Bacalhau & Blue Tiles

Ode to an ugly fish
Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and here at the Salty Cod we all abide by the same truth that the bacalhau is a fish of personality, and perhaps taste second. Personality and power, the little bugger has weaseled into this writers life enough to in one way or another lead her on a trip to a land where it is consumed like candy. The fish and blue tiles were my quest, one physical beauty and the other the beauty of notion. We wrap up the Portugal series with a note on this pivotal poisson; its importance to the Portuguese, to history, and to this crazy fish follower. 8 nights, 8 different dishes. Salty Cod readers, for the first time, I finally give you the cod fish.

For fear of fatuguiging you, my frail friends, 8 dishes will not be explained. I lie--you are my scapegoat, I merely cannot remember the names of all that I ate. But let us attempt. My first night in Porto I recall somewhat of a haze, alright I am here, I can do this, what am I doing what am I doing...dinner. Go find cod. The first bacalhau of Portugal was bacalhau com nada, meaning cod in a cream and cheese cassolette. Yes cheese and cream. Screw macaroni & cheese you have not tried this dish. Stew may appear filling, but this puts you in a coma. The half bottle of wine may have helped.

Day two: after accumulating two fellow solo travelers, Georgetown and Donut, we pass a rainy Porto evening at a port wine tasting bar tous ensembles, where believe it or not the language of the day was German. Donut, a Portland, Oregon native (go P. Northwest go!) is passing a year in Germany with a family as a stage year between high school and college, not that I have been looking for a surrogate sibling to replace my baby sister of the same age, but I now have a little brother in Porkland town, and a fellow jesu-what student at Georgetown. Pork, pork, the charming bar tender and wine expert (he is shortly off to a wine training school) was kind enough to not only give us free tapas (chouette!) for my eccentricity (I can not stay seated long when I have questions), but also a direction to his favorite restaurant of vrai Oporto cuisine--the Grémio doe Leitões, or what I rename the Couchonerie.

Reading the explication blurb on the menu (in French of course as I am a language snob) of the restaurant whose omnipresent decor is indeed a cute bubbling little bouncing pig (mmmm) in the form of statuettes, paintings, assiettes, and what have you, I become familiarized with the house specialty without too much effort: whole roasted suckling pig. The specialty, reads the menu, of the Mealhada in the Bairrada, the central region of Portugal. Well, I think to myself, perhaps cod can wait until another night, i should try the pig. But then I read farther down...comme quoi, la morue n'est pas la seule spécialité gastronomique Portugaise...as you can see, the cod fish isn't the only thing to Portuguese cuisine. Oh no you didn't. Waiter, I'll take the cod.

Good choice after the appetizer of octopus, tripe with butter beans, pig ears, gizzards, and mussels, all quite good accept the pig ears which resembled the act of chewing on a rubber bouncing ball. The bacalhau dish of the house: bacalhau com broa, cod with bread, which I had made special just for me. Excuse me senor, I can't eat wheat, can you make this bread dish without bread? I ask as i hand him my handy little yellow printout of Portuguese phrases to express such sentiments, kindly edited to perfection by bq. Hmmm, doente. That is my word. Of course he replies. What I received then, I am sure, was not bacalhau with bread, but an oven roasted hunk of cod, crisped potatoes (you thought the Irish liked potatoes) broccoli, and myriad other greens all floating in a little puddle of olive oil. Excellent. I suppose after all is said and done i did win over the waiter in the end, for my questions on food, geography, Portuguese language, the music playing in the background, etc kept him coming back for more, even once with a pile of CD's. Until my food grew cold. We the three are the very last of the evening to leave the restaurant, and before I depart i am given a little pink piggy jouette. How kind.

Day 3: lunch in villa nova de Gaia. Walking, walking, stop! This restaurant is named the Bacalhoeiro. Shall we. So many different bacalhaus to choose from! I'll take the Bacalhau à gomes de sá. Well, it was quite good. Next night! At the Restaurante Boa Nova, Georgetown takes bacalhau fritters and I the grilled cod. The waiter, who yet again i discern life story from (i'm not really a waiter, I'm in the Portugeuese airforce, I'm just helping my friend out here. It gives me something to do. alright.) informs me that I chose the most popular house dish. Shuetãu. Potatos, hard boiled eggs, olives, onions and broccoli seem to be making their appearance as accompanying ingredients to almost all bacalhau dishes. I begin to unravel Portuguese preference here. This one is one of those I believe I will prepare on my own.

