Nirvana in the mountains

Will they have bazulaque? I wanted to know. She shrugged. How will we know unless we go? Sometimes I need to be told these things.

Bazulaque, for the uninitiated (which is most people, so don't feel embarrassed) is a very localised dish which we have only ever found around the Aboboreira mountains, located between the rivers Douro and Tâmega, and Baião (Eça de Queiroz's old stamping ground) is slap bang in the middle of that mini-region. It's a mixture of various meats, including beef, chicken, smoked chouriço and crucially, lamb giblets which, after it's all been cooked and chopped into small pieces, is mixed together with chunks of bread. Then it's further blended with pigs blood. I bet that's got your pulse racing in anticipation. Traditionally, it was served for wedding feasts and on holy days but these days any old Sunday will do.

So, did Residencial Borges have bazulaque? My goodness, didn't they just. When we were shown to our table, we saw troops of waiters walking around the room with great basins of the stuff, ladling it hither and thither. We watched as the people on an adjacent table were served a dose after they had finished their main course (we presumed they'd had one before the main course as well) and then gaped in amazement as some of their cheery band demanded yet another helping and then another. In the end, the server left the bowl on the table for them to help themselves. We were far too couth to do such a thing, though I admit that we did make sure that the word 'full' was tested to destruction when it came to filling the little plate onto which our portions were served. Yummy yum yum. I suggested we cancelled the order for the lamb cooked in a wood-fired oven and left as soon as we'd eaten our fill of giblets, but the missus demurred. She wasn't going to have come all this way just to leave after the first act.

Mountain of food

Naturally, the missus was right. Again. The lamb was superb. The only problem was that the super-friendly young woman who had served us had wondered if uma dose would be enough for the two of us and hinted that perhaps uma dose e meia might be a safer option. We are always willing to listen to the sage advice of restaurant staff and followed her suggestion and then giggled when a mountain of food arrived in front of us. There was a whole flock of sheep on the table. The missus, always the stoic, gritted her teeth and reminded me that we had been in worse scrapes and that somehow, with fortitude and determination, we would pull through. We'd done it before and we'll do it again. She set to work, though I couldn't help noticing that the larger portions had been left to me. And we succeeded, against all the odds, and soon all that was left was the bleat. This triumph had been achieved with assistance from the quality of the food itself, which was perfectly balanced in terms of seasoning and the oh-just-rightness of the cooking time and the indefinable rightness of having been cooked in a wood-fired oven. We ticked that box enthusiastically. It was a joyous tick.

What next? We asked the friendly waiter what she would recommend and so it was that a heavenly tarte de chila ended up in front of us. It didn't stay there doing nothing for long. We each have a special place for tarte de chila and in it went. Yum yummety yum yum yum.

This prompted a postprandial search. We'd spotted a greengrocer's selling chila on the way from the car and all of a sudden we were gripped by an urge to buy some and spend the following week making tarts, bolinhos and jams with our new best friend, Cucurbita ficifolia. Alas, the greengrocer was by then shut. There was a small Sunday market in a little square above the church so we had a look around that and, sure enough, there was a stall selling fruit and veg . . . and chila. But there was no one there to pander to our need. Other stallholders shrugged when we enquired where they might be. A late lunch, perhaps? We stayed a while, looking at elaborately carved hand-made walking sticks, with half an eye continuously being kept on the unoccupied veggie stall. No sign of activity. We surmised that they were waiting for us to leave before appearing. They knew what we wanted and there were damned if they were going to let us flighty incomers get our hands on their precious gourds. That explanation made sense. It's what we would have done. Never mind. Our own local market is coming up on Tuesday. They're bound to have what we want and as locals, they will gladly share the fruits of their labour with us. Of course, they will.

Fitch is a retired teacher trainer and academic writer who has lived in northern Portugal for over 30 years. Author of 'Rice & Chips', irreverent glimpses into Portugal, and other books.

Fitch O'Connell