If you’re a foodie, few pleasures in Portugal rival a visit to a farmers’ market. On the Saturday before Christmas, we stopped by the market in Régua, and it was a delight.
The town’s full name is Peso da Régua. Peso, meaning “weight,” likely refers to the role the town assumed after the Marquis of Pombal demarcated the Douro region in 1756: a logistical hub where wine and other goods were weighed before beginning their journey downriver. Régua, meaning “ruler,” describes the way the town stretches along the banks of the Douro, long and narrow, following the river’s course.
Régua welcomes visitors through an elegant iron bridge, inaugurated in 1872, but much of the surrounding architecture fails to do justice to the valley’s natural beauty. Still, there is an undeniable authenticity to the place and to its people.
We went to the Régua market in search of a local delicacy called falachas, a sweet biscuit made from chestnut flour. We were told, regretfully, that these small culinary miracles appear at the market only on Wednesdays. But there were other blessings. Stalls overflowed with apples—including the celebrated Bravo de Esmolfe and a lesser-known variety called Porta da Loja. There were cabbages of many shapes and forms, piles of chestnuts, dried figs, and walnuts. At the center of the market, a large stall tempted passersby with sausages and cured hams (presuntos). Near the entrance, a baker displayed baskets filled to the brim with bread: loaves made from white or yellow corn, golden olive-oil breads, and bola de carne, bread generously stuffed with meat or sausage.
What makes the market special, though, are the vendors themselves, warm, genuine, and quietly persuasive. “Try our delicious figs,” says one. “We dust them lightly with white flour so they stay soft and don’t stick together.” “Taste these walnuts,” urges another vendor. “They’re from a nearby farm. A woman’s been looking after the trees her whole life. She only gets about six hundred kilos, but they’re really great. We’re lucky to have them.”
In this holiday season, it is a rare gift to taste the fruits produced by people who devote their lives to caring for the land. We are fortunate to have them!
In this fifth masterclass with viticulturist António Magalhães, we follow the seasons in the Douro Valley. The lecture brings to mind a famous passage from the Book of Ecclesiastes: “To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven.”
Each season brings its own tasks, anxieties, and rewards. Despite the vastness of the landscape, the work of tending vines remains a human craft, learned through experience and carried out with dirt under the nails and an eye on the sky.
António grew up with the notion that the agricultural year ran from November 1 to October 31. At Taylor Fladgate, where he worked for over three decades, the year was divided into quarters: dormancy from November to February, growth from March to June, and ripening from July to October.
This calendar aligns with the concept of growing degree days. Developed in the 1930s by Albert Winkler at the University of California, Davis, it links vine growth to cumulative temperatures above 10 °C over the growing season, conventionally defined as April 1 to October 31.
But António has been pondering what to do about October. Over the past few decades, most Douro grapes have been harvested by the end of September, with only a few straggling vineyards picked in the first days of October. This shift reflects climatic change and the Douro’s growing emphasis on table wines, known as DOC Douro. In the past, when all grapes were destined for Port, harvests came later to allow grapes to reach the deeper ripeness Port requires. Viticultural choices over recent decades have also contributed to earlier harvests, as growers planted fewer varieties, favored early-ripening grapes and rootstocks, and increased sun exposure.
António is therefore exploring a different viticultural calendar: dormancy from early October through the end of February, growth from early March through the end of June, and ripening from early July through the end of September. Uneven in length, these seasons are more closely attuned to the rhythms of nature as they now unfold.
The Dormancy Season
As soon as the grapes are harvested in September and early October, attention turns to the olive trees planted around the vineyards.
Picking olives
There is a natural complementarity between vines and olive trees. They draw water and nutrients from different soil depths, and their peak water needs occur at different times: vines in spring and early summer, olive trees in late summer and early autumn. Their distinct canopy structures mean they do not meaningfully compete for sunlight, and because their harvests follow one another, they do not compete for labor either.
