When visiting a capital city, it is hard, as a Londoner, to resist a little game of matching up the different areas with London equivalents. The area just off Rossio for example, we decided was Leicester Square (high concentration of tourists), and our riverside beers were enjoyed on the ‘South Bank’. Our trip out of town to Belém then, to the home of the Pastel de Nata (custard tart), was rather like heading out to the ‘burbs for a day trip. We also made a classic capital city transport error, by getting the train and changing twice (as TFL would no doubt advise you to do), when just a short bus ride would have sufficed; not all parallels were immediately apparent.

Our destination, Pastéis de Belém, was apparently the first place to sell the tarts outside of the spectacular, dream-like Jerónimos monastery (where they were invented) that stands just a few hundred yards away. The tarts are supposedly the best in Lisbon and only 3 or 4 people in the family-run business are privy to the recipe. From the outside, Pastéis de Belém looked like a regular-sized coffee shop but on the inside we discovered room after cavernous room, not a single one of them empty.

Before getting down to the important business of the tarts, we took refreshment in the form of Bock (of course), and some savoury nibbles. The Portugese seem to have a fondness for foods which have been deep fried and then left to go cold; I found some more palatable than others. These salt cod cakes were warm thankfully and very pleasant; simple and light, with soft flakes of fish which didn’t overpower and a grassy lift of parsley. There were a couple of sizeable yet forgettable quiches too and then it was on to the main event. Of course we wanted to know just what was so damn special about these tarts compared to others we’d tried and I’ll admit to being slightly sceptical. When they arrived however, even on first appearances, they did look different. See the Pastéis de Belém tarts in the top photo below and one of my earlier conquests underneath…

You can see that the pastry is much more delicate in the Belém version, and the custard covers the whole surface of the tart rather than being a smooth, sunken pool as above. The pastry was familiarly delicate and flaky, sending a flutter of shattering flakes all down your top with every bite, but there was less of it, meaning more room for that wobbly baked custard, which was slightly less sweet and pleasantly more eggy than the lesser versions. Cinnamon and powdered sugar are provided for sprinkling at the table but I prefer to eat mine as they come. Top tarts indeed.

If I were to find myself in Belém once again, then I would definitely pay a return visit, although I would probably just order Pastéis de Nata and plenty of them; an indecent, towering plateful in fact. I would suggest that any visitor to Lisbon do the same. A national culinary treasure and quite rightly so; go and eat the original and the best.

Café Pastéis de Belém
Rua de Belem, 84-92,
Belem
+351 21 363 7423
http://www.pasteisdebelem.pt/

Winter opening hours (1st Nov-30th April): 08.00-23.00 Mon-Sat, 08.00-22.00 Sun.
Summer opening hours (1st May-31st Oct): 08.00-24.00

N.B. The nearby monastery is closed on a Monday – we were most disappointed.

I’ve just been to Portugal for The European Wine Bloggers Conference. Obviously this is a food blog, but I’ve been making an effort in recent months to really get stuck into the rather daunting task of learning more about wine. I drink enough of the stuff, yet always seem to have a problem retaining information about it; this must change.

That said then, I’m not actually going to write about the wine in this post, as I need some time to consolidate, assimilate and generally gather up my thoughts on a topic I’ve never been confident in writing about. The post will need some careful consideration. In the meantime, a review which skips off my fingertips with minimum effort: Bonjardim restaurant not far from Rossio square. We’d received a recommendation from Bibendum’s Willie Lebus who raved about their spit-roast chicken, and so we wasted no time in heading there on our first night and ordering a big pile of chook, chips and salad.

At most restaurants in Lisbon, the waiter brings a selection of nibbles such as ham, cheese and pâté to your table before you place your order. If you eat them however, you will be charged. Fortunately for us, the charming waiter in Bonjardim informed us of this; bonus points for that. We no doubt ordered a round of Super Bock: a refreshing, (always) ice-cold lager which can be found everywhere in Lisbon, or was certainly to be found everywhere that we went, and was permanently attached to our hands (a person can get wined out you know). It was light, fizzy and went down like a dream. Bish Bash Bock.

The mountain of chicken arrived on a silver platter and the feeding frenzy ensued, with myself and my mate polishing off two quarters each and then splitting a third. It comes with a dinky little pot of piri-piri sauce which seemed to consist of chilli flakes, oil and salt as far as I could tell and was highly addictive. You dunk the brush into the pot, swirling to get a good dose of those spicy flakes and then brush onto your bird as desired. A few stray hairs from a well-used brush were picked off and then it was nothing but me, my face and chicken; we probably should have got a room. The skin was golden and crisp with just the right amount of soft fat remaining beneath, like eating really good crackling. The flesh was super juicy within. I suspect they turn over tables very quickly because the chicken was so moist; it had clearly not been hanging around for long.