How much more bacalhau can you take? How many times can I type the word is the question. let us break on our train ride for a detour to azulejos. Azulejo: blue tile. Porto, Lisbon, and all the cities in between are covered in blue tiles; some depicting stories and history, and others, just for the beauty of a blue tile. Found on building facades, government and historic structures, apartments, restaurants, toilets, clock towers, sidewalks, drains, street signs, train stations, churches, anywhere a tile can be placed, it will be. Not to mention dish ware and china. It is breathtakingly beautiful and calming. Blue and white, the characteristic color of calm and coolness. Bed sheets and blankets should be blue and white, curtains, couches, dishes, clothing--i am wearing a blue and white bathrobe as we speak (too much information? I apologize) I have been won by azulejos. Look for them surrounding the doorway of the Salty Cod, and bien sur all over my house that I will someday own.

Now, my souvenir if any from Portugal, would be (I premeditated) an Azulejo. Easy as pie you say, but you don't know the kind of pies i make. There are tiles, then there are tiles. Every crowded gaudy tourist shop carries the same cookie cutter formula stamped piece of crap. My word to you: don't buy them. Anything that comes with a hook for easy wall mounting is a clear sign of a no-no. There are many "upscale" tourist shops that peddle their reproduction hand painted azulejos for a pretty penny, these are do-able, unlike their made-in China cousins. However, it is not impossible to find a real azulejo. A real one? Yes. A real one chipped, battered, and merely just a random piece to the puzzle of the mural it has been disjointed from. A piece of a flower, a leg, a corner of a hat, these pieces are disoriented. Find them a home. Where can you find a tile from the 18th century as well? Look around, if you walk, you will find what you are looking for. Two tiles from the 1750's, and one silly depiction of the 1986 grape harvest. A good year I must say. I have my tiles. Don't touch.

For the bacalhau in Lisbon we will mention two dishes. The first, a treasure hunt for a hostel dinner not my own, and the second a gracious meal with a fellow food blogger and Lisbon native. Make a long story short: met some Australians in Porto, when they invariably became introduced to my cod quest, they invited me to a dinner at the hostel one works at in Lisbon cooked by the "best chef in Lisbon" alright, who can pass that up. Saturday at 5. Do you think they expected me to come? Well they don't know me. Saturday at 4 I ask João at the front desk of my hostel if he knew how to get to this other one. I dunno, let me skype them. (imagine that magical little skype sound) ok go straight up the hill, then down past that thing, then righta at the fnac, then take a left at rua st nicolas and it should be somewhere there. Obrgada João. An hour later im still walking in a circle around rua st nicolas. Where the hell is this place! I find the entrance to yet another hostel and decide to pop in. Hmm this one is nice, oh look theres a computer, I sit down and look up the address myself. Chouette! I smile at the man at the reception desk, no body questions blonds in white skirts. Hmm, i wonder how many hostels i can sneak into. One block down--here it is!

Hi, I am not staying at this hostel, I am just meeting a friend for dinner. What is his name? His name--I don't know. You don't know you're friends name? Well, no, but--look around doorway--he's right over there. Ah ok then! Were they surprised to see me? Probably, bacalhau girl no way! But the dinner truly was amazing. Bacalhau a bras, a dish which I will say in the end is my favorite bacalhau dish so far in life. Thinly sliced potatoes almost hash brown size (Americans call them match stick) , thin strips of bacalhau, strips of onions, olives and their oil, salt pepper, and i'm sure of a bay leaf all in a hash together and bound with egg. Pair that with a cucumber tomato gespacho and yet another fruit salad (this time with bananas though. ooh how i love bananas) and you have a well rounded home cooked meal seated around a bubbling table of many many foreigners.