Olive trees surounding the vineyard
In October, spontaneous vegetation awakens, washing the landscape in green. António likens the soil to a sideboard of drawers filled with seeds, opened selectively by the year’s weather. Fast-growing grasses help control erosion, while broad-leafed dicotyledons improve soil structure and biodiversity. Together, they form spontaneous mosaics in the fields, perhaps a model worth echoing in the vineyard, through field blends that create a mosaic of vines.
The vineyards are particularly spectacular in November. The leaves turn red and yellow, their rich palette reflecting the diversity of grape varieties.
Fall in Vale de Mendiz
During this period, farmers pray for rain to fill what António calls the “water piggy bank.” Because most vines, especially in the Baixo and Cima Corgo, are not irrigated, rainfall during dormancy is crucial: about 400 to 500 millimeters of water must be stored over these five months. Once reserves are replenished, cold temperatures are welcome: they keep the vines fully dormant, prevent premature budbreak, slow metabolic activity, reduce disease pressure, and ensure a synchronized, healthy awakening in spring.
A rainy day at Quinta de Ventozelo
Cold weather is also valuable in the cellar. Winemakers say that the cold “closes the color of the wine.” Traditionally, Port spent its first winter in the Douro Valley before being shipped to Gaia. In the past, the river’s powerful winter flow made navigation too dangerous; even after the Douro was tamed, producers continued the practice, having found it beneficial.
The dormancy season is a time for reflection in the vineyard and the cellar—on the year just past and the one to come. In the Douro, people say that after the harvest, “the wine must be allowed to speak.” Judgment is never rushed; wines are tasted and assessed only in January and February of the following year. At that point, samples of the most recent harvest are sent to the lodges in Gaia, where they are tasted alongside wines from the harvest two years earlier. This tasting is the beginning of a momentous decision that winemakers will make in March or April: whether the wine, now in its second year, is declared Vintage.
The most important task of the dormancy season is pruning. In the Douro Valley, vines behave very differently from one another, so each must be pruned individually. For this reason, the simple, efficient cordon system is avoided in favor of spur and cane pruning, also known as Guyot pruning, a method used in the Douro Valley long before Jules Guyot popularized it in the nineteenth century. This pruning method promotes vine rejuvenation, a vital practice in the Douro Valley.
Other winter tasks include maintaining the vineyards. Vines trained on vertical trellis systems require regular upkeep, and terrace walls must be repaired. In midwinter, dead vines are replaced, and new vineyards are planted.
The Growing Season
Vines grow from March to June. The first signs of phenological awakening are the flowering of Crepis spp, an herb with yellow blossoms that open only during the day, and a phenomenon known as “crying”: sap seeps from pruning cuts.
Crepis spp
Budbreak (abrolhamento) soon follows, as the dormant buds left after winter pruning open to produce tiny shoots and leaves. In Pinhão, at the heart of the Douro Valley, budbreak typically occurs around March 14 or 15.
Budbreak
During the growing season, about 200 millimeters of rain are needed to support shoot development, leaf expansion, and canopy formation. As temperatures rise, the vines enter flowering, a brief and delicate phase when tiny, almost invisible blossoms appear on the clusters. Cold, rain, or wind can disrupt pollination, reduce fertility, and lead to irregular crops. For all our technological advances, flowering cannot be hurried or protected; it remains entirely at the mercy of the elements.
Vine growth, Tinta Francisca
When flowering succeeds, fruit set follows—the moment when blossoms become tiny green grapes. This stage is fragile: poor weather can cause grape shatter, as flowers fall without forming berries, and a single gust of wind or cold front can reduce an entire hillside’s yield.
Flowering vines
Vine growth must be monitored and guided along vegetation wires so that shoots form vertical hedges. Another key task is desladroamento, known in the Douro as despampa: the removal of shoots not selected during pruning, which would otherwise drain the vine’s energy and divert vigor from productive growth.
During the growing season, weeds must be removed in a narrow, 30-centimeter strip along the vine line, where they compete directly with the vine roots—preferably mechanically, and only as a last resort with herbicides.