A well dressed salad offered some freshness and went some way to giving the impression of eating healthy stuff. The whole lot, including wine, came to around 15 euros each and we left with full bellies, high spirits and huge enthusiasm for a crawl of the famous Ginjinhas: shops which specialise in smooth and sweet cherry brandy served in little shot sized paper cups with booze steeped cherries lurking in the bottom, if you’re lucky.

Three days later, feeling delicate to say the least, my mate and I returned to Bonjardim to gorge ourselves once more. What better hangover cure than spicy chicken and lots of it, followed by a final mopping up of juices and a dunking of bread in the piri-piri pot. We washed it all down with copious amounts of Bock, naturally. Service was charming and sweet, our waiter waving us a cheery goodbye when he left at the end of his shift. We were still settled firmly in our seats, well on the way to our next hangover, which may have had something to do with the scale of our beers in the bar afterwards (see below); my puny wrist strained to lift the glass.

Bonjardim is a little gem, tucked away in the side streets of Lisbon among a lot of other restaurants which all look pretty much the same. I can’t comment on the rest of their menu, but I can advise you to order chicken and chips, lick your lips and eat, drink and be merry. Bonjardim does simple, unpretentious food in the rather shabby and sometimes dilapidated, yet always charming and pretty back streets of Lisbon; you’d be a fool not to pay it a visit.

Restaurante Bonjardim
Travessa de Santo Antão 12,
1150 Lisboa,
Portugal
+351 213 427 424

Please excuse my silence this week, I’ve changed hosts and had the blog re-designed* so neither you nor I have to endure that blasted header design of mushrooms plus hideous curly font  for one more second (apparently some of you might not see a change yet depending on connection and location, in case you think I might be going mad). I may have been silent here but I’ve been busy elsewhere and I even squeezed in a day trip to Paris, courtesy of Eurostar who are currently promoting the idea of day tripping to either Paris, Lille or Brussels (£59 return until the end of October).**

After a painful 4am wake up call, my mate and I excitedly boarded the 6.55am Eurostar and two and a bit hours later, hopped off at La Gare du Nord, slightly bleary eyed and in need of coffee and a map. This being a day trip and all, we squared full up to the challenge of fitting in as much as possible and so one caffeine injection and a couple of wrong turns later, headed off in the direction of the Eiffel Tower – we would nip up and see what all the fuss is about while working up an appetite for lunch in the process.

I already knew I wasn’t a huge fan of heights but seriously, I had no idea I would suffer the full on nauseating confusion of vertigo. At first I thought it might be my lack of fitness making me feel sick as a dog as we hiked up to the first viewing platform but as my knees started to tremble and dizziness went from nagging to overwhelming I guessed something might be awry. We panted and huffed it to the second floor where they wanted more money to go right to the top – a downright cheek. I can’t say I was disappointed when we decided they could stick their view. We got the lift back to sweet, sweet ground level and decided to hunt down some lunch at Le Repaire de Cartouche.

At the end of lunch, the bistro was still bustling. The space is small in a cosy way with lunching diners crammed in upstairs and a formal dining space visible down a narrow wooden staircase. The crowd was reassuringly lacking in tourists. We seemed to attract some attention from the locals inside what with our pathetic broken French and our cameras (the close quarters made any attempt at discretion completely pointless) but we ploughed on and ordered a bottle of rosé and whatever we could decipher from the (14 euro) lunch menu and our stilted interaction with the waiter.

I chose the terrine de campagne which arrived in a good hefty slab atop a well dressed herb salad. The terrine had a satisfying coarse texture, a good porky hit, generous seasoning and a melty layer of fat on top. I spread it on the toast in obscenely huge wadges with forkfuls of the salad which, being heavy on the tarragon, complimented the meat perfectly.

Hardcore carnivore that I am, I ordered steak haché and green beans to follow. The flavour of the beef was good, although not amazing but my main grumble was that it was over-cooked. The waiter hadn’t asked how I wanted it but to be honest, I can’t blame him, our French is awful. We did notice however that the same dish at the next table was gloriously pink and we speculated whether they had assumed the poor English girls might be scared by the sight of raw meat, bless ‘em. This may well be an unfair assumption on our part. The fact that the whole thing was doused in an immodest amount of butter helped take my mind off the problem somewhat.

