Bacalhau
By the way, John, if you are reading this blog you are welcome to drop me a comment!
Camp Sh*t has a snack bar, the sort of place you’d expect to find on a campsite where you might get a stale sausage roll or, if you’re lucky, a burger and chips. But this is Portugal.
I had noticed the crowds on my first evening, especially the fact that some people had driven here from outside the campsite. Tonight all was quiet. The last bus from town got me back at half past seven and I felt like a hot dinner. Call it a special treat. I had reason to celebrate: it was Sunday and I had seen my first dolphins from afar from the ferry to Península de Tróia, a place I intend to return to.
From the small but perfectly formed menu I chose the national dish, bacalhau or salt cod which you see on display everywhere in large, grey, shrivelled slabs.
The owner spoke a few words of English. “How?” he asked. Apparently there are 365 ways of cooking bacalhau although only one was listed on the menu:’a parque’. “A parque”, I said. He looked pleased.
The dish was a sight to behold. A large oval platter briming with salad, tiny roast potatoes and a mount of onions, bacon and bayleaves in the middle crowned by large, pink shell-on prawns. Underneath the mount, the golden fish was hidden. It tasted sublime, with a tiny hint of memories of Africa which indicated that I was eating fish that was originally dried but now burst with moisture and flavour. If this had been served in a London restaurant, it would have attracted rave reviews.
“Superb!” I exclaimed when the owner came to collect the platter, empty but for shells, skin and bones. “It is our speciality”, he said. Now I know why this place was so crowded with out-of-towners on Saturday night. Good thing that I hadn’t arrived today, or I would never have known.
Tags: Portugal, Tag Index
Denni