Afurada - The Place To Go For Portuguese Barbeque

Good luck and patience are two of a traveler’s best allies. On a day we planned to spend retracing old steps and wandering well traveled lanes, a fresh opportunity unexpectedly leapt into view.
Just across and west of Porto, on the south side of the Douro, Afurada occupies an oblique corner where the river and the Atlantic meet. We stumbled upon it by chance, following the scent of charcoal and grilling fish.
Porto is a beautiful, wonderful city. We’d been four years before, though, and wanted to explore a little further than the wine houses and tourist cruises. The Douro valley was clogged with haze and fog as we drifted away from the center. Mist obscured the sea beyond a few hundred feet of chop. Smoke from autumn fires – trash, clipped vines, harvested fields – scented the air and stung our eyes. The landscape seemed particularly watery and washed-out, with colorless edges and indistinct shapes in the distance. Walking along the riverside, passing abandoned houses and silent fishermen with lines in the river, we felt that solid ground was somehow retreating behind us.
Afurada was a surprise, emerging in a compact cluster of colorful tiles and lunchtime energy. A fishing village, it was thick with gulls and galoshes, women carrying buckets, men yelling to one another. The scent of the sea was suddenly stronger, and the roar of offboard motors replaced the buzz of mopeds. Also in the air, a different smoke, much more appealing.
It’s common, in this part of Portugal, for restaurants to have grills out on the sidewalk. It’s a great advertising ploy, really, because who can resist the sight and smell of barbequing food? There is no better place (that we’ve found) to experience this Portuguese churrasco than in Afurada, where the seafood travels less than a hundred yards from boat to coals, and the crowds are always boisterous and local.
At Taberna S. Pedro, the atmosphere is blue-collar and the menu is especially fish-heavy. On Mondays, those in the know travel out to Afurada for fresh fish, which is hard to come by in other towns where the fishmarkets are closed.
The Portuguese "cozinha grelha" ("grill cuisine") is based around two small fish - sardines and dorade. There are lots of other fish around the periphery and a considerable amount chicken and pork-belly, but the headliners are generally "sardinhas" or "dorada." Almost always, the dishes are served with a salad beforehand and potatoes - either boiled or "smashed," which means baked and then semi-flattened with a fist - on the side. White or red wine is fine, thick cuts of bread are nice, olive oil coats everything.In Afadura, established restaurants aren't the sole domain of street grilled food. This woman was cooking for a few men who were sitting at makeshift tables down the alleyway to the left.
A tiny, wooden ferry services the mouth of the river, bringing hungry travelers across from the Porto side or (heavier in the water) back from lunch. The cost is one euro per voyager, the ride is slightly less than five minutes. There are no scheduled crossings - just walk down to the pier on the Afurada side, or to the busy little quay just west of the large bridge on the northern shore, and wait for the boat.

After our lunch, we sat on the deck while we waited to depart. Two older men futzed about with screwdrivers, fado music warbled up from the cabin, local youths smoked cigarettes and looked out towards the sea. It was a perfect thing to stumble upon, this little fishing village in the mist - we were sad to leave, but that boat was the perfect way to say goodbye.

Open Air Living Rooms

In 2008, smoking bans took effect in Portugal – and as the smokers moved outdoors, apparently, so did the televisions. At least in Guimarães. At first, I assumed it was part of the national soccer obsession. But the celluloid flickers didn’t die down after the last Gooaaaalllllll. During the day, soap operas and game shows played. In the evening, sports and the news. Latenight was dedicated to subtitled American movies and television shows. One night, this bar was playing Seinfeld. That probably doesn’t even translate well! No matter, tv is tv is tv.
Most establishments with an outdoor television also have at least one, often two, sometimes three indoor ones. In these cases, they’re all tuned in to different things. People face in the direction of their choice, and nudge each other if there’s something interesting going on in another corner. Since they’re all on mute, it’s not really a disturbance – just a peculiar part of the local scene.
This place got fancy with it, projecting onto a neighboring building. Cars and people passed by just low enough not to become accidental projection screens. It felt less like a television set and more like a window – a live interaction or, more, a connection with something happening at the very same moment. Live sports always feel like that, I guess, but something about the scene occurring outside the (literal) box of a television in the fresh, night air accentuates that. The fact that they're life sized helps, too.
The first time we encountered an abundance of televisions was in the former Soviet countries. We’d walk into a bakery or store or cozy family restaurant and a flat screen would be showing music videos (unfortunately, not muted). So, we’re very used to the anachronism of it. It’s funny to see soap operas playing at a upscale restaurant or terrible airplane-at-best, straight-to-dvd-at-worst movies being ignored by elderly newspaper readers at a bar.
Who knows if people watch more television in public spaces here because they watch less or own fewer TVs in their own homes. All I know is that outdoor televisions will always be a uniquely Portugeuse thing to me – and that flipping through our photos of this city makes a wonderful game of “Spot the TV.”

