A Cook's Tour

Lisbon, Sausage Rolls & Pamela's 50th

When Anthony Bourdain wrote his hit, Kitchen Confidential - a must read for any aspiring performative males - he had a simple writing routine: wake up around 4am, light up a Marlboro Red (or two) and write away. After an hour or two, he’d shower, and head for a 12 hour shift as Les Halles, a trendy French NYC restaurant. Repeat, repeat.

It’s a great book, one that balances humour with his raw and razor sharp wit, unpicking his life in the kitchen and the experiences that made him.

It’s his second book, though, A Cook’s Tour, which in my view, offers a much more interesting insight into the man and his worldview. It’s a lesser book by comparison. It’s less sharp. Much more verbose, and at times meandering. And yet, by centring its themes around the food which makes - or defines - certain cultures and countries, it gives a much more cutting insight into a nation’s people, and their habits.

I took it to Lisbon - my most recent foreign excursion - for two reasons: to look cool; and to focus my own interpretation of Portugal and the people that make it. Brits abroad so often rush to whichever Irish Bar is in the tourist district, and feast on pizza irrespective of which country they’ve spent 2 hours in a passport queue to get into.

I’m no cook. My chicken pesto pasta is a thing of beauty. My Thai green curry hinges on the flavour of whichever paste I choose to lob in. I make a mean omelette, but Michael’s eggs put them to shame (they’re fantastic).

Armed with this book in the side pocket of my cream cargos, and with Patti Smith’s Just Kids (my Milan read) tucked under Michael’s arms, I’m confident we achieved our first objective - especially with my new orange lense sunglasses, and Von Dutch hat.

I’m also no foodie. My inner circle joke that if a menu does not include turkey dinosaurs, I’m heading for the door. It’s rude, untrue, and - don’t tell them I said it - quite funny.

But I made a concerted effort in Lisbon to try and assimilate and embrace the strange cuisines of my new Portuguese brothers.

I’d highly recommend Lisbon. It’s a vibrant, and warm city. It’s energy is safe, but fun, and it’s culture fizzes in its restaurants, bars and cafes.

On our first night, we went to a restaurant called O Velho Eurico. Very trendy, and with drawings and squiggles from its customers dotted insight and out. On arrival, you’re met with a queue of people from all over, but especially Lisbon locals - an important sign that you’re not in another tourist trap. Your name, if you’re lucky to make it on the list, is written in chalk on a board at the door, and you wait - oh boy do you wait - for a table to become available. While you wait, you might fancy a carafe of wine; a light, very drinkable Portuguese number. It goes down well, especially accompanied by a pack of Reds (if you’re into that sort of thing). As you chain smoke and drink, you could perch against a nearby tree, one leg over the over, aura farming for passersby. You will most likely avoid conversations with your fellow hungry brothers, not because you’re adverse to talking to them, but because American tourists have already implanted themselves into every prospective conversation, to whinge, moan and complain about the wait at a restaurant that famously takes ages to enter. Ah the yanks.

You might even have a little starter, served from the outside window to keep your strength up. Perhaps it is a piglet empanada, served in a jus which strongly resembles bisto gravy. Crispy on the outside, it’s a real sensation. Dragging it’s edges along the rich, meaty gravy, it’s a real winner. It strongly resembles a Greggs’ Sausage Roll, capturing all of the beauty of a real north east delicacy.

After two hours, you’ll finally get your table. It’s likely approaching your bedtime, and you’re flagging from wine and carcinogens. The kitchen is closing. Order in a flash. Butter beans, cod fishcake, tuna steak in a broth style sauce, beef cheek, more wine. It’s (mostly) delicious. Butter beans somewhat resemble the expensive butter beer served at Harry Potter studios in London. It’s a fabulous experience. The waiter - very friendly - sneaks you a sharpie pen to discreetly write a message on a free wall tile. You write that the piglet empanada is just a sausage roll, forever immortalised on the fabric of this fine establishment. You the pay the bill, and are handed a full bottle of aguardente to shot at your heart’s content. It burns.

On our initial walk around, we stumbled into a trendy wine bar. It made a perfect aperitif for our date with some beef cheek. The wine we ordered was out of stock. Bummer. Do you want their random replacement? Sure, why not. It’s exceptional. Potentially the best I’ve had. Vinho Verde, light, fizzing, crisp. Two more please, barkeep. We had to return. Once we’d paid the bill, we made it our mission to return and sample it’s food offering. On the second night, we did. Crispy pork (with crackling) served with jam. I raise a quizzical eyebrow. I’m a working class kid. I’m not one for these fancy woke additions. I don’t eat pork with apple sauce. I like my pork as pork, not diluted by the pretentious sweetness of a sugared apple. Again, turkey dinosaurs or bust. I take a breath. I remember Bourdain. I raise my pork and dunk it in the jam. Wow. Holy hecker. Sensational. The raspberry tang melts on my mouth and is the perfect companion to my piggy amigo. A bottle of wine deep, I become a broken cassette tape, repeating every few seconds about how great the jammy pork is. I’m a happy man, the world is at my feet. More wine, obrigado.

We head to a nearby viewing point, where you can enjoy a drink and look at the city. It’s views are immaculate. Truly. Michael goes to order some port from a nearby station - it’s not the official viewing point bar but we’re wine deep now and the world is beautifully blurry. He returns with two pints of port - surely a mistake from an inexperienced employee. For the price of 6 euros each, we sit and the beautiful blur transcends into a wave of extreme drunkenness. The staff approach tables, randomly telling women drinking from pineapples that they are not allowed to drink there. They look as if they bought them there, but are turned away all the same. He stares at our paper pints of port very much not bought there, nods and walks on. The patriarchy. We decide to call it a night.

As we head down Lisbon’s many hills to stumble our way home, I hear an unmistakable sound in my ears. A man. A singer. A lone guitar. Sting. Not the real one - though I’ve met him - singing Englishman in New York. The night lives on, bedtime can wait. Follow that music. In the bar, we slump into a free sofa and two more wines are placed in our laps. Fantastic. We’re sat next to Pamela, a 50 year old Irish lady drunk as a skunk celebrating her birthday. She immediately identifies Michael as Irish by way of Pontefract. “It’s in your eyes, the Irish is in your eyes”, apparently a dead giveaway and a nod to his Irish great grandma. We sing. I tap my foot like there’s no tomorrow, jigging in my seat to the sounds of our brilliant Brazilian singer. We sing Wonderwall. It doesn’t get much better than this.

I had wondered during our visit why so many locals were sporting red roses. They were everywhere. I haven’t forgotten Valentines’ Day again, have I? I put the thought to the back of my mind, but can’t fully rid myself of the autistic curiosity that so often drives me. All will become clear, I convince myself. Then, on the floor, I spy a discarded flower. It’s not a rose. It’s a carnation. The symbol of the carnation revolution, where the Portuguese peacefully overthrew their dictator and placed carnations in the barrels of soldiers’ rifles. I place it in the buttonhole of my French Chore Jacket and continue a happy, happy man. Once home, I put it in the pages of a copy of From Russia With Love and press it under the weight of our suitcase. I will take it home, and keep it forever as a reminder of the power of human agency and the extent to which government is never too big to completely ignore the needs of its people.