Last summer, my friend Paula was swimming in her favorite rocky pool along the coastline of the island of São Miguel, in the Azores, when she felt something tug at her ankle.
“I knew right away it was an octopus,” she said with a grin.
“What did you do?” I asked.
“I just swam to the steps and climbed out,” she said. “It was no problem.”
“I would have freaked,” I said.
“It was small, nothing scary. Somebody hit it on the head and killed it. Then I took it home and cooked it for dinner.”
Paula’s seemingly nonchalant reaction to her eventual dinner defies the art of eating in the Azores. Mealtimes are celebrations of food and every detail is carefully orchestrated. Whether you choose to eat at a boozy pub, a beach café or a fine dining establishment, meals are served on gleaming plates at sturdy tables with starched tablecloths.
Lunch, especially, is sacrosanct. This is in stark contrast to my life in Canada, where my expectation of lunch is that it is quick and healthy – a stop to refuel in the middle of the day. At work, I often eat lunch at my desk; sometimes I skip it altogether. When I visit the Azores, it can take me a few days to recalibrate, slow down, and change my expectations–especially around mealtimes.
São Miguel is my home away from home. This small island is one of nine that makes up the Azores – a Portuguese archipelago, strung out in the mid-Atlantic about one-third of the way between Europe and North America. It’s where I was born, where I emigrated from, and where I return as often as I can. My connections remain strong and each time I arrive I can pick up with friends and family as if no time has passed since my last visit.
Azorean cuisine includes an unusual array of fish and seafood. Grilled limpets are a local delicacy, but a thick octopus stew has long been my favorite. I told Paula that had I been at her place on the ‘day of the octopus,’ I’m not sure I could have joined her for dinner.
On a recent last visit, I had lunch with my cousins. We were eight around the table, all of us hungry after a hot hike and a long swim. Someone quizzed the server–what did the fishers bring in today, when did the bread come in, who was cooking in the kitchen. Soon, food and drinks arrived: two pitchers of fruity white wine sangria, warm bread, fresh cheese, and olives. When the platters of sizzling limpets were placed on the table, my cousins beamed with pride. As the guest, I was expected to help myself first. Everyone watched my reaction as I chose a small limpet, pierced the meaty contents with my fork, and placed it on my tongue. With the first bite, the flavor filled my mouth and I couldn’t help but close my eyes. It was like consuming the sea itself.
“Ah, do you like?” my cousin Emanuel asked.
“No, I love,” was all I could say.
The main dish, grilled boca negra, a type of rockfish, was brought to the table next: three fish, heads and tails still attached, framed by boiled potatoes and topped with parsley, slices of lemon, and chunks of pickled onion. I watched and emulated my companions; combining the fish and potatoes, then drizzling olive oil over it all. Each forkful was a perfect mixture of flavors. Flaky, mild fish, and melt-in-your-mouth potatoes balanced by the tartness of the lemon and the crunch of the tangy pickled onion.
Over an espresso to finish the meal, I realized we had been sitting at lunch for nearly three hours. I felt content – satisfied, but not too full. And then I noticed the conversation had already turned to dinner.
“What are your plans for tonight?” Emanuel asked.
“I don’t have any yet,” I said.
“Why don’t you come over? We’re making your favorite. Octopus stew.”