Beyond this strip, weeds play an essential role. Ideally, these herbs are local and in balance, though that balance can be disrupted by herbicide use. Leguminous plants such as fava beans and red clover fix nitrogen in the soil, while other species prevent erosion, support microbial life, and attract beneficial insects—bees for pollination, and predators such as ladybugs and ground beetles that help control aphids, mites, and leafhoppers.
Poppies among Tinta Roriz vines in Quinta de Vargellas
As the season advances, vines must also be protected from disease and pests. Powdery mildew (oidium) is a constant threat and is traditionally controlled with sulfur, a natural treatment used since the nineteenth century and one to which no resistance has developed. Downy mildew poses a growing threat: warmer temperatures have shortened its incubation period, increasing the number of infection cycles and narrowing the window for intervention. Copper is an effective fungicide against downy mildew; when mixed with lime and water as calda bordalesa, it also enhances the vine’s tolerance to drought.
Farmers must also contend with pests such as the cigarrinha-verde (green leafhopper, Empoasca vitis) and the traça-da-uva (grape moth, Lobesia botrana), whose presence varies from year to year. As we move from the Baixo Corgo toward the Douro Superior, grape moths become less common, while the green leafhopper becomes more widespread.
The Ripening Season
The ripening season runs from July to September. Through the long, dry Douro summer, berries develop under harsh conditions: heat waves can halt growth or cause dehydration, and skin-scorching sunlight is so common around St. John’s Day in late June that farmers call it “queima de São João” (St. John’s scorch). The steep schist terraces, magnificent as they are, offer little protection, leaving canopy management—carefully arranged leaves for shade—as the grower’s primary defense.
Veraison begins in July. Farmers say that “the painter has arrived” because grapes change color: reds turn from green to deep violet, whites become translucent and golden. But the stakes are high: if veraison is uneven, some berries ripen too early and others too late, complicating the harvest and compromising balance in the final wine.
Veraison (the painter arrives)
After veraison, the clock starts ticking. With each passing day, grapes lose acidity and gain sugar, and the winemaker’s most consequential decision—when to harvest—comes into focus. The balance between freshness and sweetness must match the style of wine: DOC Douro table wines call for higher acidity, while Port is made by blending grapes naturally rich in acidity, harvested at full ripeness. One reason wine quality has improved over time is better harvest timing; in the past, grapes were often picked on predetermined dates, or when farmers’ children were available to help.
Theory suggests that the Douro’s many varieties ripen at different times; experience teaches otherwise. Despite their differences, they tend to converge on a single moment, as though the valley itself were whispering that the time has come.
Veraison is followed by three blessed weeks: the last week of July and the first two of August. Winemakers take a brief holiday to rest before the most demanding moment of the year: the harvest. Yet even away, the vines never leave their minds. Should the break be cut short? Is it time to return?
As this pause ends, growers return to their vigil among the vines. Some estates rely on laboratory measurements of sugar, acidity, and pH, but many Douro viticulturists, including those who taught António, trust another guide: intuition honed by daily practice. They walk the vineyards early in the morning, before the heat builds, gently crush a berry between thumb and forefinger, taste, and study the weather forecast. This quiet ritual tells them, often with surprising certainty, when the grapes are ready.
Mid-August is the most beautiful moment of the year. By then, the weeds have turned brown, forming a protective cover over the soil, while the vines take on a bright green hue that will gradually begin to fade.
Vineyard in August
All the work has been done, the harvest crews have not yet arrived, and the vineyards belong solely to the viticulturists. As harvest approaches, some varieties—such as Touriga Nacional and Tinta Roriz—grow dry and ungainly, while others, like Tinto Cão, retain their elegance. In a field blend, some vines wither, and others flourish, yet the ensemble always holds together.
Harvest in the Douro is both exhilarating and nerve-racking. Pick too early and the wine lacks depth; pick too late and it loses structure.
The ideal rainfall for September is modest—around 20 millimeters. A sudden downpour can swell berries, dilute flavors, or invite rot, but a light drizzle of 6 to 10 millimeters just before the harvest can refine the grapes. “How often we long for a gentle rain to settle the dust on the roads and wash the grapes before harvest,” says António.
