A Load of Tripe in Porto

Dusk on the Douro. As the golden glow fades, one-by-one the neon signs on the port houses in Vila Nova de Gaia light up, Offley, Calem, Ferreira, the Sandeman don with his cape and rakish Andalusian hat. On the right bank of the river the facades of Porto’s Ribeira district cast their electric yellow reflections on the waters where the high-prowed rabelo boats bob, glossed black as the wine they once carried down from the terraced slopes upriver.

The waters of the Douro and the dark port wines link two U.N. World Heritage Sites: the vineyards carved into the rocky hills high above the river’s serpentine descent from Spain and the ancient city where the Douro meets the Atlantic.

Arrive in the Ribeira by funicular down from behind the Teatro São João and you suddenly emerge from tunnelled shadows into the magnificent vista of the river spanned by the great arch of the Dom Luís I bridge, its Eifelesque grandeur immersed in the lingering rays of a summer sunset. Built in 1886, this engineering marvel is not, as many believe, the work of Eifel, but that of his Belgian associate Teófilo Seyrig. The Frenchman is however responsible for the slightly older Dona Maria Pia bridge which spans the Douro gorge just a little up.

Ribeira is Porto’s riverside heart. A hive of ancient lanes permanently shaded by multi-storied houses linked by washing lines and alive with the bustle of urban life which has grown on these steep shores since the city called Portus Cale by the Romans gave it’s name to one of Europe’s oldest nations in the 11th century. Of course it’s been poshed up a bit, tourists now outnumber washer women and fish wives and café terraces have filled up the Praça da Ribeira cramping the style of the street urchin would-be Decos. There’s tastefully fancy new hotel, the Pestana Porto, newly opened in one of the ochre houses on the corner where cod-fishing fleets used to moor.

Gentrification has not however taken over. Porto remains a rough and ready place. Its citizens take northern pride in the saying that Porto works while Lisbon plays. They are happy in the nickname of tripeiros _ tripe eaters _ dismissing the effete inhabitants of the capital as alfacinhas _ lettuce eaters. In the confusion of streets around the wonderful Bolhão market, seemingly endless road works squeeze hordes of shoppers onto narrow pavements and into the path of beggars and hustlers, raucous lottery ticket hawkers and gypsy women traders dodging police with their bundles of fake-label T-shirts.

Along Rua de Santa Catarina and its tributaries there are havens to be found. Alongside the FNACs, Zaras and other pan-European chains are venerable stores specialized in surgical appliances, hardware, seeds, dried fruit, miscellaneous wheels, flags. Bolhão is one of Europe’s great markets. Behind its iron gates, the two story courtyard is filled with gleaming white slabs of tripe, hams from Chaves, fat crimson cherries, paprika-red choriço, alheira sausages from Mirandela, cumin-scented blood puddings, ripe peaches and meddlers, fresh-baked loaves. All this spills over into the surrounding rows of grocers, butchers and pastry shops that appear to be little changed since the 1920s. The Confeitaria do Bolhão is the place to try a francesinha _ a hearty Porto speciality that’s basically a huge white bread sandwich filled with steak, ham, cheese, bathed in a thick gravy with mysterious list of ingredients like mustard, beer, wine … like I said, hearty.

In the belle époque interior of the Café Majestic, white-coated waiters hover with trays loaded with toasted rye bread, pasteis de nata, pataniscas de bacalhau, glasses of chilled vinho verde and concentrated cups of coffee that are called bicas in the rest of Portugal, but known as cimbalinos here in the north. There’s also tea and scones with cream and jam _ recalling the British influences in this city where port wine traders from England once formed part of the city’s commercial elite.

