip and shred the fish flesh, Nuno grabs a bit and tosses it into his mouth and I do the same. It’s so delicious and I love raw moments like that. Returning to the table, we eat the bream and cod rice with plenty of green wine.
It’s fantastic and we’ve already eaten three times as much as we ever do at 8pm, but we’re not done yet. Out comes a sort of concentric circle branding iron. Brown sugar is spread across the top of the pudding and Stasia brûlées with great effect.
Nuno was cautious not to add too much sugar in the recipe so it’s not very sweet, but soothing and light despite being 6 egg yolks.
The universal language
This has all transpired through constant instruction and storytelling. After an espresso and feeling the effects of wine, community, and full bellies the conversation jumps to art/music and YET AGAIN, we find this is THE thing that brings people together. When Nuno learns we are familiar with some of his more obscure references, the conversation moves to a merry road of band-sharing, name-dropping, and connection-making, meeting some of his passing roommates along the way.
It’s a complete experience, cooking with our new friend. Plus, kitty time!
We learn so much that it’s difficult to remember it all, but there are a couple stories and one quote, in particular, we’ll never forget.
The Portuguese people use the word ‘Fuck’ like a comma.
Nuno the Culinarian
The Itinerant Three TnTs 
So entertaining ! So is most of your communication with locals in Portuguese or English? I’m surprised that you find so much in common. Thank you internet.
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We try to use Portuguese in public and for certain phrases it feels natural but mostly when we can use English, we do. Everyone like Nuno and our other contacts speaks excellent English.
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