The requirements of civic duty and putting a cross in the right box on a piece of paper (about two thirds of the way down the page!) meant that this Sunday we had to go to Porto. That is where we are both still registered to vote. The plan was we’d pop into Polling Station AA and then wander off towards the Rotunda at Boavista where, we assumed, we’d easily find some lunch.
You would think that between us and our not-inconsiderable combined ages, some kind of wisdom regarding ‘assumptions’ might have crept in. Of course, it hasn’t. One of the golden rules of my life has always been ‘Never Assume Anything’. That gives you a clue as to how good I am at sticking to the rules. Even my own. Of course, 90% of the places we might have expected to eat at were closed for lunch. Sunday lunch, at any rate. We had kind of calculated that quite a lot would be, but not the overwhelming number that were. What’s more, the ones that were open didn’t serve Sunday lunch. Yes, they served lunch but it was Monday to Saturday lunch and while we might have enjoyed eating the lunch on offer there on a Wednesday, it simply would not do for a Sunday. Standards, you know. Either the food looked it might be OK but was in the wrong setting – like plaza style ‘eating outlets’ – or was simply the wrong kind of food, like burgers and pizza. Burgers are fine in the week and brilliant on a Saturday but there should be a law against them being served on Sunday. As for pizza, well, all I can say is the last pizza we ate was in Italy and the next pizza we shall eat will also be in Italy. So there.
We were getting weary and despondent (well, I was; the missus is a hopeless optimist) – and I was getting close to accepting anything that had been prepared with a modicum of care – when we stumbled upon one of those places that we must have walked past a hundred times in the past but never realised it was actually there. Passatempo looks as if it is a small café from the road but pass inside and it opens up into a lovely dining space which has retained some of its art deco beginnings.
The waiters were pleasant and efficient and the older man had learned to glide in the manner that waiters of old used to do, as if an expert on ice. There was a menu – enough of a novelty for us to pass comment – with prices that made us blink twice: is that for two or one? The list was quite extensive but, of course, the thing I first chose was the only thing they no longer had. In the end, we ordered the same: ceviche followed by grilled tuna steaks.
While we waited – the essence of the waiters’ job, we thought – we wondered what it was that made this place so clearly a city restaurant. I suggested that if you had been brought to the place blindfolded, you would have had no problem whatsoever in knowing, instantly, that it was in an urban and not a rural setting. We couldn’t see the outside of the building from where we sat, so there was nothing exterior that gave that impression. The missus immediately identified the rather lovely art deco windows which were behind me, a chique sophistication that might have been out-of-place out of town. She also pointed out the TV, which was turned off and we both commented on the smooth modern jazz being played in the background, just within the lower audible range. The clientele appeared, on the surface, much the same as they might in a village restaurant, though there were one or two women who were dressed expensively and, conversely, one or two older men who looked as if they might teach art at college. More importantly, they all spoke quietly and the children were well behaved and we tried to imagine the same number and mix of people in one of the casa de pastos that we have frequented, where the noise level is often off the scale. “Gente fina,” says the missus. I was also interested in the staff. They were smartly turned out but the thing that gave them away were their professional smiles. They looked at you directly (except when you wanted to attract their attention, of course: Rule Number One of Waiters) and they smiled on each contact. These were professional smiles done when transacting business. Their country cousins will smile, but only if they think they have a genuine reason to do so. When the rural waiter smiles at you, you know it is genuine.
The food was good. A ceviche of salmon and tuna with just the right amount of red onion was a nice, clean start to the meal and the tuna steaks were exceptional. They were brought by a chef in his smart striped apron and hipster beard and had been smothered in seeds before being grilled on very hot coals. The centre was barely cooked and the outside had a slight charred look to it: just perfect. It was served with a feathery light veggie couscous and pureed sweet potato. City sophistication.
In the end, the bill wasn’t too bad considering what we’d feared – at the top end of what we’d normally pay but not above it. Much. And they brought the bill in a flash – something that almost never happens out in the sticks.
So, election day turned out just fine. Let’s just hope that the radical right has been kept at bay at the urns.
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