Running through the heart of Porto is the Avenida dos Aliados, the local Champs d’Elysée, lined with grand banks and trading houses running up to the towering city hall. High on the hill to west is the baroque tower of the Clérigos church, one of the symbols of the city. It sits alongside the fabulous Livraria Lello a neo-gothic bookshop dating from 1906 where the excellent choice of volumes on Porto and Portugal are lit by sunlight from the stained glass ceiling and reached by the amazing twisting double staircase linked the three stories of books

On the hill opposite is the Praça da Batalha once the centre of Porto’s high society, the screen of masked balls, wild bachelor parties and operatic imbroglios in Júlio Dinis 1850s novel Uma Família Inglesa. Now it’s a mixture of chic and shady where down-and-outs line up outside a mobile soup kitchen beside the grand Teatro São João and the Hotel Batalha _ a modernized 1950s block which retains some local charm despite being incorporated into the French Mercure chain. It was a real bargain at 60 euros a night for a room for three. The corridors are decorated with photos from the next-door theatre and the rooms offer great views over the city.

Back on the riverside, Dom Tonho is Ribeira’s most famous restaurant, boasting a guest list that includes the likes of Eusebio, Fidel Castro and Catherine Deneuve.

However following a local recommendation we went this time to its more modest neighbour Mercearia renowned for fresh fish and tripe. Like most of the restaurants on the quay, this place is built into the old arched storehouses built into the cliff.

Upstairs is quieter, the window tables offer great views across the river to the port houses in Gaia, and the mighty stone walls are decorated with framed prints of old Porto. Downstairs it’s more down to earth with FC Porto memorabilia taking pride of place.

As with most traditional restaurants in Porto, they don’t make much fuss about port wine. We asked for a glass of dry white and were told they didn’t have any so made do with a icy glass of meia-seco. With it came aperitifs: a dish of whole prawns, some creamy cheese from Azeitão south of Lisbon, tuna paste, olives, good crusty bread rolls.

For the main courses we went for two Porto favourites. First up, polvo à lagareiro _ barbecued octopus. We got three thick tentacles, blacked over coals, doused in olive oil, with a sprinkling of garlic and raw sliced onion served with grilled green pepper and batatas à murro _ tiny whole potatoes baked in ash of the grill. It was … okay, could have done with more garlic, salt and the portion was on the small side.

Next up, tripas à moda de Porto – the city’s signature dish. The legend behind this dates back to the 15th century when the Portuguese went off to conquer the North African port of Ceuta. As the fleet prepared to sail out of the Douro, Porto’s patriotic citizens gave all their meat to feed the troops, keeping only the tripe for themselves. The resulting speciality is a huge stew of white beans, cattle guts, chorizo and carrots usually augmented with such delights as pig’s ears, cow’s feet, lard, bacon, smoked ham, a chicken. It’s all served with a big bowl of boiled rice. This one was nicely seasoned but a bit heavy on the beans and thin on the meat, just a meagre scattering of chunks of chewy tripe and some slices of sausage.

Our wine was a Quinta de Picoto, a fresh Douro red at 12.50 euros. The febras _ pork slices _ with chips which our little'un selected were fine, but this was a disappointing meal not improved by the dessert. Our leite-crème (crème brulé) was supposed to have been caramelized on the spot, but was in fact served cold and undistinguished. The ice cream appeared to be of industrial origin. Overall it was cheap _ 86 euros for three, but I’ve eaten better at the next door Filha da Mae Preta _ which locals tend to deride as a tourist trap. In the end I wish we’d tried the Dom Tonho.

Next morning things got better quickly. The boat left from the Vila Nova de Gaia dock at 9.0 a.m. We were taking a trip up the Douro from Porto to the vineyards and this was an unqualified success.

Our purpose-built vessel was an updated barco rabelo, but instead of hauling a cargo of wine barrels it was set with breakfast tables for the 60 passengers on this purely-for-pleasure trip.

The views were spectacular as we pulled out of the quay under the great iron bridge with Porto rising out in all its summer morning splendour on one side and the circular church of the Serra do Pilar convent high above us on the opposite bank _ the scene of heroic deeds during Portugal’s civil war in the 1830s.

