Back in the 1990s, I got a cushy fellowship that allowed me to travel around Europe for 10 weeks, with someone else’s money to spend. I ate a lot of nice meals.
Afterward, I wrote a column about the best meals and what made them so. Here is a link to the column. It’s telling that I found a copy in the files of Virginia-Tech University, not in those of The Virginian-Pilot where I used to work. The corruption of digital archives is a subject for another day.
Anyway, this column came to mind because we recently dined well in a great local restaurant. It got me thinking about the experience of eating well, and the conditions that are present when that is so. In this case, it was a nice restaurant out in the country. But before I could arrive at its tables, I, like the heroes of old on a quest, had to pass a series of tests. I think that is often the case.
First, I found out about this restaurant through a local, not a guide book. The local in question was our Portuguese teacher, Paula, who has not only lived in the Odemira region her whole life, but whose husband and daughter are restaurant chefs. So I figured she would be a good person to ask for restaurant advice. If we wanted to eat good fish, she told us, go to this place which I will call ‘O’.
Second, I had to find it. Google Maps these days makes that much easier. But even so, driving down a roughly paved, and then a gravel road, to see what looked like someone’s house was challenging. I got out of the car and confirmed it was a tavern or inn of some sort.
Third, I had to keep working to get a meal there, even after knowing its name and location. I arrived at the restaurant one night eager for dinner. I found only two blokes nursing beers and watching soccer on a corner television. No one behind the bar. Eventually an unsmiling middle-aged woman came out and told me they were not open for dinner, only lunch. She did give me a bowl of soup, which I ate in the not very attractive front room.
I did not allow my energies to flag. I showed up for lunch not long after that. O was closed. Darn. Google had been wrong in its listing of O’s opening hours. I noted the restaurant’s own opening hours written by hand on a blackboard out front.
The next time I tried was with our son Max, who was in town in October. I have a maxim that it is good to do new things with a spouse, a child or a friend, rather than try to repeat past experiences. So having a meal with our son at a new place excited me. And I thought I was all set.
No luck again. O was closed. The opening hours on the sign had either been ignored or changed. A couple in an expensive German-made car arrived with us, and they nosed around as well, looking for signs of life. A short man cleaning up outside could only telling us it was closed.
Boy, this was getting difficult.
The fourth and successful time, I called the restaurant the day before. The same woman said yes, they would be open. I recognized her voice.
So the next day, K and I showed up at 1:30 pm. (The Portuguese eat their main meal from about 1 to 2:30 pm.) And found an almost full restaurant, full of people pleasurably eating, in a nice dining room and a patio that had lain behind a curtain beside the unattractive bar. There were many tables, including a long one on the patio with people eating communal style. The woman I had first met behind the bar was now behind a grill, with an assistant. The hostess said she could seat us, but it would be about 20 minutes. No problem!
We decided on a whole grilled sole, a linguado, which K loves. It arrived before too long, and accompanied by an amazing number of wonderful sides. On the pewter platter holding the fish were several big roasted sweet potatoes, of the kind that are so good here. There was also a grilled banana, something I’ve never seen elsewhere. And there were two piles of stuff, one looking like guacamole and the other like cream of wheat. Both were yummy. I never figured out what they were. Then on a separate two-part serving dish, there were boiled white potatoes and brocoli, and a large quantity of “migas”, which is a common Portuguese dish made mostly of bread crumbs. Only this one had shrimp in it.
Paula later told us that her husband, the chef and former restaurant owner, was always regularly bowled over by the number of sides O served, and how good they were. I am reminded of something an editor, Mike Semel, told me at The Virginian-Pilot when we were both young men and both writing for The Beacon, the unprestigious local news supplement the Pilot put out solely for Virginia Beach. Semel said something like ‘a newspaper is only as good as its weakest page or article’. In other words, a great newspaper does the small things well, not just the big stories. Perhaps this maxim helped Mike keep his game up, because he is now at The Washington Post, in charge of local news.
Similarly I think, a great restaurant has great sides, not just great main dishes.
And O did have great sides.
In the sides and the main dishes, I thought O exhibited the qualities that are central to Portuguese cuisine, and which I am loving. I will concede that Portuguese dishes are not in the same realm as French cuisine in the exactness or difficulty of their preparation, and in the resulting variations in shapes, textures and flavors. But what Portuguese food does have - which is similar but somehow different than Italian - is really good ingredients prepared in a simple manner that showcases the ingredients and leaves one with gratitude for having them. The country is rich in fish and shellfish, so the people eat a lot of seafood. I am told that Portuguese eat more fish per capita than the Japonese. All seafood I have seen is prepared simply, with olive oil and garlic being the main additions, and usually grilled over charcoal. The country, which until recently was very poor, has a lot of dishes with garbanzo beans, black-eyed peas, and other beans. These are eaten simply as well. A great dish is blackeyed-peas combined with olive oil, onions and flakes of salt cod. Really nutritious, delicious and cheap. The country also loves its pork, a not so healthy food, but I’ll leave that aside for now.
So I loved our meal at O and I vowed to go back every week. That was three weeks ago. I have not yet managed to return.
Meanwhile, I will do my part in helping others have great meals by not telling you the name of the restaurant. Or where it is. If you want a great meal there, you will have to work for it.
Great article. Do you realize these people at "O" are running a business? Do you not realize that by not telling your readers the name of the restaurant that you are hurting their business?