For our last meal together in portugal, I save the best for last. I must now introduce you to Isabel, a fellow food blogger and Lisban native. I will plug her blog for her--she is the author, photographer, and chef of Cinco Quartos de Laranja, and now my foodie friend in Lisbon. I suggest you all take a peak at her blog (right now you'll catch a bit on pineapples) however it is written in Portuguese. But mallory, you say, you cannot read Portuguese. No,but I pretend and I am learning. Here is my advice: learning a language? Practice on something that is actually interesting to you. Isabel graciously offered to rendez vous with me for a dinner and discussion on all that is Portuguese cuisine.

How lucky in life I have become, I think to myself as I sit with Isabel at João do Grão Restaurante eating the house specialty of boiled cod and chickpeas along with the bubbly sweet vinho verde all followed by a baked apple in a sauce made from none other than port wine. It is quite a relief after many days of travel to finally be with someone who can speak to the waiter for you. After a conversation on food vocabulary, and a language lesson, we take a nigh time stroll of Lisbon and I am treated to a bit of history and explanation of the city from the eyes of a resident. Muito obrigada Isabel for everything, for the first time I feel like i am maybe doing something right. Am I a food writer?Am I really now part of the foodie blog group? Perhaps. As we part I am given a little present, a book on Portuguese cuisine to add to my 1000 receitas dos bacalhau I purchased at the fnac. I really do think I am one of the luckiest Americans living in Paris eating up Portugal. Thank you everyone who helped me on the trip, before, during, and after. Life, food, words are nothing without you.

It is necessary to understand that bacalhau is not a fish, not a dish, not a food to the Portuguese--I extend this to the Portuguese speakers of the world, ok I mean Brasil whose national dish is also bacalhau-- it is not that it is the most tasty thing one can make a thousand things from, it is hideously ugly, odorous, and a pill to hydrate from its dry state as all dishes are derived from, but what is important to the Portuguese is what bacalhau means. Ideas, stories, reasons behind food is what elevates food from being merely food. This food writer now tries to provide you with an equivalent analogy to this concept of bacalhau, perhaps the baguette? no. rice? no. pasta noodle? no. nothing. There is no equivalent to the bacalhau anywhere in the world, do not scoff, i do not deny that there are many foods important to cultures and creeds around the world, but not like this. The fish stands alone, still now I cannot remove its mystery shroud. How is it that this dried beastie found me? Luck I suppose, or chance. Things happen for reasons. This cod, I like to think, will take me somewhere someday. until then-

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Queijo, Castles, & a Meal in India

The cheese goes baa baa moo mooBreath, you can do it, it's just cheese, try to look casual, don't talk so fast you big mouth, just tell her what you want--olà! Eu quero o queijo muito português. The pause, the guarded breaths, then the laughter. Laughter is far from a scowl, I can handle laughter. Haha, I laugh with them as they shake their heads and repeat my request in the base of their voices with aunty-like smiles. As I poke a cheese, I indicate for a soft and hard by rapping my knuckles on the counter (Marcel Marceau anyone?) Two cheeses picked out, but what are they? Which animal produced each curd? Oh no what was the word for cow? I must know for my readers, suck it up! Point and---uh, moooo or baaaaa? Do you wish now to never travel with me? I do not blame you. If my visage were not already the hue of an august ripened tomato, one would have found me in a blush as I exited the queijo-(erie?) yet again wondering how my life had brought me here. What else can one do but smile, smile in every direction. Norte, Sul, Leste, Oeste. I need something to put this cheese on.

Living in France I did not expect to be impressed by Portuguese dairy products, but the tiny country can and will surprise you. What can you expect? A myriad of varying curds; cow, sheep, goat, soft, hard, liquid. Liquid? Yes liquid. Of the many cheeses, we will pay attention to my two favorite puppies, both viscous and whose rind forms a self-contained pot: the queijo de azeitão, and the queijo serra da estrela. Both are named for their regions of birth, and both give you the feeling of a gooey fondue party. Made from ewe's milk, the two differ in viscosity and aroma. Many bind the azeitão to a description of "butter" consistency with a taste of herbs, and the estrela as slightly more creamy.

After speaking with a few locals on the subject (well, what do you talk about with locals?) the method of dipping pot was revealed to me: cut the rind off of the top of the cheese, creating a little dish of gooey queijo primed for the dipping of fruits, breads (ehem, rice cakes), and meats into its white well. Enjoy with a glass Tawney Port thank you very much. But do not neglect the hard cheeses as well, there is room in the inn for all. Linguistic note: English speakers, 'o' in portuguese is pronounced 'oo' so kay-joo. not kay-jo. Pardon, I may snap at you if you mispronounce.

