Francezinha (37)

I have to say that the train station does not disappoint. As a matter of fact, it almost knocks me off my feet. The combination of mundane ticket booths and train schedule boards surrounded by magnificent murals made of azuleijos depicting historical scenes is almost disorienting. The place feels like a house of worship adopted by the unfortunates who rely on public transportation and the tourists who follow them but without a God or his messiah. For a change, I don’t have to see Him hanging from a cross, his eternal gaze making me want to crawl into a cave and hide from the wrath or hatred or accusations of the ardent believers who labored for centuries to convert, exile, and annihilate my ancestors. I can look at the white and blue murals without a worry in the world. They depict a king and his warriors waving flags and riding horses, sailors on big ships, and townspeople, all doing the things they usually do throughout history—battling, conquering, discovering places, harvesting, dancing, and playing music. 

I want to sit on the floor, since benches or chairs are nowhere to be seen, and take it all in, etch the magnificent panels into my memory so I can retrieve the images on command. I am not going to take pictures with me posing in front or near them. I want to appreciate the moment and savor it for when I go back to my life in the U.S., where most train stations that I have passed through were covered in graffiti or billboards advertising the latest magic pills that can solve diabetes, insomnia, or osteoporosis.

I am shaken out of my bliss by Rita. We’ve seen enough, I learn, and it’s time to go look for a place to eat. Vera is getting hungry and soon it will be dark. I suggest going off the beaten path and finding a restaurant or café that caters to real people, not a tourist trap that relies on high turnover and silly gimmicks. 

Surprisingly and utterly unexpectedly, Rita frowns at my suggestion. Maybe because it’s getting cold and heavy clouds begin to gather above us again. It might even start raining before we get back to the apartment. Maybe because she is not in the mood to drag her achy ankles in search of another uplifting experience. For all she cares, any place serving food that Vera approves of is good enough.

“Why do we have to go anywhere? There are so many places here,” she argues. Suddenly her adventurous spirit is gone. The woman who rode her motorcycle, alone, on dangerous roads in India (per her testimonials) and explored the most inhospitable corners of the Sinai Desert in the company of camel herders and tent dwellers wonders why I insist on searching for Portuguese authenticity.

“I think it would be nice to get away from the touristy places once in a while and taste something original,” I try to reason with her. I consider returning to the apartment on my own if she refuses, but again, I don’t want to create a scene. We don’t need more drama.

“Then look for a place yourself and tell us where to go,” she barks at me.

I don’t think she means for me to go check out places in the neighborhood and then call them to join me. That would take too long, and Vera needs to sit down soon, even though she is saying nothing about her situation. I consider asking Google for recommendations and remember that my phone does not connect to the internet here. Rita is the only one among us who can connect to the internet, thanks to her international phone plan and frequent traveling.

“This place looks fine to me,” Vera intervenes. She obviously noticed Rita’s foul mood and decided to defuse the situation before our exchange deteriorated into a full-scale unnecessary crisis. She doesn’t know that I am not going to fall on my sword to save my dignity and win the argument. I am not Rita’s sister, and this is not a flare-up of sibling rivalry, thank you very much.

The place that looks fine to Vera is a little eatery lacking in character and promise. The lights are too bright, the chairs look uncomfortable, and the ambiance has all the trappings of a fake diner or a highly Westernized Chinese restaurant. The blank expression on the face of the young female server who shows us to the table tells me that she would rather be sitting at a bar chatting with her friends than dealing with clueless tourists who have trouble deciding what to order. 

I don’t have good memories of sharing restaurant tables with my little entourage, but c'est la vie. I am going to be as accommodating as I can and not offer any comment that might rattle Anna or Rita, who seems to have regained her cheerful disposition since we sat down. She rummages through her bag and takes out her phone. There might be something new on her Facebook page or even a text message from Fred or her son, which might cheer her up even more, or not, depending on the content.

One of the servers brings plastic menus to our table and takes off without asking for drink orders or reciting the specials, which I am sure don’t exist in this place. She’s too busy running around trying to keep everything under control. 

I look at the menu. Almost everything contains some type of meat, which I am not inclined to ingest. I decide on a vegetarian sandwich. Anna is probably going to order soup because it’s the only thing that she can afford. When she told me earlier today how much she enjoyed Rita’s exuberant appreciation for food she also volunteered that she didn’t mind spending 3 euros on soup when we go to restaurants. I am tempted to treat her to a sandwich, but it might give her the impression that I feel sorry for her, so I keep my mouth shut and she orders the soup as I expect. I only hope it’s vegetarian stock.

While we wait for the food to come to our table, I watch two young Asian females who are sitting at a table next to ours. Both are deeply absorbed in their phone screens. I assume they are tourists because of the shopping bags on the floor next to them, and because they look very much like tourists. The women are thin-framed, with straight black hair down to their waist. They are wearing shoes not made for walking and carrying designer handbags. When one of the servers brings two plates to their table, they let go of their phones to look at the spread. On one plate there is a large cube covered in melted cheese and topped with a fried egg. A pile of French fries surrounds the cube, and a reddish-brownish liquid can be seen underneath. I recognize the dish as the famous francezinha (little French girl) which I read about this morning. 

I can’t believe these two fashion-conscious skinny women are going to eat that monstrous Portuguese creation. They don’t seem the type who would let something like this anywhere near their faces even if a gun was pointed at their heads. But here I am, looking at this aberration playing out in front of me, proving once again that humans are gullible creatures. The francezinha is so cleverly marketed as the crown jewel of local culinary offerings that many tourists feel obligated to eat it when they come to Porto. Even if it’s going to kill them. 

From the little I’ve read, this signature dish of Porto is a sandwich made with two slices of soft white bread, filled with layers of ham, linguiça, beef steak, fresh pork sausage, and lots of melted cheese to bind the whole thing together from top to bottom. The sandwich is surrounded by a generous portion of French fries swimming in a secret beer sauce that some restaurant owners would reportedly die to protect from shrewd competitors, just like my ancestors who were burned at the stake to protect their faith five hundred years ago. Finally, this artery blocker has to be consumed with a tall glass of cold beer, because how else can it be swallowed without choking?

Why anyone would eat this horror is beyond me. Tradition or no tradition, whatever the story about the Portuguese entrepreneur who invented this craziness, inspired or not by French cuisine, the health of my arteries is far too important to embark on this misadventure. I have better things to do in life than eat a hog farm wrapped in dairy and surrounded by carbs and salt. Regardless of my adherence or non-adherence to Jewish dietary rules.

I watch one of the women dig her fork into the yellow cube, cut a small piece, and bring it toward her mouth. A long strand of melted cheese follows the fork. The woman folds the cheese around the fork, dips it in the sauce, and puts the piece in her mouth. She nods her head in approval and the other woman carefully cuts a piece and tastes it. 

I am tempted to go to their table and tell them that they don’t have to eat the whole thing to fulfill the requirement of eating a francezinha in Porto, but our food arrives and my attention is diverted to my own plate.