Castle Hunting: Castelo de Guimarães

When I learn that a castle has been majorly rebuilt, altered or otherwise "recreated," it feels like a betrayal - the history of the place just doesn't feel quite authentic. When I visit a castle that's little more than a pile of stones, it's also disappointing - oh, what could have been if this place had been kept up.

Then, there are places like the Castelo de Guimarães, which was built in 1139, hasn't undergone much restoration and still looks perfectly, amazingly solid. It's a fantastic small fortress, with an important place in Portuguese history and lots of interesting quirks.
When count Henry of Portugal gained his kingdom independence from the Kingdom of León at the beginning of the 12th century, he chose Guimarães as his capital and the castle there as his fortified residence. An earlier fort, built by countess Mumadona Dias about a hundred years prior, was in drastic need of repair. Henry essentially destroyed what there was of the existing structure and rebuilt the castle on the same footprint, utilizing a hard granite outcropping as a foundation and quarried stone for the walls. The local granite is excellent for castles, as it's very hard and can be cut into uniform pieces - one of the reasons the castle is still standing today.
The outer walls are extremely thick, with no ornamentation and almost no openings. Many of the towers are actually just buttresses, without interiors, and were erected more as bulwarking and height advantages than as occupiable spaces. The two entrances are especially well guarded, with narrow openings and massive, solid pillar-towers on either side. Firm footing was also extremely valuable, as the stone floor allowed the walls to remain well supported and discouraged mining or tunneling.

The walls are built around a central, square keep that is still as perfectly erect and right-angled as it was nine hundred years ago. With virtually no openings in the walls - which are themselves over six feet thick - the structure would have been extremely hard to attack. A single entrance was placed high up on the front wall, accessed by a bridge from the outer crenelations. If the initial defenses were breached, the bridge could be destroyed, leaving no easy point of attack.
Guimarães was built in the late stages of the “Reconquista,” when the Iberian peninsula was being reclaimed from the Moorish people who had previously occupied Spain and Portugal. It’s primary goal was to protect the Portuguese counts from attack by the moors and from the Viking raiders who were active in the region at the time. As Portugal grew, though, and expanded southward, cities along the coast and fortresses along the inland mountains became more important and Guimarães grew less vulnerable.
By the 16th century, the castle had virtually no military importance in an area that had very little threat from invasion. Unlike other abandoned castles, though, Guimarães was too well built to crumble with disuse. It was briefly used as a makeshift jail, then spent a long period as a royal hay barn and cattle shed. By the beginning of the 1800’s, the building had come to be seen as a relic, and the city made plans to tear it down and use the stone to pave streets. For one reason or another, that never happened and Guimarães survived. A brief restoration project – which amounted to a thorough sweeping out and a little patching up – took place between 1937 and 1940. Today, the castle is considered a national icon.
We saw photographs of the castle pre-restoration, and, aside from some sheds and rough spots, it looked almost identical. Standing on the roof, leaning against the original ramparts, the stones had a weighty permanence, so little has changed in nine centuries. While it's not that large or immediately impressive, the Castelo de Guimarães left us smiling and enamored. Not many historic sights are this quietly classic.