Overall, the meal was simple, rustic, delicious and cheap. Le Repaire de Cartouche got our stamp of approval and we headed out with smiley faces to walk off the pork fat and booze fug. A look at the Pompidou, a cheeky Leffe and a stroll down the banks of the Seine to the Louvre later and we were running fast out of time. We managed to squeeze in a glimpse of the Champs Elysees too before a short (and brilliantly efficient and easy to navigate) Metro ride towards our next food destination, a wine bar called Racines, recommended by Time Out.

Alas, the trip was a wild goose chase as the bar has closed down. Somewhat despondent and incredibly fatigued we skulked over to a nearby bar to be day light robbed of 8 euros each for a pint. Sometimes the ‘go with the flow’ approach kicks you in the backside. Heading back towards the station a sudden wave of desperation to cram in another meal took hold and we ducked into a nearby pharmacy to ask some local gals if they knew anywhere nearby. They pointed us in the direction of a bistro round the corner of which, amazingly, we never checked the name. As Lizzie says in her write up, “it’s opposite a pharmacy around the corner from a wedding dress shop by Le Gare du Nord,” if that helps.

I started with a salad of boquerones. I adore anchovies and these were silky soft and delicately herby. The salad itself, although threatening to teeter the wrong side of generously dressed, was fragrant with herbs and the beans had soaked up all the salty juices. A welcome light starter after so much meat and beer.

My main course, the mullet with remoulade, was equally delicious; the remoulade light, not at all gloopy with a subtle yet confident kick of wholegrain mustard. A crispy skinned, flaky fillet of mullet on top and I was a happy lady, albeit a happy lady with indigestion as we wolfed down the lot plus beers in 30 minutes and darted for the last train home.

I think you’ll agree we crammed a huge amount in and although truly knackered at the end of it, I am now a full convert to the idea of day tripping to Europe, particularly with this Leisure Select Class deal – champagne on the journey home is incredibly effective at soothing weary feet. If you want to do a city ‘properly’, you undoubtedly need to stay there, but for a kick ass change of scenery? Do it. You get out what you put in basically. I’ve done Lille, I’ve done Paris and next I’m going to get me a big steaming bowl of mussels in Brussels.

You can see all my photos from the day here and my photos from Lille here.

*A huge thank you to Emme Stone for the site design and to my mate @handlewithcare for making it all work and putting up with me being thick about tech stuff (he also has a food blog by the way).

** I’ve had an e-mail from Sarah at We are Social letting me know that it is in fact £59 return until the end of October but in standard class, not leisure select.

If you have no idea what I’m talking about when I say, ‘Eating Eurovision‘ then um, where have you been?! If you follow me or any of the other participants on Twitter, you surely couldn’t fail to notice the desperate pleas for help. Our challenge (set by food journalist Andrew Webb), was to each draw a Eurovision participating country and then go forth into the city with the aim of seeking out some traditional cuisine. To be perfectly honest, I thanked my lucky stars when I pulled this Danish beauty out of the bag and tried not to show too much relief when others plucked countries like Moldova.

My first investigations yielded the suggestion (thanks Charmaine) of Madsen restaurant in Kensington and, although it does look rather nice, I wanted something a bit more traditional, more full-on nitty-gritty hardcore Danish. My trusty friend google turned up ‘The Danish Club‘ (a stones throw from Green Park tube), founded in 1883 and patronised by Queen Margrethe II of Denmark no less! Full of excitement, I was straight on the blower to the lovely Lizette Bang, who invited me (and my mate) over for a traditional ‘Danish Platter’ – result!

I will admit to feeling a little out of place when I rocked up in my usual clobber to find something akin to a beautiful stately home awaiting me. It was the kind of place where you automatically start whispering and worrying about your posture – pillars, chandeliers and paintings with eyes that follow you around the room. The staff inside were warm and charming however, and fears of not being worthy slipped away as we moved through to the dining room to begin our Danish adventure.

We kicked things off with a strong, dark and super malty Danish beer which Lizette tells me may have been ‘Christmas Beer’ (Juleøl) – so popular that the Danes drink it all year round.

A measure of seriously potent Aquavit (Akvavit) arrived at the same time but (on the advice of our waiter) remained untouched until the food arrived – the idea being that you sup it as an accompaniment to the herrings on the Danish platter. You take a bite of herring, followed by a sip of Aquavit.

The platter is apparently a very traditional meal, typically served at lunchtime and bulging with fish, fish and more fish. Oh, and meat. As suggested, we started with the herrings (my favourite part of the meal). There were three kinds – the first marinated in Madeira, the second straight up pickled and the third served in curry sauce – all sweet, soused and incredibly soft, almost buttery in texture. Among the other fish we devoured were smoked eel, fried plaice, prawns and smoked salmon. Among the meats, a Danish meatball (frikadeller), crispy bacon and pate with rye bread. It is the use of rye bread which makes Danish cuisine different from that of other Scandinavian countries apparently – the bread is spread with butter and the fish piled on top to make an open sandwich, or Smørrebrød.