That longing echoes throughout Douro history. Writing in 1788, John Croft observed that a little rain at harvest “fills the grapes, washes away the dust, and gives them greater freshness.” In 1912, Frank Yeatman of Taylor’s recalled how September thunderstorms at Vargellas saved grapes that summer heat had shriveled, before they gained sufficient sweetness. André Simon, in Port, tells a similar story about the legendary harvest of 1868: after an oppressively hot summer, J. R. Wright of Croft judged the grapes beyond hope, decided not to declare a Vintage year, and left for Porto. A timely, gentle rain proved him wrong, transforming the crop into one of the greatest Vintage Ports ever shipped—declared by every house except Croft.
Older growers say the greatest secret of the harvest lies not in what you pick, but in what you leave behind: quality depends on what you reject. Sorting, whether in the vineyard or at the winery, is an act of discipline. Imperfect clusters are left on the vine; sunburned berries are discarded. Only the healthiest fruit reaches the granite lagares. This simple yet demanding philosophy is one reason the Douro continues to produce some of the world’s most distinctive wines.
Wild fish with large fillets, firm flesh, and few pin bones are increasingly rare. Tuna, turbot, salmon, grouper, and seabass have become the aristocracy of the sea, commanding pride of place and soaring prices on fine-dining menus worldwide. One redeeming consequence of this scarcity is the reappraisal of fish once dismissed as having little commercial value.
One such species is the triggerfish. It is known in Portugal as peixe-porco (pig fish), an unfortunate name derived from the grunting sound it makes when lifted from the water. Triggerfish has a thuggish reputation: it survives surprisingly long out of water and can bite hard with teeth built to crush shells. At sea, it is fiercely territorial and will even attack sharks that venture too close to its nest.
On the plate, it comes second only to John Dory (peixe-galo). Feeding on sea urchins, crustaceans, clams, mussels, and small fish, it develops clean, firm, white flesh. It is protected by a tough, leathery skin and a locking dorsal spine, held in place by a smaller second spine and released by pressing it–the mechanism that gives the fish its English name.
In Portugal, fishermen often grill it whole over charcoal until the skin chars and peels away, revealing succulent flesh. It is also excellent fried, baked, or stewed, provided the skin is removed before cooking.
If you see peixe-porco on a menu, don’t hesitate to order it!
Jorge Seródio Borges and Sandra Tavares da Silva, the husband-and-wife team behind Wine & Soul, craft some of the Douro Valley’s most iconic wines—among them the extraordinary Guru, Pintas, and Manoella Vinhas Velhas. Jorge’s roots in the valley run deep: his family has been making wine there for five generations.
His mother, Maria Doroteia, devoted her life to teaching the children of the Douro Valley how to read and write. She also has a deep love for animals; at 87 years of age, she still tends to ten hens, who reward her with fresh eggs.
Maria Doroteia is renowned for her cooking. When Jorge and his sister were little, she would bake biscuits and hide them away in tins. As soon as the children caught the first whiff of the delicious aromas, they would set off on a treasure hunt until they found the precious trove of cookies, savoring them with delight.
We recently had the joy of having lunch with Maria Doroteia. With her characteristic generosity, she shared one of her cherished recipes, which we are happy to pass on to you, dear reader.
Douro Biscuits
Ingredients
230 g self-raising flour
200 g sugar
1 egg
80 g butter
90 g cocoa
Instructions
Mix the sugar, egg, and butter.
Add the flour and cocoa, mixing well.
Let the dough rest for 90 minutes to 2 hours.
Roll out on a marble surface until paper-thin.
Cut with a cookie cutter and bake at a low temperature until crisp.
Portugal is a land of culinary miracles, where humble ingredients are transformed into transcendental food. Before the dissolution of the religious orders in 1834, many of these wonders came from convent kitchens. But miracles also come from the hands of lay cooks.
