I don’t know if Rita did some googling or just followed her tour guide hunch, but after a short drive she parks near a cute café located at the end of a road on top of a small hill overlooking the ocean. On the patio in front of the café, there are a few round tables under beach umbrellas that advertise beer. Only one table is occupied, by two middle-aged women in pink sweaters whispering to each other. One of them is drinking a small cup of espresso, or maybe it’s regular coffee—I don’t know what they pour into those cups and I’m dying to know how not to order it. The other woman is drinking coffee with milk from a glass, which is what I want to learn how to order. A row of colorful surfboards leaning on a wall that faces the heaving ocean below us (really, it does) gives me the impression that this place is a popular hangout for the invisible surfers who must be hiding somewhere or still sleeping.
We choose a table on the patio. I am not sure how long we will be able to sit here because the gray clouds look like they might decide to unload some of their cargo over our heads, but it looks like Rita, who sets the tone of what, where, and when we do everything, is prepared to take the chance. She puts the box of pastries she has just bought on the table and grabs a chair that faces the entrance to the café. My inner waitress cringes when I see how nonchalant she is about bringing outside food to a restaurant. I know that no owner accepts such behavior and I am not looking forward to seeing the Portuguese response to this provocation.
I decide to go explore the place and maybe even order inside. I enter the empty café and approach what looks like a bar framed by shelves covered with cups, saucers, glasses, and a variety of beer and wine bottles. A couple of plants and nature photographs in bright frames brighten the dark ambience. From looking at the menu that hangs on the wall, I realize that this beach café doubles as a bar and restaurant. A young woman standing behind the counter greets me and asks what she can get me.
Because I speak Portuguese, and because I noticed that people here think I am Brazilian, and because I really, really don’t like to come across as some type of a weird woman, I am somewhat embarrassed to ask her how to order coffee. This should be the simplest thing to do if you speak Portuguese, or English, or most languages I can think of. I can even say ‘coffee’ in Japanese. But for the life of me, I still don’t know how to order coffee in Portugal.
It’s a good exercise in humility, I tell myself before I say in Portuguese, “I would like to order coffee with milk like the woman outside is drinking, but I don’t know how. Every time I ask for coffee, I get an espresso. Can you explain to me please how to order coffee with milk like that one?” I say pointing outside.
The woman smiles and nods. She doesn’t think I am that weird. “You are Brazilian?” she asks just as I expected.
“I’m not.”
I am sure she has never been asked to give a class about how Portuguese drink coffee, but she accepts the challenge like a pro. She takes a few cups and glasses from the shelf behind her and gives me a quick presentation. “The kind of coffee she is drinking is called galão,” she says. I already noticed that one of the coffee drinks they serve comes in a tall glass with a handle. And though galão means ‘a gallon’ as far as I understand Portuguese, the amount of fluid that is poured into this glass is far from a gallon. I think it’s about 1/16th of a gallon or what we call ‘a cup’ in American cooking standards. It’s much, much smaller than the smallest Starbucks paper cup. European and Brazilian sizes are much smaller than American sizes, no matter what it is: drinks, sandwiches, food portions, beds, pillows, or cars. That’s why in America we always complain about our weight. We eat and drink too much. “It’s coffee with milk,” she adds, “and you can ask for light or dark galão, depending on how much milk you want.” I guess it’s what we call a café latte back in the U.S. because the milk is steamed. I learn something new every day.
One thing I am sure of—I will never dare to ask for a decaf galão with low-fat milk like I do sometimes in California, because that would land me somewhere I have no interest in exploring. Besides, I really don’t want people in Portugal to hate me.
After the galão, she puts in front of me an espresso cup in a saucer and says, “This is what we call bica, it’s just coffee. Some people call it café, some call it espresso.” Now I understand my mistake. The few times I ordered coffee I was served those espressos. That’s why they looked at me funny when I asked for milk instead of telling me I should have ordered a galão.
“You can also order meia de leite,” she says, showing me a large white ceramic cup that looks like a small mug. Like every hot drink in Europe, it is served with a saucer. As far as my Portuguese goes, this drink is an espresso shot with half the amount of milk I would get in a galão. I guess that’s why they call it meia, which means ‘half,’ but maybe not.
By the time she mentions another type of coffee called garoto, Rita arrives on the scene.
“What did you order?” she barges into the presentation in Hebrew after waiting for about a second at the counter.
“I haven’t ordered yet,” I say in Hebrew. “She’s teaching me how to order coffee.”
“Tudo bom? Tudo bom?” Rita cheerfully asks the woman and without waiting for an answer says in English. “Can I order coffee?”
“Yes,” the woman answers in English.
“Two coffees please,” Rita says, totally ignoring my presence. “With milk.”
The woman puts away the presentation cups and reaches for the espresso cups.
“I think she wants galão,” I say in Portuguese. Then I turn to Rita and explain to her in Hebrew what I have just learned. “You should ask for galão. That’s what they call a latte here.”
Rita burst out laughing. “Galaoh. Give me two galaoh, galaoh,” she giggles in English.
“I’ll have one galão, too,” I say in English, suddenly feeling out of place, since I can’t predict Rita’s next move, apart from knowing that she has to be center stage. “And thank you so much for the lesson,” I add in Portuguese.
“De nada,” the woman says and lines up three glasses on the counter.
“Obrigada, obrigada,” Rita thanks the woman enthusiastically. She turns her head to take in the empty café and nods in appreciation.
“Nice place,” she says to me in Hebrew. She lifts her phone in front of her face, tilts her head, smiles to the camera, and takes a selfie with the decorated wall behind the counter in the background. Then she walks out. When she returns, she orders another galão, which I assume is for Anna.
“You can sit, I bring the coffee outside,” the woman says to Rita.
“How much is it?” Rita asks.
The woman tells her that she can pay later, but Rita is already digging in her wallet and puts a few coins on the counter. The woman takes the money and asks Rita if she wants to order something to eat.
“No, thank you. Obrigada,” Rita says only once this time. She collects the change the woman hands her and leaves.
“You travel together?” the woman asks me as she turns to the coffee machine.
Although she doesn’t sound judgmental, I feel a bit embarrassed to admit it. “Yes. We’re on our way to Porto,” I say, feeling grateful that she doesn’t try to make polite conversation about where we come from and where we’ve been and so forth. I pay for the coffee and turn to join my travel mates.
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