Amongst all that fish nestled some welcome crunchy beetroot and mystery pickle, which my friend and I tried and failed to identify as pickled pear. Together with some crispy fried onions, the whole plate was a fishy, meaty extravaganza of contrasts although in the end, it defeated even two ladies with seemingly bottomless pits where our stomachs should be.

At this point the restaurant was really filling up, as was the surrounding bar. I imagine this place is a real haven for the Danish community in London – there are some 600 members of the club, although Lizette would like to encourage more of the 40,000 strong Danes in the capital to sign up. I left the Danish Club feeling rather privileged actually, to have been so generously invited and to have enjoyed such warm hospitality. A huge thank you to Lizette and the staff at the Danish club for making my Eurovision challenge a success and a pleasure.

Posts from the other participating bloggers here.

Oh, how I wish we had spent longer in Iceland. I think nearly everyone I have spoken to about it has asked whether we ate puffin during our stay. I am sorry to report that we didn’t. There is only so much you can cram into four days and it just didn’t happen to cross our path. Then Gordon Ramsay goes and cooks it on the F Word last week and everyone is talking about it. I was this close! No bother, we still had some delicious experiences, a couple of which were suggestions of our fantastic tour guide, Gunnar. Sixty nine years old but you would never believe it. Perhaps it’s all that bathing in mineral rich waters, breathing clean mountain air, enjoying the fantastic scenery at every turn. Gunnar remained firm that the reason for his youthful looks and constant cheerfulness was down to all the fish he eats and who could disagree with that? We all know that fish is really, really good for you – physically and psychologically. This man was the best advert for a fish filled diet that you could possibly imagine. Full of energy, warmth and more than the odd song..

The first meal in this little round up was one of Gunnar’s suggestions although this time, sans fish. On our way to see the spectacular Gullfoss waterfall, he mentioned a famous lamb soup on offer in the cafe there. He described how the soup comforts the weary on cold winter days – meltingly tender lamb chunks and vegetables swimming in a clear flavoursome broth. It wasn’t particularly cold, but the soup was still incredibly comforting, like it was easing and fortifying tired limbs with each mouthful. Make sure the bread has a good thick coating of Icelandic butter..

I decided even before the plane had landed in Iceland that sushi was most definitely on the menu at some point. I have serious sushi cravings most days anyway but I knew the quality and freshness of the fish here would be excellent – a no brainer. Not Icelandic, but a no brainer nonetheless. I warn you now though, I have done a bad thing. To be fair, I didn’t actually know what I had eaten until after it had passed my lips. Some ultra-bright red sashimi whizzed past on the conveyor belt – uber-fast by the way – someone having a joke methinks. It was unfamiliar therefore I had to try it. Unable to identify it from the menu and no staff in sight I could wait no longer, it got ate. Not particularly exciting, I couldn’t really identify a flavour as such, it was very mild, a little like beef but different in texture and colour. It wasn’t until we struck up a conversation with two French-Canadian guys opposite us that we found out, it was whale. I know, I know. My bad. We’re not supposed to eat whales are we?

The rest of the sushi was good, nothing amazing but good. The real star was the sashimi, really, really generous bowls of melting tuna which I just couldn’t get enough of. We washed it all down with generous amounts of Asahi beer. While I’m on the topic of beer, the Icelandic brew Viking definitely deserves a mention. It’s a strong beer (hic), at 5.4% but it’s also light tasting and had the ability to make me burst into fits of giggles, particularly on a boat in the middle of a rather choppy Atlantic. A lot got lost on the deck.

I know, I know, how could I? All that fantastic native fare to work my way through and I caved to a burger. It was the Viking. That’s all I’m saying.

After the waterfall, we moved on to Iceland’s national park, Vatnajökull, spectacular and fascinating as it is situated directly along a fault line. The European and and North American plates are splitting apart, resulting in dramatic landscapes and a big old lake. Apart from being the only place above sea level where this phenomena can be seen, it is also one of the top diving destinations in the world – you are actually diving between the tectonic plates.

This isn’t the lake! It’s very close though and rather pretty. The water is crystal clear. This was the spot where Gunnar asked if we might like to try his dried haddock, a snack which can be found pretty much anywhere in Iceland – of course, we said yes please. You tear off a piece of fish, spread some butter on top and it’s down the hatch. It’s delicious actually and is washed down incredibly well with a glass of beer, which is what Gunnar is dishing out in the photo. A perfect little food moment in such a stunning history-steeped setting. We were completely beat by this point but it remains one of my fondest memories of a magical country.