Porto's street art

Porto has a lot of multitalented people, — too many of them underemployed. I met a girl who works in a T-shirt shop who is an illustrator with a B.A. in architecture, and a guy who has exhibited his photographs in Australia and Germany and is working for a friend’s digital magazine to make ends meet. Both said they’d like to continue living in Portugal but are not sure they can afford to. Below are some small- and large-scale pieces by renowned street artists Mesk, Costah, Lara Luis, Hugo Sousa and others.

Mundane, marvelous Porto

In autumn's thinning shadows, the saddest sound in the world is that of rolling luggage on cobblestones.

Take me to church

While visitors are given wide berth (drug laws are permissive and drinking is allowed on the street), it is a conservative city without strip clubs or casinos (bingo is popular, however), and I am treated with more courtesy when I wash off the grime, put on a nice shirt and my big-boy slacks and make a lighthearted attempt to speak the local language. So many tourists are absolute fucking slobs and wonder why they can’t get a table, or worse, why the locals are shaking their heads and muttering to one another. It’s night and day, really.

The glowering Se, above, is Porto’s cathedral and oldest church, built as a fortress in the 12th century. From this terrace, behind the photographer, is a great view of the river. At left is a Manueline (or late Portuguese Gothic) pillory.

French kids smoking hashish on the back steps of the Se Cathedral.

The Portuguese Baroque Igreja do Carmo, above, is the church across the street from me. It's actually a twin church, attached to the Igreja dos Carmelitas next door. And attached to that is an army barracks where horses are kept. There’s a guy who lies on his side outside the entrance, begging for money, like he’s disabled or something, but I’ve seen him jog across the street. The church has bells, but they don't ring, which mildly disappoints me. It is best known for its vast azulejo panel on its northeast exterior, below.

Tiles depict the founding of the Carmelite order on Mount Carmel. It's important to these folks.

Next to the stock exchange, the Sao Francisco Church, below, is basically on the river and features a garlanded, gold-encrusted 18th-century interior. No photos are permitted. My finger must've slipped; sorry!

At center is a tree, carved in 1718-21, depicting the ancestors of Christ (Joseph, David, Solomon, etc.)

Praca de Carlos Alberto

There's an upscale flea market here on the weekends: contemporary art, jams made with port, etc.

Our fall line

Rua da Conceicao.

O Caraças

I want to live here. The gracious sisters and kitchen staff who run this place
make it easy for the visitor: “Meat or fish?” There is no menu, no ceremony, and, lacking a sign outside, no other tourists on this misty afternoon.

I devoured a plate of hot, juicy sardines in about five minutes, leading the chef

to pop out of the kitchen to inquire, “Uma mais?” I did a quick calculation (room for coffee, dessert, etc.) and decided this is not a woman you say no to.

“Si.”

Later over espresso and chocolate cake, she saw me playing with my camera. “Voce gosto fotografias?”

“Si.”

She led me by the elbow up some stairs, past the kitchen, and ... how about this? A rooftop terrace with views of the Douro River, with St. John’s Church in the foreground.

So there you have it. The doorway to heaven is on the other side of the white car. All you have to do is say yes.

Good neighbors

Rua das Taipas, Clerigos District.

The University of Porto

I enjoy this benign exuberance and, strangely, can sleep through it. But I’m ambivalent about the University of Porto student as an idea. Caped and cloaked by day, they live in a world of guarded ritual, with upperclassmen bearing giant spoons, leading their younger charges through the streets.

In Gaia, they asked me not to photograph them, to which I responded by looking at my feet, planted firmly on the sidewalk. They backed away like coyotes, lacking the power to persuade me in one of the city’s most public areas. I have seen underclassmen lightly hazed, and, as this video above shows on a weeknight at 3:30 a.m., you can see their respect for the hardworking people of Porto, who assiduously indulge them. This screamfest will repeat itself tonight and the night after that.

One Porto resident explained to me that the big spoons derive from “Harry Potter” lore (J.K. Rowling is said to have developed many of her ideas for the series while living here in the early 1990s), but I dunno.

Boundless entitlement: No photos! I am implored.

Taberna Santo Antonio

32 Rua das Virtudas.

Like many places here, the kitchen takes a siesta from 3 to 7 p.m., so plan accordingly.

Pork cheek. Porto has the best slow-cooked meats this side of Memphis.

Pasteis de nata

This being my first visit to Portugal, I’m late to the pasteis de nata party, but I do see what the fuss is all about.