Sneaking a Peek at the Festa Da Desfornhada

After dinner on Saturday night in Guimarães, we passed by a restaurant named Histórico by Papaboa. Both entrances to its courtyard were brimming with people, piled up to watch what was going on inside, the Festa Da Desfolhada. Since there didn't seem to be any ticket-takers and the start time on the poster was three hours earlier, we simply excused ourselves through the wall of onlookers and checked it out for ourselves. With a few glasses of vinho verde in me and a video camera in my purse, what else is a girl to do?
Everyone seemed to be in clean up mode. Big straw brooms scratched away at the stone ground, batting corn husks over into an ever-growing pile. One man raked the cobs into a tray and then let another smack at them with something that resembled a long riding crop. It was obviously a traditional festival. The men wore straw hats and the women wore red headscarves and long skirts. A few children ran around, making sure (along with the still-playing band) that the festivities weren't completely over for the night.
"Desfolhada" means "leafless," but translates more perfectly to "husking" and that's what the festival is all about. It's a night of eating and drinking and husking corn. Evidence of all three filled the courtyard, even as things appeared to be wrapping up. The smell of food lingered in the air, the corn was still being dealt with and a man in a red-wine-stained shirt whirled his dance partner around and around.
A four piece band made up of three accordions and a tom tom drum played a folk tune on loop as couples spun and moved in circles around each other like a Teacups ride. The cleanup crew-cum-percussion section joined in with their straw on stone scratching and wood on corn thumping. As we stood there, we saw the revelers gain a second wind. Just when it all seemed to die down, a man in a blue polo shirt walked across the emptying square, clapped his hands a few times, struck a flamenco-esque pose and, somehow, roused people back to the dance floor. Singing started and cameras flashed. You can watch a little bit of it below. I warn you - the music's an earworm.

Getting Ready To Be A Capital Again

Ten months ago, we arrived back in Europe after a trip home for the holidays, landing in Tallinn, Estonia just before the new year. It was an exciting time in the city - they were celebrating not only the beginning of 2011, but also the commencement of their term as European Capital of Culture.

Now, we're in Guimarães, in the north of Portugal, and there is an expectant buzz in the streets. Having been selected as one of two Capitals of Culture for 2012 (along with Maribor, Slovenia), Guimarães has a right to be happy. Being worrisomely behind with the preparations, however, has put the place on edge.

Being a capital isn't new to Guimarães. In a way, it was once the capital of the country, when it became the seat of Henry, count of Portugal, in the 11th century. Before true nationhood, the county-fiefdom was arranged around the fortifications and monastery here, and the city has long been called the "cradle of the Portuguese nationality."

Guimarães history is tempered by youthfulness, though. Much of its medieval center is surprisingly intact, with cobbled streets and pretty old balconies. Many of the old spaces have become art galleries and vintage shops, and the culinary scene is considered even more forward thinking than Lisbon's. It's a tangled, fascinating city of hanging laundry and hidden bars, where young people sit out late into the night and old people watch them, leaning languidly out their windows.

Being a European Capital of Culture is an honorary, yearlong distinction, typically shared with another "Capital", but the impact on a city is huge. Being selected generates a massive amount of tourism and attention; Tallinn was jubilant.

Guimarães is barely two and a half months away from inauguration, and the city has a long way to go before it celebrates. An all-encompasing beautification initiative is only partly completed. Much of the old town looks like a giant construction site, and the work crews were going full-tilt late on a Friday night and early on a Saturday morning.

It seems that everyone is involved with the slow process. Signs in windows shout messages of preparedness, groups gather to watch the machines. Sometimes, there are as many men and women with clipboards as with tools; progress is monitored and analyzed, discussed and argued. We sat in a busy cafe near one worksite, and there were as many eyes fixed on the hole in the street as were watching the soccer on television.
In some corners of town, streets or squares had cordoned off, torn up and then, apparently, left to sit. Portugal's financial problems have likely taken a toll, here, and it may be that the original plans were too grand for the practical reality.
The truth is, Guimarães is going to look great no matter what. It's a beautiful, vibrant city that, miraculously, doesn't seem to have lost much after being torn asunder. The beauty of the city - of Portugal, really - is in its haphazard detail. Intricate tiles, ornate steeples, hidden icons, cracked paint, vibrant hues... sometimes all packed into one lopsided building. The feeling of renewal is greater than the sense of worry, the dust and rubble in the streets only highlights the effect.

