One of my all time favourite restaurants was a small Portugese eatery where no one ever spoke English. And I think that that is what I really liked about it. When I first ventured into and sat down at the horseshoe bar counter, it was run by Henry a taciturn middle aged barkeep who hated his customers. And I think I also liked that. He was honest. As honest as some of the tastiest dishes from a menu I never understood. There was the usual calamari stew, bacalhau casserole and caldo verde. His Portugese steaks were topped with a perfectly done fried egg and were swimming in sauce which one could not resist mopping up with a soft Portugese bread roll.
But it was Luis, who took over from Henry, who used to serve the finest Trinchado ever. He was an embittered refugee from Angola and between him and his staff did unspeakable things in the kitchen. Ever since which I have been on the look out for that earthy, warm taste of Portugese country cooking.