In winter, we tend to stick to the same routes; dictated by the cleared paths and gritted pavements/sidewalks. The lack of snow and ice outside of this season means there is opportunity to try another route.
We did just this last weekend; breaking off from tradition and veering a different way.
The majority of the streets in the city lie in a grid pattern, meaning there are numerous variations of routes to get from a to b. (However, this means something once found can soon be lost in the labyrinth of straight streets, such as a deli/cafe we saw when we were driving around, very lost, in the snow - we have tried to retrace our steps but with no luck. so far...)
Walking along we passed a non-descript looking corner grocery store, one of the numerous ones dotted around. This one was different though.
As we walked past the window, T stopped dead in his tracks.
"Are they "..."?"
They were indeed...
It turned out to be an expensive deviation! We came out of the tiny store armed with our precious buys and an excited grin on our faces which stayed for the rest of the walk home.
In the two and a half years since we last visited Portugal, the memory of the texture and taste was still alive and kicking on our taste buds.
We got them - as well as the whole Portuguese sheep's milk cheese we also bought from the shop (which turned out to be a Portuguese store) in the hope to satisfy another holiday memory-craving - home, and unwrapped them straight away, eager to do a taste test. We were also nervous, fearing they may not taste the same, not be truly authentic, and would therefore be a inter-country let down (a bit like some Spanish Manchego cheese we had here at Christmas). There was no disappointment however!
The bread was soft and ever so slightly chewy; the cheese, slightly sour with a creaminess I can only think comparable to a slightly hard brie. Both tasted individually and passing the test, we then tore open the bread buns and stuffed them with thick slices of the cheese. As we ate, each mouthful sent us back to southern Portugal, sitting on the beach at a place called Arrifana, eating our picnic (the only thing different in our food was it was missing the crunch of sand!).