Our cheery guides were pointing out the baroque Palácio de Freixo on Porto’s outskirts as we were served milky coffee and honey coated croissants for breakfast, then we were out of the city, sitting back on the sun deck and admiring the increasingly wild scenery as the successive meanders of the river each revealed a new landscape _ forests of chestnut and eucalyptus, rocky promontories, villages churches covered with blue azulejos, patrician mansions and a surprising number of glass-fronted homes in the modernist style inspired by world-renowned Porto architect Alvaro Siza Vieira.

We travelled with RentDouro which offers these day-long trips from 53 euros-a-head, or even less for larger groups. We passed through a couple of locks that took the boat up 14 and then 35 meters and were then served with an excellent lunch of vegetable soup, stewed steak, and chocolate cake and copious amounts of a very drinkable Douro red.

As the afternoon drew on, we hit serious wine country where embankments of ancient stone terraces rose above us on all sides loaded with vines carrying the raw material both for the excellent Douro table wines and the port itself. The boat moored at Peso de Régua the river town at the heart of the wine trade, where we had an hour to pick up some bargains at the excellent shop run by the Port Wine Route before catching the train for the panoramic journey back along the river to Porto.

Trout by Moonlight in Macedonia

The full moon lay low and huge over the hills, giving a mercury shine to the lake’s choppy surface. We were deep in the Balkans and on a mission touched with mystery and a hint of danger.

It had started when work finished late on a balmy summer night. Although the hotel’s roof terrace offered a spectacular view over the water and the Albanian mountains on the far shore, the buffet dinner was uninspiring. So we asked some new-found Macedonian friends if they knew a good place to try the famed Lake Ohrid trout.

This provoked some consternation. Several whispered discussions followed over mobile phones in quick-fire Slavonic before a deal was struck and we were told to squeeze into Boris’ Nisan.

Soon we were revving out of Ohrid _ a pearl of city squeezed between the ramparts of Czar Samuel’s 10th-century fortress and the lakeside in a tangle of cobbled lanes, ancient taverns and medieval church domes resonant with the chants of Orthodox priests.

With midnight fast approaching our path dipped and rose past shadowy mountains, hushed villages and snatched glimpses of the glittering waterside. Then we arrived, edging the car into a dimly lit square and scurrying down an ally where our hosts were waiting.

This was clearly not just any trout, for the trout of Lake Ohrid are legend throughout the Balkans, so prized for their succulent flesh that over-fishing has left them endangered and visitors hoping to get a taste are forced to head out to clandestine fishermen’s haunts like the speakeasies of prohibition America.

It thus was with pangs of conscience as well fear of the local constabulary that we awaited the arrival of our illicit main course. But the Macedonians brushed aside any qualms, insisting such clandestine transactions were vital to keep fishermen and restaurant owners in business after the two year ban on trout catches _ and blaming the shortage on unregulated catches on the Albanian side of the lake.

Only when I read up back home did I find out just rare they were. Scientists believe the Ohrid trout are a throw back to the age of dinosaurs, the like of which are only found in a handful of ancient lakes.

Ohrid is one of Europe’s great hidden gems. Few places can combine such spectacular natural surroundings with the glories of 2,000 years of civilization. The city was a major staging post on the Via Egnatia linking Rome to Constantinople. Known as the “Balkan Jerusalem,” it developed as a Christian cultural centre reputed to have a church for every day of the year. Scholars here helped develop the Cyrillic alphabet. Albanians, Slavs, Byzantines and Ottomans sought to gain control before the 1390s saw the start of five centuries of Turkish rule that has left minarets alongside those church domes as well as the bazaar-like shopping streets and the taste for strong dark coffee.

Part of independent Macedonia since the break-up of Yugoslavia in the 1990s, Ohrid looks out across Europe’s oldest lake. We were lucky to have just avoided a heat wave that had temperatures pushing up to the high 30s. Instead a balmy 25 C had crowds of local youngsters taking the sapphire clear and surprisingly warm waters of the lake in the lee of St. Jovan in Kaneo. This is Ohrid’s most photographed church _ a tiny red brick hive perched since the 13th century on a rocky promontory pointing out toward the Albanian shore. After the brilliance of the sunshine outside it takes a bit of time to adjust to the sombre interior, but 100 denar (2 euros) brings on the lights to reveal murals of a plethora of polychrome saints. The whole area is a UNESCO World Heritage site.

