Jonathan C. Lewis
Author and Artist
In Cod We Trust
A fictional travelogue; four minutes to read.
I know some people—one or two of whom I like—who eat in moderation. They practice portion control with an easy, inborn sense of balance. Dining out, they order a side dish of vegetables or a dinner salad. They eat whole grains. Often, they skip dessert. I envy these nutritional aliens.
What mystifies me, confounds me, is how or why they bother to travel to Lisbon. Reclining on my living room sofa, I can watch travel videos about Lisbon, study pictures of monuments, read history books. Only in Lisbon can I taste Portugal’s signature seafood recipes.
Like a fisherman baiting a hook for a hungry fish, food is why I am crossing the Tagus River with my wife. We are aboard the ferry Sintrense bound for Cacilhas, a nondescript town of tourist traps and one world-class fish restaurant.
Lisbon has a ferry system worthy of admiration, adoration and appropriation. To cross the Tagus to Cacilhas, ferries depart as often as six times per hour, shuttling commuters and a clutch of tourists for the measly round-trip fare of $2.50. The rusting ships are robust, respected, filled with riders.
The scorching sun flattens the water. The largest wave is the ferry’s churning ten-knot wake. Arriving by water for a seafood lunch chums my stomach. Nothing like the salt air to breeze away yesterday’s gluttony.
The hundred-year-old Farol restaurant cooks fresh fish the way fresh fish was meant to be cooked. At the entryway, tanks with live lobsters, crabs and a cluster of mysterious crustaceans. Along one wall, a 25-foot linear blue ceramic mural of an 1870’s seaport. Waiters—all men, all proficient, all looking bored—seem old enough to have been hired when the restaurant first opened. Windows overlook docking and departing ferries.
Once we are seated, I don’t hold back, observing “This place looks fishy.” In reply, my wife gives me a withering fisheye. I hide behind a menu with enough fish selections to empty the Atlantic Ocean.
I order polvo—a grilled whole octopus smothered in olive oil, onions, garlic cloves, potatoes. A bottle of Vinho Verde (green wine) is light, young, fresh—the perfect pairing. Before I realize what I have done, the entire octopus and all its side dishes are on the sea floor of my stomach.
I could have ordered cod. The Portuguese consume twenty percent of the world’s annual commercial codfish catch. Over seventy pounds per person per year. Portuguese chefs claim 365 codfish recipes—one for each day of the year.
In central Lisbon, restaurant Trindade’s dining room is a converted stone monastery wallpapered with blue and yellow tile murals in motifs from centuries gone by. Bacalhau à Brás, a scramble of salted cod, onions and eggs topped with shoestring fries then sprinkled with fresh chopped parsley and black olives, arrives at my table in a skillet.
Performing beyond expectations, my stomach bloats to digest a meal that my eyes thought impossible to consume in a single sitting. I come to appreciate why Portuguese seamen trawled the treacherous North Sea for codfish.
With cutlery reminiscent of Neptune’s trident, I fork a final mouthful and say a silent, sated prayer to the god of the sea.