Gypsy Kitchens: Andorra Pintxos

We've often wondered what the difference between a pintxo and a tapa is. Well, the answer is right in the name. Pintxos or pinchos are served "spiked" by a toothpick, most often onto a piece of bread. Sometimes, its a breadless skewer of anchovies and olives or something of the sort. Either way, the spear is essential as the name (pincho) literally translates to "spike." So, the ones we made are not technically pinchos - but they are 100% Andorran.

It all started with this can of Fir Nectar. Displays for the item were set up in every grocery, most often on the butcher counter for no other reason than it being the most popular place in the shop. We've never seen this before and - it turns out - neither has anyone else! An Andorran entrepreneur has made 10,000 cans of Nectum D'Avet this year and plans to expand to international markets. It will continue to be produced in Andorra, but he's already gotten permission to collect pine and spruce cones in parts of France. The cones are bathed in a pool of sugar for a year and the "nectar" is then extracted. Pretty interesting.
The problem was, we didn't know what the heck to do with it aside from pour some on our cereal in the morning. The super sweet, piney flavor didn't quite work in our coffee as well as syrup or honey. Then, the answer hit us. It hit our tent, actually. You see, we pitched right under a walnut tree. An old man made the rounds each morning with a plastic bag and a walking stick, picking up nut after nut until there were none left. When he saw us looking at him curiously, he smacked one over in our direction with his cane and mumbled something about that being a good one and the furry ones being bad. One morning, we got up early and collected as many as we wanted from the night's bounty.The idea from there on was pretty simple: slice some bread up, spread cheese on it, sprinkle some walnuts and drizzle on nectar. Blue cheese was our first choice, but since we wanted to keep things 100% Andorran and the local blue cheese at the market was unappealing, we wound up getting half a wheel of Formatge Mont Valira. Our pick was based solely on the fact that our campsite is also named Valira. Its Babybel reminiscent flavor wasn't exactly what we were looking for, so we caved in and bought some Spanish Pyrenees blue, too.
The Mont Valira wound up coming in handy - as some pesky campsite cats ate about half our Queso Azul while we worked away at cracking the walnuts. If you look closely, you can see some markings from our smashing instrument - a blue Klean Kanteen. The walnuts were smaller than average and wonderfully oily. If you happen to find yourself without a nutcracker, one hard smack at the center seam will almost always break the nut evenly in half. Lay the halves face down for one more short, hard hit each and you'll be able to remove some nice, sizable sections.
Pile it all up and that's it! This is the sort of recipe that doesn't really need too much explaining. It couldn't be easier and makes an excellent hors d'oeuvre, dessert or party snack - one that you can assemble in bulk and let sit out without detriment. We'd recommend toasting the bread and using honey, at least until Nectum D'Avet takes the world by storm. Also, go ahead and add that toothpick.

