Kindness of Strangers

For our last night in Lisbon, we decided to go out with our new Croatian friends, Monica and Anton. To close out our time there in style, the quintessential Libson experience was in order: a night of fado. Fado is a traditional form of folk music, found in small clubs all over the country, but most prevalently in Lisbon, and most specifically in the Alfama neighborhood. Fado is typically sung by a woman; the theme is usually lost love or lamenting for bygone, better days. A low, smoky voice matches the mood.

The problem is finding a reputable fado club. Many cater to tourists, the result being inflated prices (upward of 35 Euros per person) for mediocre food. Most clubs have a minimum charge; dinner is typically included. I was delighted, then, when one of the local guys who worked at our hostel gave us a solid recommendation for a fado club, with reasonable prices and great singing. It was called Manuel. So we set off by train to the Alfama district to find fado.

When we exited the train, the neighborhood seemed a little dodgy. Alfama is a warren of narrow alleys, with nooks and crannies peeking out from every twist and turn. Festive streamers loomed overhead, and touts stood on every corner, beckoning would-be fado customers. “Boa noyt, good evening, buenas noches, you speak English? No?” We smiled politely and moved on, trying hard to find our club without looking completely lost. “Bonjour, madam.” This was not the first time I had been mistaken for a French woman in Portugal. Groups of locals crowded around sidewalk tables. I could feel eyes studying us, and I had the distinct sense that we weren’t exactly welcome here.

We continued around the bend. Many of the doorways were simply marked “FADO.” How did we know which one was Manuel? Lingering too long would undoubtedly lead to high-pressure sales tactics. We walked up the street, seeing nothing, and then walked back from where we came. A woman, hoping to making a sale through a sample of her work, sang a few bars of some mournful-sounding song. “Well,” said Anton, “we’ve heard fado. Let’s move on.”

Down the street we ran into a club called Miguel — could “Miguel” (which sounds different in Portuguese than Spanish) have been mistaken for “Manuel?” Who knows. The place was closed, as it was Monday night, and we were starving, so we took another restaurant recommendation from Anton. He had visited Velho Macedo a few days before and reported that it was solid, fresh, traditional Portuguese fare. And it was just a few blocks away.

We crowded into the small space, which was lit by fluorescent and had a Portuguese version of “Are You Smarter Than A Fifth Grader?” playing silently in one corner of the room. But the place was packed, and there were delightful cases of beautifully arranged fresh fruit lining the back wall. (Cherries are in season here now, and I love that you can order a bowl brimming with the plump, purple berries for dessert.)

In Portugal, each meal begins with couvert, which are essentially small appetizers. They are placed on the table, and you pay for what you eat. If you, for example, eat the bread but don’t use the butter, you will be charged accordingly (we have, however, noticed that, if you touch one of the two packets of butter, you’ll be charged for both). We were first served a small plate of green olives, dressed with shards of garlic, a sprinkling of Italian parsley, and sweet olive oil. Maikael ordered the squid, as Portugal is known for its seafood, and I ordered pork fillets, another specialty. When Maikael’s dish arrived, we could hardly believe our eyes. Instead of the golden, deep-friend rings that we’re accustomed to, his calamari took the form of bright white tubes, tinged with flecks of deep purple. The eggplant tentacles were served alongside. Simple boiled potatoes and string beans, drizzled with olive oil and roasted garlic, rounded out the dish. I am not usually a huge fan of seafood, but it looked so fresh and homey that I had to try some. It tasted earthy and pure, nothing like I expected. Maikael said it was the best squid he’d ever eaten.

We parted ways with our Croatian friends, kissing one another on the cheek, and promised to look up one another up if we were ever in the neighborhood. The world is such a small place that it just might happen. We didn’t find fado, but we did find some great food and friends in Lisbon.