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).

Sao Bento Railway Station

The number of travelers passing through this Beaux-Artsy train stop is almost certainly eclipsed by the number of people who visit to see its blue azulejo tiles depicting historical scenes from Portugal history.

Fishing village of Afurada

Sao Pedro da Afurada is a short bike ride away from Porto, on the Gaia side of the river. Its patron saint is Peter. Many of its homes are fronted by religious iconography, fishing being a dangerous business and all. At lunchtime, many of its residents were grilling fish in their backyards. They grow a lot of their own food, too. I locked up my Brompton and had some piping-hot pasteis bacalhau, or cod cakes, while walking through its cobblestoned alleyways.

Near the mouth of the Douro River is an acre of clothing flapping in the breeze.
Each family has its own rope, but sharing is not discouraged. Because it takes a long
time to dry clothes in the sea air, the apparel can hang there for two or three days.
This says something significant about commonality and trust in small-town Portugal,
which holds a lot of appeal.




It’s not hard to find a boat back to the Porto side. This one cost 1.50E, two-fifty if
you have a bike.

Best deal in Europe?

Fifth row, dead-center, and the cheerfully confident 70-piece National Orchestra of Porto, all for 20 euros. They played Stokowski’s Fantasia and Fugue, and his arrangement of Bach’s Prelude No. 24 from the Well-Tempered Clavier. Also on the program were Schoenberg’s orchestration of Bach’s “St. Anne” organ work, and his arrangement of Brahms’ Piano Quartet Op. 25.

What a building! White concrete, no lobby, all stairways leading to the 1,300-seat Grand Auditorium, whose wood patterns are exaggeratedly embossed in gold. Corrugated glass windows (curtained on this early evening) make the city part of the performance. The architect was Rem Koolhaas, the Dutch author, urbanist and filmmaker who also designed the Dutch Embassy in Berlin and the Seattle Central Library.

Pre-concert lecture by Porto-based composer Daniel Moreira (in Portuguese).

The Casa da Musica: an architectural funhouse.

The 15-year-old hall is in the working-class neighborhood around the Rotunda da Boavista.

Lighted staircases remind me of the last 20 minutes of "Close Encounters of the Third Kind."

View from the Ponte de Dom Luis I

The two-tiered Dom Luis I Bridge was built in 1886 by an assistant of Gustave Eiffel.

Ribeira district in foreground. Across the river is Vila Nova de Gaia, where the port lodges are.

I wish more urban architecture employed tiled facades. It's a terrific look.

Don't even

Ascribing a set of physical characteristics, or a “look” to a given nationality is the worst kind of reductionism and won’t be tolerated here. Unless it's really good, like this.

FC Porto 3, Boavista 1

The world’s best football player is Portuguese, and after the Euro 2016 result over France, it can be said with conviction that the world’s best football is played in Portugal.

The best teams I have been privileged to see play live, Fenerbahce (Istanbul) and Ajax (Amsterdam), would be outclassed in 8 out of 10 matches by the FC Porto Dragons, judged from what I saw Friday night.

There is no secret why tiny countries like the Netherlands and Portugal can dominate and revolutionize the game. They don’t grow better athletes, obviously, but their coaching and training — their “systems” — are in a different galaxy.

Porto’s fans, like backers of any great teams, are pissy and aggrieved, qualities often conflated with “knowledgeable.” Shout-out to Boavista. Its fans don’t travel far, but they travel strong and loud. I may come see you.

Estadio Dragao is a handsome stadium with some oddities: no wanding or bag checks, but no beer either. A 16-year-old Lionel Messi made his debut here in 2003 with Barcelona. Two of Porto’s three goals on the night were recorded directly in front of me.


 

Big Fashion, 245 Rua de Santo Ildefonso

Yes, this is irony.

Bufete Horizontal

In the Santo Ildefonso neighborhood, outside the UNESCO-protected zone.

Bairro Maria Victorina

Dogs barked and curtains rustled. Tourists don't come to this neighborhood carved into the Douro cliffside.