Andorran Food

Andorran food could easily be called Catalan food, but we are going to make a strained distinction. It's mountain cuisine, with lots of sea-brine. It's simple - but by concept instead of necessity. It's served in busy bars, quiet restaurants and lunch taverns. We didn't expect this, but the food in Andorra had us more excited than any other culinary stop in the past several months.
Meals here start with tranches of toasted bread and halved tomatoes. The protocol: rub the tomato (and garlic, if it's also served) onto the bread, salt and eat. Some people drizzle olive oil over the slice, everyone leaves piles of smushed tomato on their bread plate.
The status of escargots - called, in Catalan, "cargols" - approaches that of national dish. They are typically served as an appetizer, almost charred in wood or coal ovens, sometimes sauced, usually plain. It's interesting that these little snails are so popular here - sometimes difficult to find in France, escargots might be an Andorran destination food for the curious.
Catalan spinach, at its simplest, is sauteed greens with raisins and pine nuts. In a small bar-cafe in Ordino, high up along a remote valley fork, we ate "espinacas" baked with egg, its edges crispy, its flavor intense.
A dish of legumes and fried pork, presented modestly in a young-persons restaurant in Andorra la Vella. The kind of plate that feels more elemental than spartan, it was served after an utterly uncomplicated hors d'œuvre of steamed mussels, brought to the table by a lanky boy in a tank-top - his mother was the cook, he was friends with all of the customers.
It's difficult to pass up clams, especially at a bar. They're a perfect compliment to the kind of elongated, cocktail-hour joviality of pyrenees evenings. Small, savory, smelling of salt and wine, they are easily picked-at or ignored for stretches.
The most surprising thing about Andorran food is the emphasis placed on seafood. Certainly there is a lot of trout - mountains always mean trout - but the food here, even at this elevation, is more attuned to the coast than to the stream. Far from feeling distant, the mediterranean is ever present; squid and octopus - "calamar i pop" - are very popular, as are cod ("bacallà"), and anchovies ("seitons"), the Atlantic staples.
Having lived in New York City for many, many years, we witnessed the advent and the market-saturation of tapas and "small plates." I would only reluctantly, at this point, go to a tapas restaurant in America. But here, in the high mountains, with Spain below us, tapas seem somehow unadulterated and re-appealing. Here, tapas are what they are supposed to be: unassuming accompaniments to an evening. We work and eat, talk and eat, drink and eat. It's been a welcome and sudden revelation - descending into the Iberian peninsula, discovering a cuisine that we knew but had somehow forgotten.

Above: sardines, codfish fritters and a plate of "pica pica." This last thing is something meat-addicted people should order... and everyone else should avoid.

The Andorra Ferrari Convention

At one time - before I could actually drive a car - I could have told you the exact horsepower output, zero-to-sixty times, top speed and general desirability of every Ferrari in production. Nowadays, I don't even know the names of the different models. It was thus only mildly exciting when the 5th annual "concentración Ferrari" arrived in Andorra, and the streets and valleys began to vibrate and thrum under the onslaught of pistons and tailpipes.
There's a nostalgic charm about the way people worship the cult of the supercar. It's reminiscent, in some ways, of antique modes of aristocracy - a car is deemed superior by birth rite, mumbled approval is given as it passes, heads are turned. They are given free reign and police escorts as they rumble along closed roads, speeding expected, laws not applicable. We stood at a bus stop with our cameras one morning, watching as a long procession screamed along the main Andorran road, dozens of (mostly) red, sleek things traveling at high speed and full clamor. It seems impossible, but we could actually feel the heat of the engines as they whizzed past. Mystifying and slightly gross.
Really, this is the culture of car longing. Ferrari has retail stores all across the globe, selling branded polo shirts and sneakers, pens and luggage, watches and cufflinks. The allure of the car is the marketing ploy; the red glow extends eventually to knickknacks. Although the concentración probably boosted sales, the Ferrari store in Andorra is almost always busy. The owners of the cars wore special red and yellow fleeces, given to them by the event organizers, unavailable to the public, the distinguishing marks of the elite.

It must be a strange convention to attend, a kind of fellowship of the envied and the gas-guzzlers. One wonders if there is jealousy within their ranks, if the older owners look down on the recent-purchasers, if they talk about their Ferraris or about Andorra or about something less mythical.
The convention ended on Sunday, but a few stragglers have still been growling around the mountains. Parked, they draw perhaps even more attention than they do when driven. Maybe that's because empty seats are easier to imagine sitting in, or because they are suddenly, curiously inanimate. Admittedly - even now that my lust for them has dissipated with age - a revving, moving, exhaust-scented Ferrari is still captivating in a way that few other vehicles are. At rest, though, there's something hair-raising about their stillness, as though they might suddenly awaken of their own accord and pounce.
A less publicized and more romantic (for us) convention of Volkswagen bugs and vans was held in Andorra on the same weekend. We joked that it was organized to protest the Ferraris - a populist uprising, maybe - and that Andorra was much too small for all of this driving. It doesn't take long to traverse the main road and suddenly come up against a border. Why hold a car "concentración" in such a small, congested place? Possibly - and this is especially pertinent for Ferrari drivers - because gas is about €1.50 per gallon cheaper in Andorra than it is in France.

