Seafood is my favourite food on the planet, and a lot of my top travel memories involve it. Cracking into succulent, salty blue swimmer crab and rock oysters – white-cloth dining with wine on ice – one balmy evening overlooking the Sydney Harbour Bridge. Unbelievably sweet and salty blue mariner shrimps, shell and all, straight from the boat on a rickety wharf in Sai Kung. Or squid-on-a-stick from a beach vendor in Sihanoukville.
The very best thing about seafood, if you love it like I do, is that you don’t need a Michelin Star chef to ‘respect the ingredient’. Half the time you don’t even need to cook it. Give it to me fresh, and don’t get in the way of its flavour. Most of the time, plenty of salt and a squeeze of lemon, a dash of vinegar, a sprinkle of chilli, shallot or herb pays ultimate respect. Just add good bread and chilled wine or beer.
Find a coastal town known for its seafood. Explore the alleyways and backstreets just off the main drag. Follow your nose – you’re not after the smell of fish (not if you want it fresh), you’re after the smell of frying fish. Listen for the sizzle of oil and the caw of seagulls. Be on the lookout for feral cats that seem fatter and more content than the usual scrawny scrappers. Most of all, look for locals. Small knots of them eating from paper serviettes in their hands or small plates on small bar tables.
It’s like giving my tastebuds ‘ten tickles’
Octopus is right up there in the pantheon of seafood greats so I’d been looking forward to a sande de polvo since we booked our flights to Madeira. Roughly chop the octopus and marinate it vinegar, olive oil, onion and pimiento. Then stick it in a fresh, fluffy and crisp bread roll? With beer? Yes please.
So, we found the perfect place. A little bar which would be crowded if you were the only one in it, just off the heavily touristed Rua de Santa Maria. There was room for just 4 small tables and most of the people inside that half-spilt into the street. One wall was a flatscreen TV showing the football, the other a cigarette machine. Benfica scarves plastered what was left. 3 tables were taken up by a group of locals deep in animated discussion.
Stepping inside, it took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the drop in lumens. In the tiny confines of the bar, we were pretty much eye-to-eye with the landlord. His time-weathered face was what I can only describe as ‘cautiously genial’. Right. Here we go.
Food this good? ‘I’ll be back’
Like Arnie in the original Terminator, I’m frantically scanning the bar and all kinds of data is whirring through my brain. Coasters, taps and beer mats tell me what beer there is and what’s on draught. Where’s the food, the food. Why can’t I …? Ah, there on that faded blackboard past the open hatch to the kitchen. Past the lady chopping something like she hates it. Sandwiches with all kinds of seafood. Cheryl orders in Portuguese – ‘Uma sande de polvo, uma espada e uma atum‘. I back her up by ordering draught beers, confidently clarifying ‘à pressão‘ even though I’d only moments before heard the expression for the first time.
Then that moment of dread where your heart sinks and you feel deep down in the pit of your stomach that you’ll never be understood in Portuguese and you should give up now.
He asks us to repeat everything. More than once. And now he’s shouting at the woman in the kitchen who, judging by the vehemence, must be his dear wife.
But no … it’s not lack of understanding due to our terrible accents. He’s just old and a little deaf. We help clarify things in Portuguese and all is well. Taking the remaining table by the cigarette machine, we enjoy an absolutely delicious feast. It’s everything we’d hoped for – fresh, tasty and filling. And all for the price of a single prato do dia on the Rua de Santa Maria.