One such culinary prodigy is the Pastel de Feijão, a pastry made with white beans in the town of Torres Vedras, just 30 minutes north of Lisbon. The city is celebrated both for its heroic stand against the French during the Napoleonic wars and for its bean pastries.
The first written mention of these pastries is in the catalogue of the Portuguese Ethnography Exhibition published in 1896. Local tradition credits Joaquina Rodrigues, a home cook, with creating the recipe at the end of the 19th century. By the early 20th century, growing demand led to the opening of the first pastry workshops in Torres Vedras.
Each pastel cradles within its paper-thin, crispy shell a golden cream of almond, flour, sugar, egg yolks, and white beans. Today, the most acclaimed are the Pastéis de Feijão from Serra da Vila. First sold in a modest hillside café in the 1990s, the pastries gained such renown that production had to expand to meet the ever-growing stream of admirers.
If you have a sweet tooth and find yourself traveling north of Lisbon, be sure to stop in Serra da Vila. It is your chance to savor a miraculous creation.
The Serra da Vila pastry store is located at Rua Miguel Jerónimo Nº19A, Serra da Vila, tel. 261 321 552.
One of our fondest childhood memories is of long, lazy days by the sea, lulled by the sound of the waves and the soft caress of the breeze. It was a state of bliss, marred only by the idleness of our taste buds. Thankfully, a roaming army of beach vendors came to the rescue, offering amusement in the form of golden potato chips—crisply fried in olive oil and seasoned with sea salt.
These memories came rushing back when our friend Raul Reis called to say he was bringing over a sack of potatoes. Raul grows Portugal’s finest potatoes in the quiet village of Sobral on the west coast. This time, he arrived with a bag of bricatas, cultivated in soil enriched with algae from the nearby beach of Porto Dinheiro.
Porto Dinheiro is best known for its vacada, a rustic summertime tradition that draws crowds to watch cows and bulls frolic on the beach. Before the event, the beach must be cleared of the algae that regularly washes ashore. Left in piles, the algae would rot and release a pungent smell. Raul had a better idea—he proposed to the mayor that he take the algae back to his farm as fertilizer. Everybody gained: Raul found a natural way to enrich his soil, and the town rid itself of a nuisance.
Five trucks, each carrying 20 tons, made the journey from Porto Dinheiro to Sobral. Raul allowed the algae to ferment for three weeks, turning the piles weekly to aerate them. He then spread the seaweed across his fields, tilling it into the soil before the summer winds could carry it away.
Using algae to nourish the land is an ancient Portuguese practice, nearly forgotten in the era of synthetic fertilizers. In Aveiro, whole fleets of moliceiros—graceful, flat-bottomed boats—once glided through the marshes gathering seaweed for the fields.
We sliced the bricata potatoes into delicate spirals, fried them until perfectly crisp, and sprinkled them with sea salt. They were, without question, the best potato chips we’ve ever had. You can try them too at Canalha, João Rodrigues’ wonderful restaurant in Lisbon, or at Alta, where the food is as delightful as the sea views. A plate of these golden chips is a summer vacation for the palate.
Dining at Ceia is always a singular experience, but even more so when shared with the legendary Brazilian chef Alex Atala, seated humbly among the guests as if he were a mere mortal.
Lisbon’s most elegant table was adorned with the bark of a cork tree, harvested on the thirtieth anniversary of its growth. Draped in moss, mushrooms, and delicate flowers, it set the stage for a menu designed by chef Renato Bonfim and inspired by Hieronymus Bosch’s Garden of Earthly Delights.
The meal began with a whisper—an ethereal broth of ginger and algae, offering no hint of the wonders to come. A bowl soon appeared, strewn with moss and topped with chopsticks decorated with flowers. Nestled beneath the blossoms was a sublime tartare of carabineiros, the crimson prawns of the Algarve. “I was trained as a Bocusian,” Atala said, referring to Paul Bocuse, the patriarch of nouvelle cuisine. “I expect the food to be on the plate, but here, the food is beyond the plate.” A joyful Blanc de Noirs from Bairrada, fittingly named Dinamite, kept us good company.