Smells Like Andorran Spirit

There are a lot of perfume stores in Andorra. Too many, really. I was expecting the liquor and cigarette stores, but fragrances? Apparently, they're a big draw. Like alcohol and tobacco, the amount you're allowed to bring out of the country is based on volume, not worth. Doesn't it seem odd that non-addictive smelly stuff could be treated in a sort of sexy contraband way? Andorra's shopping is not about small boutiques and "finds," it's about having everything that there is to have for less. As I commented to Merlin when a salesman at the Intersport produced a manila envelope with a replacement tent pole for our 2003 North Face Tadpole 23, "this is shopping Nirvana!"
Well, in said nirvana, there are fifty-five perfume megastores. That's one per 3.3 square miles (about). To give you some perspective, McDonalds, Burger King and Subway combined have one location per 83.5 square miles of America. Twenty-one of the 55 stores are Júlia Perfumeries, whose white and green shopping bag is as omnipresent as a Century 21 bag in Manhattan. Júlia herself, Júlia Bonet i Fité, is considered one of the forerunners of modern Andorran commerce. She started her first hair salon/perfumery at seventeen years old in 1939. When the demand for foreign products became evident, Júlia found ways to get them into the country and into her store, traveling to France herself and making other deals - personifying the "buy foreign products here in Andorra" model.
The Júlia Foundation started Andorra's Perfume Museum in 2004. It has 25,000 pieces in its collection, of which about 1,000 are on display. There are perfume bottles galore, some of which seem particularly Andorran. There was the Lucky Strike scent and the Flor de Havana with a bottle shaped like a pack of cigars. The museum was lined with glass cases flecked with colors and shapes, all the myriads of marketing strategies used for fragrance over the centuries. We walked around with audioguides that explained a few numbered items. My takeaway - it's always been fashion before fragrance. Back in the day, it was about getting Dalí or Warhol or whoever else to make a bottle and then fill it with something. Nowadays, it's about putting a dab of Alexander McQueen, Tom Ford or Versace behind your wrist - all of whom make exclusive fragrances for Júlia Perfumerie in Andorra.
There were also a number of items for sale. "12,000 euros," our guide said while pointing to a bottle shaped like Buddha. Well, the border cops sure would be fooled! You're not allowed to bring more than 525 euros of goods out of the country, but you are allowed to bring 75 grams of perfume indiscriminate of price. We sat in a room, darkened by a pulled curtain, to watch an informative video. As it went through various eras and profiled certain icons in perfume's history (Cleopatra, Marie Antoinette, Napoleon, etc), items in the room were lit with a follow spot. They really do have a cool collection of paraphernalia. The narration was only done in French, Catalan or Spanish, so I can't relay any tidbits.
The front room was dedicated to the science of fragrance making. This is precisely what deterred us from visiting initially. Neither of care much for scents and the idea of an olfactory museum experience wasn't very enticing. We went around, uncorking scent tubes to smell the aroma being highlighted. Vanilla, coffee, patchouli, cinnamon, musk, lavender, etc. After the go around, we were encouraged to play a computer game in which we smelled fragrances and identified its notes. Another option was to create our concoction from ingredients. We've never seen anything like the wheel of vials that powered the game. At the end of it, Merlin had a headache and my recently ailing sinuses were cleared - - but it was fun.
Perhaps the most intriguing fixture in Andorra's perfume culture is the perfumerie near the border town of Pas de la Casa. I couldn't find any information about this place. I can only tell you that it's next door to an Andorran product mall and a distillery that specializes in Pastis. You walk in and see & smell fragrance culture galore. There are huge copper stills lining the roof and these glass jars along one wall - it's the homemade stuff, labeled by aroma. The rest of the store is filled with soaps, cream, incense, bath salts, etc. It was the smelliest place we'd been to on our self-guided perfume tour - because, luckily, as Merlin remarked, "we escaped attack by atomizer."