Where is the best place in Portugal to eat queijo you ask me? Well on a picnic of course. A picnic, on any patch of grass or stretch of sand, but may I suggest, just for savoir, the village of Sintra--Portugal's Disneyland. The naming of Sintra as village is not for romantic literary purposes (though I am one to stretch the letter) it is in fact a town, refusing city status even though it is the principal town in the Sintra municipality, which holds the second highest population density in Portugal. What is Sintra known for? Why, castles.

A thirty minute train ride from Rossio train station in Lisbon, Sintra is a magical little kingdom of castles stretching from the 9th century Castelo dos Mouros, to the 19th century Quinta da Regaleira (which appears at first glance the residence of Sleeping Beauty). Once off the train the busy city streets of Lisbon are a vague memory, and the rolling hills buried in a jungle of greens gives one the impression of a transplanted Anaheim to the valley of Strasbourg, all the while wary that a singing Julie Andrews may pop out from behind the ever rolling carts of gelato.

How to choose which castle to visit (it is possible to go to all, 6 or 7, but each require a 6euro tariff) I look to the hill: how about the Medieval looking one. Castelo dos Mouros, built in either the 8th or 9th century by the invading Moors, the location was chosen not only for its vantage point (highest point overlooking the sea from Lisbon) but also for the pasture and farming lands below it. Is it a climb? Why yes it is. But you may take a life threatening bus ride up to its gate if you so wish. Scaling the walls which in my mind where mini great walls of China, I must admit, is a surreal near out-of-body moment. Once on the walls, running up the steps, standing on the top of Portugal mere inches away from a tumble to a crunchy rocky death, you cannot help but to honestly think of absolutely nothing. One doesn't think, one feels the thrill. It is cliché, but castles really are magic.

After climbing castles, it is time for food other than cheese. Though, as I often say (ok maybe just talking to myself) that if there is cheese, wine, and a mango, I am set for life. But to get on with discovering the vrai cuisine of Portugal, we go now to dine. How many people does it take to find "the most authentic" restaurant in a city? Usually there are around a dozen, everyone has their own. Not in Lisbon. In Lisbon, there is one that gets all the Lisboans nodding--Casa da India. Indian food for authentic Portuguese? What have you been smoking you ask me. But no---you will not find flat bread or curry; the Casa da India is as Portuguese as it gets.

Not found in the guide books or on a painful episode with Samantha Brown or Rick Steves, the store was formerly a house of Indian spices. When the current restaurant owners moved in, the name on the store front was not touched, preserving a bit of cultural history, not to mention an optical illusion of self-disguise against tottering tourists despite being on a main drag. Seated inside with a clear view of the door, it is giddily amusing to watch as tourists walk by clearly in search of a mid day meal but without the slightest bit of intention to even glance at the posted menu on the window. If they had, they would have discovered such dishes as snails, bacalhau, sardines, feijoada, rice pudding, roasted Portuguese chicken, and blood sausage. The beautiful exterior doesn't help much either. Their loss. It is therefore reserved for the locals, perhaps, the way they planed it to be. Casa da India is a Portuguese Leaky Cauldron, if you follow. I knew I would someday make a Harry Potter reference.

What was on mallory's plate in India? Caldo verde, as I was instructed in Porto to search out but failed. Caldo verde is green soup. Green! You don't say so. The big boys: potato starch, onions, collard greens, kale, spicy cabbage, salt, the ever-present olive oil, and nice little chunks of chouriço sausage. I cannot write how savoringly delicious this soup is without offending some readers. So I will move on to the plat, feijoada. Feijoada is not Portuguese, but they think it is. It is Brasilian and they stole it. I have Anthony Bourdain guarding my back on this one. When compiling my list of local "things I have to eat" in Porto, I cut in when she said feijoada. That's not Portuguese, i say to her. Yes it is. No it's not, it's Brasilian. You stole it. Well, we made it better. Better? i doubt it. Did I just accuse an incredibly hospitable and friendly Portuguese friend of stealing a dish? I suppose I did. But I am very defensive. However, note: Portuguese are a very proud people, if you accuse them of stealing a popular dish, turn around and compliment their shoes.