Then came Water: a delicious composition of tomato, coriander oil, and a sorbet of toasted bread and garlic. Kristin Liebold, the gracious maître d’, poured glasses of Tepache she had crafted herself—a lightly fermented pineapple elixir that brightened the palate.
Another delight soon followed: slices of savory garlic cheesecake, adorned with white blossoms, served with perfectly fried hake from the Azores. The fish was prepared in a traditional style: marinated in milk, lemon, salt, and pepper, then delicately fried in tempura batter.
Atala reflected on how his time in Italy had taught him the importance of simplicity and repetition in dishes like fried fish. “Every Sunday, the mother cooks for the family,” he said, “but when the nonna (grandmother) prepares the same dish, it becomes a feast. The ingredients don’t change—but the nonna brings a deeper understanding, born of repetition and a lifetime of attention to detail.”
An exquisite wine, whimsically called Viagem ao Princípio do Mundo (journey to the beginning of the world), filled our glasses. It is made with Alvarinho grapes grown in Melgaço and aged in sherry casks.
We were then invited into the garden, where, under flickering candlelight, oysters from Setúbal arrived dressed in spinach and algae, gently cooked in a Bulhão Pato style. Atala spoke about the importance of authenticity and of how this dish marries local ingredients and time-honored techniques with a sense of modernity.
Back in the dining room, the next course arrived: cordyceps mushrooms cleverly disguised as pasta. They were glazed in aged balsamic and served with a warm, buttery brioche, the perfect partner to their umami taste. A luminous white wine from António Madeira in the Dão lent the moment a festive air.
The final savory dish was a richly flavored wild boar terrine, served with oven-cooked rice and bread made from roasted quiabos (okra).
Dessert began with a leche de tigre jelly, adorned with nasturtiums and elderflower. Then came a mousse sculpted in the shape of Silent Living’s Herdade no Tempo, the estate that supplied much of the pristine produce featured throughout the meal. The mousse was encircled by an orchestra of cherries: fresh, roasted, and infused with lemon.
A 2000 vintage Port crowned an unforgettable meal that Renato Bonfim and his youthful brigade cooked for Alex Atala, a philosopher-chef who sees food in its fullness: as ingredient and craft, as joy and communion.
Ceia is located at Campo de Santa Clara, 128. Lisbon. Click here for the restaurant’s website.
In Lisbon, pastéis de nata inspire near-religious devotion. And with good reason–these delicate tarts, made of flaky layers of puff pastry and filled with a luscious cream of eggs and milk, offer a glimpse of heaven on earth.
Some Lisboetas are devoted to a neighborhood pastry shop that proudly displays the words Fabrico Próprio on its façade, signaling that its pastries are made in-house. But the city’s most revered pastry sanctuary is the Antiga Confeitaria de Belém, which has been drawing pilgrims since it first opened its doors in 1834.
Manteigaria is a more recent cult whose crisp, lemon-kissed tarts have earned a loyal following. Its original Chiado location has become a popular pastry shrine.
There is also Pastelaria Aloma, a bakery in Campo d’Ourique, which rose to fame after winning national competitions in 2012 and 2013.
Just when we thought we had tasted all the city’s holy pastries, we stumbled upon a new revelation, hidden in plain sight at the recently renovated Hotel do Bairro Alto. Its pastéisare extraordinary. The custard, radiant yellow and delicately scented, has just the right touch of sweetness. The crust is golden, crisp, and exquisitely flaky with seven layers that echo Lisbon’s seven hills.
When we asked the servers about the recipe’s ingredients, they nodded politely and walked away. But on the final morning, a waitress slipped us a handwritten note with the ingredients. The secret? The filling is made not with cream, but with milk and cornstarch, lending it an ethereal lightness. The crust’s sublime texture is achieved through a blend of butter and pork lard.
So here is an insider’s tip: if you find yourself near Chiado, step into the Hotel do Bairro Alto and take the elevator to the fifth floor. Settle into the serene terrace overlooking the Tagus River and order somepasteis de nata. As you sit there, savoring these sweet devotions, you’re likely to find yourself at peace.