Bite into one of these egg tarts and the pastry shell discernibly cracks, giving way to a buttery chewiness. At the shop under my apartment I detect a hint of lemon zest in the custard. I suspect these are near-impossible to make by yourself: Achieving the characteristic char without curdling the custard is a devilish trick, achieved only by brief exposure to super-high heat.

Each morning I put on a mako pot of Sical-brand Portuguese coffee, walk three flights downstairs and watch as my pastry man uses tongs to delicately place two natas in a paper sack (cost: 1.60 euros). By the time I open my door, my coffee is ready. Rituals like these reinforce my belief in slow travel, and I will keenly miss them.

If your corner pastelaria is out of natas, that’s a good thing! There will be fresh, warm ones coming along at any minute. I’m eating about four a day; I’m sure my doctor would approve.

Cevejaria Gazela

171 Praca da Batalha.

Going a bit deep here so forgive me. One of the reasons I keep returning to Europe despite its middle-class malaise is that its impulse to shake off the past and reinvent itself is healthfully muted. There is an undercurrent of maturity in matters of art and food — it is a continent comfortable in its own skin. This is an unconventional way to begin discussing a place known for its hot dogs, but sometimes you run across an establishment so aligned with the needs and sensibilities of its neighborhood, in this case the rough-and-tumble streets behind the Sao Bento train station, that you can’t help but take notice.

Try the cachorro especial.

This sandwich from Cerverjaria Gazela (called a “special hot dog” by an earnest extension of the term) is grilled bread hugging white cheese and aged sausage, sliced into bite-sized pieces. It is crunchy and addictive and, incidentally, why Super Bock was invented. I cannot imagine what it’s like for Fernando and Alberto to work together in a 4-by-7 space every day, but they make a great team.

Menu.

By way of bidding farewell to a valued customer, Fernando clasped his wrist with two hands and wouldn’t let go. It took me a moment to realize this was an act of condolence. The customer, his cheeks sagging red and white, had lost a spouse or grandchild or a dog and Fernando kept saying, “I’m so sorry.”

“Speaks to you … beautiful ... do you understand? … Not yet. … What do you dream about?” These were the chopped up words I thought I could make out. At this point, the adolescent aloofness that characterizes street-level retail back home seemed very distant indeed.

The most analogous North American restaurant I can think of is Swan Oyster Depot in San Francisco, a 12-stool anchorage where people go when they’re hungry for chowder or a crab salad — and, just as importantly, the old-school values of precision and liveliness and compassion. Please find this place. It’s tucked away in Batalha Square near the Sao Joao National Theater.

Bolhao Market

Looking for a bracing morning activity in the city center? Visit the Mercado do Bolhao, dating to 1850, where you can buy fish so fresh they practically jump into your shopping bag. There’s no better spot to pick up live and freshly killed chickens, wine, flowers, and fruits and vegetables. It’s a good place to practice your Portuguese, too. Many of the vendors are older ladies who have been at this for decades and are happy to talk your ear off, especially the ones involved in the manufacture of cotton dish towels, which I confess to having a hard time generating excitement for.

Majestic Cafe

Work clothes

Canidelo

A bit further south hugging the Atlantic coastline is Canidelo, a Porto bedroom community of about 27,000. The Romans and Moors passed through here, and I could’ve sworn I saw a Neolithic stone hut way out in a field. Life in Portugal is considerably cheaper than in the rest of the European Union, but it makes sense for many who work in Porto to make their home outside the city and commute across one of the half-dozen bridges.

Pretty 17th-century Church of St. Andrew.

Portugal's ceramics are all they're cracked up to be.

Pit stop at Margem do Atlantico cafe.

Nothing but Portuguese spoken in these hills. Bring your phrasebook.

View from the 248-foot-tall Torre dos Clerigos

The Clerigos Church is one of the most recognizable landmarks in Porto.

It's not a small city. About 250,000 people, over 1 million in the metropolitan area.

Rei dos Galos de Amarante

My wish for everyone who visits Porto is to have a culinary guide as devoted as my landlady Joana, whose promise was to never steer me to any restaurant that did not "remind me of my Portuguese grandmother’s cooking." This place is extraordinary. Already plotting my return visit.

121 Rua das Taipas.

Fish soup, in this case gilthead seabream, known in Portugal as "dourada" or "golden."

Roasted veal short ribs. Delicately tender, most likely cooking all morning (or all night).