I decided I would not eat this dish for snobbish reasons. However, when I saw the menu I reasoned, well perhaps I should just try it so then when I eat real feijoada I can have evidence to support the real one is better. But damn it was awfully good. Bacalhau, mussels, butter beans, prawns, crab, peppers, and greens sizzling in a thick orange-red sauce (that I took home on my white shirt) was without a doubt one of those meals that puts you right to sleep afterwards out of pure "I can die know" thoughts. How can I follow that with more food? Ah fruit sundae. I am in. Casa da India, I will be back for the sardines.

Cheese, Feijoada, soup. Siesta time, but maybe first with a bit of port. Portugal is a very tasty country to eat. Perhaps I must mention the main tourist pulls---the famous pastiés de nata, the custard tart of Bélem whose recipe is said to have been kept secret for centuries, and of course the most famous cafe in Lisboa, A Brasileira, which I avoided to take a coffee at until my last morning on account of the line for terrace table space.

While the cafe is a historic landmark (and come on, its got Brasil in the title) it has unfortunately become one of the "tourist" traps of the city, overpriced chow and a flower shirt-wearing crowd are enough to make you set up the photo and move on. and what is the little grinning man with the coffee cup? Brasileira means girl from Brasil does it not? Either way, early tuesday morning and i am the only one at the outside tables. excellent. Uma bica por favor. Finally. Last day in Portugal and made a transaction sans Inglês. Progress? I tell myself that.

After all the food: head to the beach. Take the train to Cascais. A sandy beach of blue water (too cold to touch) but pleasant enough to bury your traveling feet in the sand and sit in the sun with naught but your thoughts and the vast Atlantic stretching out in front. The coast always provides a sense of solidarity, home, familiarity. Oceans are both a thrill in the desire to find what treasures and life (don't forget food) lie on the other side, as well as a worry, for it really is a long ride to the other side, will one get lost on the way? Well, a long trip it may be, but that is why there is bacalhau. The bacalhau has and will continue to get voyagers across the great blue. I'll make the trips, I have Bacalhau. Tune in next week for our love ballad to our salty muse.

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Vinho do Porto

Aladin's Real Caves of Wonder
Salty Cod in Portugal Series Episode 2
Port comes from the city of Porto. C'est vrai! Perhaps I may have tasted port prior to my affairs in Porto, but I could not remember. What I could remember was hanging the print of the iconic Sandeman on the wall of my mother's vintage themed French country kitchen , but I had thought the vinho to be naught but a table wine made of grapes grown in Portugal, but oh no. No, once you actually taste a port, the idea of it's being just a wine, or even in the wine family itself is washed clear from memory, leaving you with sticky smiling lips, wide glossy eyes, and perhaps a little extra rouge touched onto those raised cheeks. Port is not a wine, it is a wine concoction. Allez viens!

If it is raining, or just particularly unpleasant out, you should pass the day in the caves--so I was instructed. Caves of what? Port caves. Oh, where are those? Look behind you, they are all of those buildings that make up the entire southern bank of the river--damn. I thought those were billboards. I'll pretend I didn't say that. Oporto is the city of bridges, therefore there are many that cross the Douro river, a river that seems equal in breadth to that of the Seine, but when the river is crossed, Porto is left behind and the city of port wine is entered: Bem Vindo de Vila Nova de Gaia, the birthplace of each and every real bottle of vinho do porto.

How am I supposed to choose? I muse as I tramp across the ponte Dom Luis I (Porto, as I am now repeating, is known as the city of bridges, those being the Ponte Maria Pia, Ponte Dom Luis I, Ponte de Arrbida, Pont de Sao Joo, Ponte de Freixo, and Ponte Infante Dom Henrique) My umbrella has seen better days as the Douro's gust attempts to render carnage of its frail skelette. Ahk! I am completely soaked! I thought Portugal was supposed to be, perhaps, sunny!? (wait until the next post where instead of the rain, I bitch about the sun and the heat) Heres the thought: la plus proche, i.e. the first one I pass. Therefore, number one: Calem. The tour is 2euros, which includes tasting. Tasting? I'm in.

