Francesinha and Medieval Erotica. It Must be Porto

  Porto, Northern Portugal, Portugal
Wednesday, July 8, 2009

We decided pretty early on that the accommodation would be a step up from the backpacker dives we found ourselves in on the Big Trip  so it was with vague disappointment rather than nostalgia that we  entered the pension in Coimbra. Admittedly it's very cheap, and my financial controller tells me we have to claw back some of the Sintra overspend.   Helpfully we pointed out clothes left in our room by the previous occupier, only to find ourselves thrown out of the room when it turned out that the word "previous" was superfluous.

Well, it's only for one night and pretty soon we're wandering the streets of the university town, the pension, its 1950's décor, dodgy bathroom fittings (why is it in cheap hostels it's always the little plastic shower head-holder that breaks and never gets replaced?) and absent-minded receptionist becoming a distant memory whilst we begin the search in earnest for Coimbra's cake.  As it turns out , on this occasion, the cake takes second place to Coimbra's culinary claim to fame.  Nestled down a little back-alley we find  the restaurant, Zé Manel dos Ossos.  We squeeze ourselves into the tiny room made to feel slightly smaller by 3 walls being festooned with handwritten eulogies to the chef, clocks and for some reason the head of a bespectacled boar.  The other wall is taken over by the kitchen / bar and this in turn is presided over by the host who would anywhere else be described as "larger-than-life" but given our cosy situation this took on a slightly more literal meaning.  The food was fantastic once we'd spent a few minutes having the handwritten scrawl explained to us in a language that we only partly understood and essentially decided to take a flier and opt for Lamb (me) and Sausage (Virg)  We knew we'd found something special when, bellies full, we squeezed past a crowd-cum-queue of would-be diners standing patiently outside in the metre-wide alleyway waiting for a table.

Porto, until now a place evoking memories of last season's promising start to the European Cup campaign, grabs you as soon as you alight from the train at the stunning Sao Bento train station with its impressive tile panels.   We couldn't wait to get exploring and even the need to carry the rucksacks up a steep road liberally sprinkled with Spanglish expletives and flip-flop challenging steps, didn't dampen the mood (too much).  Once checked into the hotel, we even postponed the usual hotel-room-familiarisation process (identification of pilferable toiletries, flick through the TV channels to identify a) English language channels, b) Spanish Language channels and c) Channels where language is a secondary consideration, identification of any free or borrowed wi-fi connections) in order to make the most of our first day in the city.

Porto, a little less edgy than Lisbon, ticks all the tourist boxes.   A suitably dilapidated old quarter (Ribiera) runs down to the impressive riverfront lined with  trendy bars and restaurants.  The city makes the most of the Portuguese cake-fetish with  an abundance of Pastelerias andcoffee shops.  Not to be outdone by the capital it also has vintage trams; an elaborately over-engineered bridge; and a unique local drink made in the caves on the other side of the river.

Porto was the place to celebrate Virg's birthday and always one for a romantic moment or two, we had to call off the search for the interesting sounding Festival Erotico Medieval on account of that fact that other than knowing it was on the Gaia side of the river we knew nothing else about it.  Anyway aside from an advert on TV, the publicity was pretty lame and after wandering the streets randomly with Virg for some reason refusing to engage a local and ask directions, we settled for a romantic but somewhat less bloggable picnic on the banks of the Douro by the famous Dom Luis I bridge; touring a Port Cave or two; and narrowly avoiding a 95 Euro fine for fare dodging on the Metro.  Ah yes, that last bit.  Well it's probably the combination of an overly complicated ticketing system (buy a ticket, charge a ticket, make sure there's only one ticket per person,validate ticket, get on train) and a stubborn Spaniard

me: "it says you need one ticket each"
Virg: "that's ridiculous! Well I'll just put two journies on one ticket"
me: "we need to validate them by that machine over there"
Virg: "no we'll just do it when we get off"
 
Moments later, safely installed on the tram, the ticket inspector gets on and starts a nerve-wreckingly slow audit along the carriage. 

Virg: "Can you speak to him?"
me: "this is your fault you speak to him"
Virg: it's better if you explain, you sound more foreign"

Moments later, again, we were being escorted to a ticket machine at the next station, being patronisingly read to from the instructions on the ticket machine and told that we were lucky to escape a 95 Euro fine.  Oh, happy days.

Fair dodging aside, we love Porto.  We spent our few days ambling around the tourist spots in the beautiful weather and sampling the local delicacies.  The speciality here is the Francesinha and there a particular street where they come highly recommended.  Always keen to try the local delicacies, I opted for one one lunchtime and Virg sensibly went for a salad.  So what's a Francesinha?  I was starving so opted for the "Special" which was described by the girl in the bar as "with chips" and waited with a beer for it to arrive.

The pictures can't really do it justice so briefly: A multi-layered sandwich consisting of: layers of bread and melted cheese each separated by: a steak, a layer of sausage; a layer of chorizo, peperoni and finally a fried egg.  The sandwich with a final layer of cheese and toast for good measure is then covered liberally in a sauce of tomato and beer.  Thank goodness for those additional chips is all I can say.  Virg's salad was a salad.

A&Vx
www.spanglisheyes.com