Back at our anonymous village, the mezzes were arriving, another Turkish tradition that lingers in the former Yugoslav republic. First a laden tray of crudités _ ripe tomatoes stuffed with sliced onion, fat black olives, shredded white cabbage, cucumber and pale green pickled peppers. Next up, a briny, hard feta-style white cheese served deliciously deep fried. Then a local specialty served for breakfast, lunch and dinner _ a kind of compressed, savoury pancake layer cake. There was a wonderfully pungent bowl of mashed garlic, lightly toasted country bread and wickedly hot grilled chilli peppers. This was all washed down with rakija _ not the aniseed flavoured raki of Turkey, but a mildly spiced brandy served ice cold. We were assured this one was homemade and at over 40 degrees was stronger than anything produced in neighbouring countries.

At this late hour we were the only customers, sitting under a vine trellis with the water lapping up alongside, our conversation broken only by the sound of the surf, a chorus of amorous bullfrogs and the occasional step of moonstruck couples wandering along the shingle shore.

Once the trout served in the Ohrid way was a major attraction here. The ban instigated by the sorry state of stocks is just the latest calamity to have hit the once thriving tourist trade, which has so far yet to entice Western travellers scared away by the violence of the Yugoslav wars.

A bottle of local traminer wine was produced. It came with a powerful floral perfume but turned out to be surprisingly dry and the perfect partner for the approaching fish.

The trout when they came were magnificent, the size of boxers forearms, they were split from head to tail and splayed for the pan, acquiring golden, crisp surface that peeled off the bone to reveal the sweet pink flesh within. The waiter said they’d been pulled form the lake barely an hour before. These were litnica, known as the summer trout. It is one of two species unique to Ohrid. The other belvica is the winter trout, although both seemed to be available on this June trip. In contrast to the rosy flesh of the litnica we were told its cousin has white meat. It was piscatorial perfection served just with a plate of chips, the vegetables left from our mezze and another bowl of that great garlic mash.
We finished up with sweet melon from the fertile lakeside fields and a cup of thing Turkish style coffee at around 2 a.m. Not only can I not reveal the name of the illicit restaurant, but I cannot say how much the feast cost _ Balkan hospitality dictated that our friends snatched up the bill before we had time to so much as glance at it.

Norway's naughty nibbles _ cod tongues and whale

Norway’s Lofoten islands in the 1950s, may seem an unlikely inspiration for gourmet eating.

Not so for chef Kjell A. Jenssen, who has recreated a fragment of his childhood homeland behind the rather nondescript façade of shopping street besides Oslo’s sculpture-filled Vigelands Park.

The amiable Mr. Jenssen has a simple approach, which he explains to first time guests. For him, the icy waters surrounding Lofoten’s craggy peaks produce seafood of such pure quality that _ like his forefathers _ he sees little reason to douse it in fancy sauces or elaborate preparations.

Oslo harbour

And when he says seafood, don’t think that means just fish, for the menu at his Lofotstua Restaurant is not for the squeamish, featuring not only whale, but also seal _ once a staple in remote north Norway, now a hard to find specialty.

After a long walk to the restaurant through the galleries, boutiques and cafes of trendy Frognerveien, we found ourselves enjoying a glass of Mack beer from what claim to be the world’s most northerly brewery in Troemso, while Jenssen explained what was in store.

We were to start with two of his signature dishes _ cod tongues and whale in a cream sauce.

This news was met with a certain amount of apprehension among some of the non-Norwegians amongst us. But nobody dared say “no” and soon compliments were flowing for the sweet, succulent morsels of cod lightly fried in a delicate, eggy batter.

In fact, Jenssen explained, what are called “tongues” actually the glutinous bit from between the fishes’ jawbones _ something I’d actually had once in Iceland sautéed with tarragon and a pinch of curry and there called “cod’s chins.”