I arrived for the English guided tour, but soon discovered myself to be the only anglophone present among Italians, Germans, Chinese, and, well, we'll just say a "Northern" country. The tour comprised perhaps a demi-hour, an explication of what makes a port a port, the history of the big-name company, differences in port varieties and grape cultivation, and then finally a tasting of both a white and a red--one a velhote and one a tawny. What is a velhote and a tawny you ask? Perfect, I'm glad you asked (or didn't), but you know I will tell you. After touring three other big name caves, once more in English at Offley, a French Session at Croft, and a sneaky Portuguese catch at Taylors, I felt not only quite tipsy (I jest, this was spread over 2 days) but as if i had just graduated from the University of port wine making. To spread the knowledge I so greedily gobbled, I will share with you what I took from these tours, tastes, conversations, and the chouette book I purchased at the fnac (my dear fnac, oh how I will miss you) on all that is vinho do porto.



To be a true vinho do porto, bottle mark and legality included, the wine must not only be derived from grapes grown in the Douro Valley, but must also be processed and bottled in the river region, a decree that was first established in 1756. Port wine begins like any other wine, however, it's fermentation is stunted after only a few days at which time Brandy is added. The addition of brandy is what makes a port a port--the brandy stops the fermentation process, allowing the grapes to retain their natural sweetness and color, while at the same time skyrocketing the alcohol content percentage. For this reason port is a bitingly sweet wine, and is always had as aperatif or digestif, never accompanying dinner. For dinner the Douro produces many others for the table, reds, whites, and the exclusive vinho verde.

Brandy Wine is Port (yeah yeah I thought the same thing too!) but there is much poking that can be done to make one port a stranger to another. There are three main categories: branco, ruby, and tawny; from which a plethora of minor categories are procured. Among these categories are special categories (yes I am spinning a web) there is the Vintage, which is a wine produced from a single crop that was deemed 'exceptionally superior' by the Instituto de Vinho do Porto, and must be bottled within three years of its harvest. The LBV (late bottled vintage) derives from the same 'exceptionally superior' crop year, however is bottled after 3 years from the harvest (usually 4-6) and is less full bodied that the Vintage. The Colheita is a dated Port, such as 1994, is a wine that also derives from the 'exceptionally superior' crop, but is aged in wood for no less than 7 years before bottling, and as an aged wine through the oxidation process its bouquet (aroma, nuance) becomes less sweet, more spicy, woody, savoring strongly of dried fruits. These are the ports to buy to age, for with time they become more complex, smoother, and the color begins to lighten towards gold. A port with an indication of years, such as 10 years, is a wine made from mixing two variant batches of wine--one being over 10 years, and the other under, and whose average produces the noted number of years, be it 10, 20, 30. A Reserve is the same process as of combining two variant years to produce a median age, but with an 'exceptionally superior' crop.

Now, I did buy one of those. Can you guess which one? Let's play a game, who knows Mallory the best.

The wines are all stored in the caves along the river bank, though there remains, for posterity (and perhaps for the tourists) many rabelos--o barco do Douro. The boats that at one time perhaps did transport port barrels up and down the river and have now become iconic of port wine and the city of Porto itself. There are many many many variant wine port wine marks that make home on the Douro bank of Vila Nova de Gaia, aside the big name marks (who tend to be of English names did you gather? This is due to the meddling 18th century Englishmen who, in a sense, owned the Douro valley and made the wine famous through its high volume exportation to Brazil, United States, and Russia) there are many small marks, family owned, and available--and recommended--at most wine bars and cafes in Porto.

Il faut que vous goutez le port a Porto. Take the time to visit a wine bar for a few hours, especially with strangers recently acquired as friends. Lone-star travelers like myself, I find, are more than willing to try the house suggested branco, ruby, tawny trio while snacking, of course on dried fruit and chocolate. (Georgetown and Donut I speak of you.) Port is devilishly delightful to sip, but it is more so in company. And if you do buy a bottle of expensive port to be aged, don't wait a lifetime for the moment to open it, whether it's within the next year or the next 5, for a port from Oporto, you'll know when the time is right. But don't think you can wiggle your way into my bottle, it may already have plans.

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