Falling Fowl
Local advice leads to potatoes and poultry in Portugal
There is always some danger to accepting a dinner invitation in a foreign country. How clearly I remember the home-cooked Goan meal served up by a family friend in a small flat in Bangalore–and the three days of severe stomach cramping that followed. Or the promise of a fine dining experience in Greece that began at midnight and had us falling asleep in our dessert plates at 2AM.
So when an energetic Portuguese business colleague insisted we join he and his wife in a local delicacy during our first night in the seaside town of Portimao, alarm bells clanged. “Let me take you to dinner,” he demanded in a way that left no room for refusal. “Do you like chicken?”
Appearing on maps as a thin sliver of land abutting Spain, Portugal is nonetheless a world apart in both culture and cuisine from its flamboyant neighbour. Where Spaniards stamp to passionate flamenco, the Portuguese embrace the mournful lyrics and melancholy chords of the traditional Fado, a music unique to the once-powerful nation.
Food is similarly subdued; the creamy beans from Avila high in the elevated plains of Castilla y Leon, the chilled gazpacho or famed salty jambon of the Andalucian region, or the smoky pleasure of paella choked with sausage, chicken and shellfish in Valencia finds no equivalent in cafes and restaurants along Portugal’s south-western shore.
Though Portuguese mariner Vasco da Gama discovered the spice route to the Indian Ocean from Sagres via the Cape of Good Hope in 1498, there is little evidence of Eastern spices in Portuguese cuisine. Food is simply cooked with few complicated flavorings: Olive oil, garlic, herbs and sea salt flavor the simple grilled cuttlefish, squid and fish dishes dominating the menus of every harbor-side restaurant in the coastal dwelling nation.
And not forgetting the nation’s love affair with potatoes, appearing on plates as the batatas fritas – French fries – that accompany every meal.
So perhaps it should come as no surprise that, so far, our culinary experiences in Portugal’s Algarve region had proved, well, a little disappointing. From the runny omelet and shoestring chips at a lunchtime pit-stop in Faro to an octopus salad floating in olive oil in Sagres and a tough, naked piece of veal served up in a deceptively appealing restaurant in a local coastal town, that memorable holiday meal had so far proved elusive.
This was precisely how we found ourselves speeding east along a darkened highway from the quiet evening streets of Portimao to good-knows-where. Hopes were high a little local knowledge – and a few unsuspecting chickens – would change the food landscape.
Some 60 minutes of erratic driving later, a single throw-away comment extinguished that tiny sparkle of anticipation. “I bring everybody here,” our host cheerfully trilled, pulling into a packed car park that materialized at the end of a well-rutted village road in the town of Albufeira. “They say it is better even than Kentucky Fried Chicken.”
And perhaps it was as, God-knows, the experience was entirely comparable.
From the two-storey building crammed with families clearly keen for a little chicken-fest to the formulaic tables and rear-numbing chairs, this was Portugal’s fast food equivalent. One had only to look to the restaurant name to confirm the eatery’s spot on the food ladder – “Teodósio: The Chicken King.”
If only we’d known.
There were no menus – and clearly no need of them.
Within minutes of sitting down a waitress appeared to take drinks orders (at least they served decent wine), but had managed to scarper before we’d had a chance to enquire as to the night’s specials. Mmmh, we mused. Anyone for chicken? Of the two options we later found were available (mildly spicy, or extra spicy) or host kindly requested the former.
“So,” says our friend, rubbing his hands together in delight as the waitress returned 15 minutes later with a plate of breaded and fried chicken pieces, a super-size bowl of batatas fritas, a tomato salad and two baskets of bread. “The best chicken you’ve ever had, yes?”
To refuse in the face of such enthusiasm would have been heartless. And so we dug in, nodding enthusiastically as we chewed on pleasantly spicy though heavily greased chicken wings, scarfed down French fries and requested a second serving of the night’s saviour – thinly-sliced tomatoes dressed with cracked black pepper, a little salt and generous drizzles of a pleasingly tart vinaigrette alive with fresh garlic.
A ball of baklava-like sweet infused with the flavors of honey and almond was, thankfully, a pleasing grand finale. (Only the creamy flan rivals this golden dessert for regional authenticity.)
Heading east back to the Spanish border a few days later, thoughts turned once again to the approaching night’s meal in tapas-crazed Seville. “What do you think,” I asked of my traveling companion. “Feel like chicken?”