Oslo fortress Guard

Next up the whale, minke whale to be precise, cut into thin slices swimming in a rich, creamy sauce. Our host had explained that the taste was similar to a tender steak with just a hint of liver, and he was spot on. It was sinfully delicious.

Whale is back in fashion in Norway. They serve whale meat burgers up in the Lofoten islands and in Oslo’s chicer places, whale sushi is the in thing _ I was served at a reception some and found it a tad bland.

A tastier and more ecologically correct choice among the odder northern seafood is perhaps red king crab. These monsters, which can grow up to almost 2 meters across, were introduced to the Barents Sea in the 1960s from their homelands off the Siberian far east as part of a harebrained Soviet scheme to bring the much prized delicacy closer to markets in Moscow and Leningrad. The crabs have thrived and are now causing environmental havoc in the seas off northern Norway, munching their way down through the fjords. Norwegian fishermen are doing the best to limit their numbers, so feel free to tuck into their sweet white meat with a clear conscience _ great sautéed with a little garlic and parsley.

Back to the Lofotstua, and next up on the menu Jenssen put together for us was traditional boiled cod served with liver and roe.
This is the emblemic dish of the Lofoten islands. Firm, fresh white fish dished up with a generous slice of pink roe, boiled potatoes, a tub of melted butter and a steaming pot of chopped cod liver sauce with onions.

Forget cod liver oil, this all came together perfectly a surprising sophisticated dish made of such simple ingredients.

A Frenchman at the table declared it the best fish he had ever tasted, although by that time the Mack beers had been supplemented by a chilled glass of Linie aquavit – a copper-hued firewater flavored with herbs and spices, that by tradition must travel in a ship’s hold to the equator and back before serving _ so perhaps his views were somewhat distorted.

Lofotstua’s décor aims at recapturing a fisherman’s café up in the islands, bleached wood boards, scraps of net, prints and fading photos of fragile-looking sailing boats against a backdrop of towering cliff faces.

In some contrast to the austere setting, the window overlooking the street provided a constantly colourful parade of comely blonds dressed in scarlet dungaree trousers, blowing whistles and displaying a worsening state of inebriation. This due to high school graduation celebrations that apparently last through the spring.

Two more fish came up next and focused attention back on our plates _ lightly battered, and pan fried halibut and a scary looking beast the locals call Steinbit and translate as Norwegian catfish. Once again excellent quality, presented only with more boiled spuds, a salad, some pickled cucumber and wafer-thin crisp bread.

We stagger toward dessert, Arctic cloudberries with whipped cream, or tilskerte bondepiker, which was translated as “brown Betty” and turned out to resemble apple crumble. Coffee was served in a big, copper kettle, as Jenssen explained why he’d not given us his other “exotic” specialty – seal. Just too gamey to go well with all that fish, he said. Also the cooking needs to be exact, too rare or overdone and it’s inedible, he explains.

Norway’s seafood is legendary, but like most things in this most expensive of cities, it comes at a price. We paid 526 kroner (about 65 euro) a head at Lofotstua.

A couple of day’s earlier, dinner at Lofoten, a more upmarket fish restaurant on the fashionable Akerbrygge quayside dinner came to around 680 kroner (85 euro) for a fixed menu with the cheapest available white wine. Lofoten also takes its inspiration from the islands, but goes in for more elaborate preparations. That menu featured confit of arctic char drizzled with hazelnut oil, a saffron-tinted soup with scallops, grilled fillet of Finnish pike-perch and white chocolate tart with strawberry sorbet.

Ironically, given the price, the bar at this modern, glass fronted place overlooking the harbour is named after the novelist Knut Hamsun who’s best known book “Hunger” tells the tale of a starving writer wandering the streets of the city.

Lofotstua, Kirkeveien, 40, Oslo. Tel. +47-22 46 93 96.
Lofoten, Stranden, 75, Oslo. Tel. +47-22 83 68 66.