During a recent visit with David, I discovered a world-class sandwich at the Mercado dos Lavradores, Funchal’s down-home farmers’ market, which is open daily but busiest on Fridays. This local specialty is known as porco com vinho e alhos, after the vinegar-and-garlic marinade used to flavor its filling: tender chunks of pork loin braised with summer savory, oregano, and fresh bay leaves from the laurel trees that grow wild on Madeira’s soaring volcanic peaks. The meat is scooped into a round, pillowy bolo de caco (griddle bread) and doused with a ladle of the vinegary jus spiked with fiery malagueta peppers — which are larger than Portugal’s famous piri-piri peppers, but just as incendiary. Accompanied by a frosted pint of Sagres lager, it was a fine lunch for a hungry traveler. In a moment of heroic self-sacrifice, I wrapped half the enormous sandwich in a napkin for David, who was stuck in his hotel room resting that torn Achilles tendon, which is starting to get far too much press, if you ask me.

Funchal’s waterfront is filled with restaurant hawkers and garish menu boards offering “local seafood” (read: Anglicized or Americanized touristy fare), but that night David and I ferreted out the narrow cobblestone back alleys of the old port district, where we were told we could really find the city’s best seafood in the quarter’s tascas, or hole-in-the-wall eateries.

Seduced by Restaurante Gavião Novo’s excellent reviews, and its hawker who simply wouldn’t take no for an answer, we squeezed into the last empty table just ahead of a queue that suddenly started forming in the alley. Menus arrived promptly, along with an aperitif of crisp dry Madeira. (Sweet Madeiras are more well-known, but there’s no better way to kick off a meal, we discovered.) We enjoyed it with excellent dense bread, olives, and the wonderful generic soft cheese simply known as amenteigão, a term referring to its butter-like texture.

I ordered the catch of the day, a red mullet, which came expertly grilled, drizzled with olive oil, and with a side of those fabulous creamy Portuguese potatoes David has been talking about forever. But it was his lapas com manteiga e alho (limpets with butter and garlic) that won, hands downs, our ongoing best-dinner competition. The saffron-colored gastropods cradled in their frilly-edged lavender-blue shells were drizzled with melted garlic butter and came sizzling to the table in a beat-up iron pan. We quickly demolished the first order and called for a second, slurping buttery limpet juice from the empty shells while we waited. David, who has quested far and wide to satisfy his obsession for these highly prized and hard-to-find shellfish, said these were the best ever. Óptimo, to use his word. I couldn’t have agreed more.

Restaurante Gavião Novo | Rua Santa Maria, 131 | Funchal, Madeira
Tel: +351 291 229 238
Hours: Open daily, 12:00 a.m. to 12:00 p.m.

]]> http://leitesculinaria.com/10576/writings-portugal-madeira-dining.html/feed 0 http://leitesculinaria.com/10657/writings-portugal-campo-de-ourique-lisbon.html#utm_source=feed&utm_medium=feed&utm_campaign=feed http://leitesculinaria.com/10657/writings-portugal-campo-de-ourique-lisbon.html#comments Fri, 02 Nov 2007 17:53:05 +0000 Janet Boileau http://leitesculinaria.com/wordpress/?p=10657

Restaurante Verde Gaio, in the heart of Campo de Ourique, in Lisbon, is the kind of place I’d been hoping to find with David: a hole-in-the-wall where food-savvy Lisboetas eat well. Really well. Granted, there are plenty of places, tucked away in the city’s crooked travessas, that feature good, simple food, but I wanted a place so wonderful, we had to beat the locals to the tables.

At 2:00 p.m., the peak of the mid-week lunch hour, the closely packed rooms in Verde Gaio are filling fast. But thanks to Nuno Correia, a Verde Gaio regular and the photographer of David’s upcoming book, The New Portuguese Table, we’re led through a tiled archway to a corner table in the back, where the clatter of plates and the din of conversation drop a few decibels, and there’s less danger of elbowing your neighbor’s glass of vinho verde.

The waiter sets down a selection of nibbles that practically covers the table: a basket of three breads, green and black olives, fresh white cheese with a saucer of excellent pumpkin preserves, a plate of chouriço, and chamuças, the Portuguese take on the triangular Indian savory pastry called samosas, which I encountered often while traveling in Goa. Nuno insists menus aren’t needed and gives the waiter the nod to let the chef have his way with us. We share a starter of ensopada de borrego — slowly stewed, meltingly tender lamb, served with crumbly cornbread, along with a bottle of white table wine. As a main course, David is presented with pork — the only meat that really seems to matter in Portugal — where the full-flavored, succulent porkers have no desire to impersonate that other white meat. I’ve enjoyed the pleasure of pig flesh in its every conceivable form since accepting David’s invitation to join him to pursue my research into Portuguese colonial cuisine. I’m especially fond of cured pork sausages, such as the dark and robust morcela (blood sausage) and the more approachable farinheira, surprisingly tasty sausage filled with seasoned flour. Today, though, I’ve accepted Nuno’s offer to share his favorite dish, and a specialty of the house — grilled fish heads.

The dourada (gilt-head bream) is served family-style on a large fish-shaped terracotta platter, drizzled with fruity olive oil, and sprinkled with chopped parsley and slivers of garlic. Alongside is a dish of Portugal’s marvelously nutty boiled potatoes, carrots, and green beans. The secret to enjoying the heads is to forget the visual impact and, instead, to focus on the texture of creamy flesh, crispy skin, and the rich taste of what many consider to be the best part of the fish. Apologizing for his breach of etiquette, Nuno abandons his knife and fork, picks up a head, and sucks out the tender morsels of fish cheek. I follow suit. My punishment for such indulgence? Tackling some of the near-vertical becos (stairways) in Alfama. Ah, the price of research.

Restaurante Verde Gaio | Rua Fransisco Metrass, N°18 | Lisbon, Portugal
Tel: +351 213 969 579
Hours: Lunch, 12 p.m. to 3:30 p.m. | dinner 7:30 p.m. to 10:30 p.m. | closed for dinner Sat. and Sun.

Photo © 2004 Jaime Silvia. All rights reserved.