Hotel do Bairro Alto, Praça Luís de Camões 2, Lisbon, tel. 213 408 288, email: reservations@bairroaltohotel.com. Click here for the hotel’s website.
One of Lisbon’s most coveted new restaurants bears a mischievous name: Canalha—the Portuguese word for “scoundrel.” Behind this playful moniker stands one of Portugal’s most acclaimed chefs, João Rodrigues. After earning accolades in haute cuisine, João chose a different path: to open a neighborhood restaurant grounded in the rich culinary traditions of Portugal. The result is a place that is unpretentious and quietly exceptional. Each day features a new “prato do dia”—a beautifully prepared dish offered at a modest price. But for those inclined to indulge, the menu also offers exuberant pleasures: opulent seafood, exceptional cuts of meat, superb artisanal charcuterie, and exquisite wines.
The décor reflects the restaurant’s philosophy of understated elegance. Tabletops are crafted from lioz, the rose-toned limestone that graces Lisbon’s historic buildings. The floors are paved with traditional black-and-white mosaic. Ceiling fans stir the air with their wooden blades, creating a gentle breeze.
Our meal began with crusty bread and pungent olive oil, followed by pastéis de massa tenra—golden, crisp savory pastries filled with seasoned meat and served with a bold sriracha mayonnaise. Then came zamburinhas, small scallops bursting with briny sweetness, and an exquisitely tender squid, lightly charred to smoky perfection. The final dish—grilled octopus with sweet potatoes—was a flawless composition of textures and flavors.
Canalha is not a stage for culinary theatrics. There are no illusions, no deconstructed dishes; there is no drama on the plate. This is cooking rooted in reverence for the land, the seasons, and the ingredients. After stepping away from haute cuisine, João journeyed across Portugal in search of forgotten recipes, unique flavors, and small producers who work with passion and dedication. Their names are celebrated on the menu. One dish is dedicated to our friend Raul Reis, who grows the finest potatoes in Portugal.
João is soft-spoken but intense. At Canalha, he channels this intensity to produce something rare: food steeped in the flavors and traditions of Portugal, cooked with skill, honesty, and soul.
Canalha is located at Rua da Junqueira 207, in Lisboa, tel. 962 152 742. Click here for their website. Reservations are a must.
When we were young, we spent our summer vacations camping by the sea. We packed cans of berbigão- small, flavorful cockles- and used them to make rice dishes that tasted divine after a swim in the ocean.
Over the years, canned berbigão nearly vanished from store shelves. Fortunately, Miss Can has brought it back, along with various other delicacies. In addition to classics like sardines and tuna, their selection includes razor clams, squid, mussels, octopus, and more.
The brand’s origins date back to 1911, when Alberto Soares Ribeiro established two canning plants—one in Setúbal, near Lisbon, and another in Olhão, Algarve. Like many others, these plants closed their doors during the years of economic turmoil that followed the 1974 revolution. Almost a century later, Alberto’s great-grandson, Tiago Soares Ribeiro, brought the family’s canning legacy back to life. Together with his relatives, Tiago launched Miss Can, a brand dedicated to high-quality, artisanal canned fish.
The rebirth began in 2013 when Tiago started producing small batches of canned fish and selling them from a yellow Piaggio motorcycle in Lisbon’s St. Jorge Castle neighborhood. In 2015, Miss Can received two prestigious awards, enabling Tiago to open a charming eatery near St. Jorge’s Castle, where visitors can experience the exceptional quality of his products.
All the fish, except cod, are sourced from the Portuguese coast. The canning process follows the same traditional method used a century ago. The fish are gently steamed to preserve their texture and natural flavor.
With Miss Can, we can effortlessly create a delicious salad, a rich pasta, or a comforting rice dish that brings back the taste of our carefree vacations by the sea.
You can sample Miss Can’s products at Largo do Contador Mor, 17 Castelo in Lisbon. Miss Can is available in the U.S. at World Market stores. Click here for Miss Can’s website.