A Year in the World (16 page)

The next day we move on to the
pousada
at Évora, magnificent Évora. We
have
been deprived in our long lives. What if we never had come? The center of town, the elliptical Praça do Giraldo, surrounded by arcaded sidewalks, outdoor cafés full of people relishing the spring air, and rows of small shops, reminds me of Tuscany—much of life takes place in the navel of the town. Pousada dos Lólos, once a convent, faces the impressive columns of a Roman temple. The arcades are not the only hint of the Moors. A few domes and a ruined gate also remind us, as do the spiderweb streets leading us away and around whatever point on the map we’ve chosen.

One chosen spot is the Carlos-recommended
tasca
Tasquinha d’Oliveira, small and cheery, with half a dozen tables and walls hung with traditional pottery. The owner immediately starts bringing tapas, so many that we decide to forgo whatever main courses he has cooking. He brings a fantastic red
reserva
, Monte da Penha from Porto Alegre. Here’s another divine bread, with a slight hint of rye. Stuffed crab, fried cod fritters, cod and chickpeas, marinated mushrooms with mint, chicken tart, and meat croquettes—all small plates, but the quantity accumulates. We think lunch is over, but he arrives again—a spinach soufflé with shrimp. Then a plate of scrambled eggs with wild asparagus. We come to the bottom of the bottle. Then arrives fresh sheep cheese with pumpkin marmalade and almonds. One spoon of the custard dessert, and my appetite rebounds. This is one of the old convent egg sweets. Bless the nuns who must have entertained themselves in long afternoons by making something good. All these convent recipes feature eggs. Egg appear in soups, too. I don’t know another cuisine where eggs are so prominent. Foamy white orbs cover a golden filling. Ed mentions his mother’s graham cracker pie. In the background we hear Karen Carpenter singing “on top of the world looking down on creation,” poor Karen, an anorexic woman whose voice hovers over a feast.

Outside Évora’s walls, the surrounding countryside is littered with dolmens and menhirs. So much prehistoric activity attests to the desirability of this area throughout history. We see a few of the twenty “noteworthy” castles in the nearby villages and the abandoned Tower of the Eagles, but mostly just roam. I would like to come back to Alentejo when the wheat turns the color of molten gold. At evening early spring sunlight falls like a bridal veil over the fields. I start to hum a camp song: “Highlands, thy sunshine is fairest, thy waters are clearest, my summertime home. Bright stars watch over my sleep like the eyes of the angels in heaven’s blue dome.” Driving through oak forests, we return to our own splendid abode.

We have been given a bedroom and an enormous living room covered on every inch with frescoes. A balcony opens over a courtyard with a grape pergola. Our bed surely was made for a king. The
pousadas’
signature welcome, a bucket with iced champagne, again waits. After such jaunts, what better siesta-time reward than a bath and a bed turned down to linen. Linen promotes good dreams.

Dinner takes place in the convent cloister, where perhaps the nuns served each other the sweets they spent their spare hours devising. The food tastes of ancient rural pleasures, and even the menu’s translation gives a hint of rusticity: vinegar and mint soup, black pork lower jaws, sautéed steer, duck chest, crackling scrap fat over asparagus, and pumpakin, which sounds more robust than pumpkin. We eat everything. We’re eating our way across Portugal.

In the kingly bed on the pristine linen, I dream that my mother’s grave has collapsed and I look in, seeing her red-gold hair, then she seeps out of the grave, wholly herself when young, and says,
I have something to tell you
. But I am horrified, answering,
But you are dead. Dead
. I have the sensation of swelling all over; I am about to rise off the ground and float. Whatever she wants to say, I do not want to hear. I want her back in the ground. Then Ed is shaking me, “You’re having a bad dream,” and I wake up fully aware of my refusal to listen. If someone comes back from death to tell you something, why not listen? I did not want to.

I slip out early and go downstairs, just as they are setting up the breakfast buffet. The dream disturbs me, and I want to be alone until it recedes. I sit in the cloister with a coffee and a guidebook. When others begin to come in, I walk out into a chill morning. The rows of Roman columns startle me every time I exit. Évora is one of the great small towns of the world. Seignorial in aspect, with parks and mansions, this jewel box is also graced with fountains, parks, museums, and a cathedral of dimensions that inspire awe. I stop in to visit again the serene painted-wood Annunciation angel. The statue leaves Mary to be imagined. It’s always easy to imagine Mary. Mothers are like that, no?

By the time I have dispelled my dream, Ed has had the
migas
with bits of pork we loved in Ronda. Fried bread has first “marinated” for several hours in olive oil, usually garlic, and enough hot water to moisten and break apart, and several pastries. “Did you know—you didn’t scream—but you gave this weird cry that sounded like a ghost, ‘Nooooooo,’ like you were falling down a well.”

“I think our room must have been the one Queen Isabel died in.”

The town is full of restaurants, and this month they all are celebrating local soups. Last month they featured pork, and next month will be lamb. When we see notices on the streets for concerts, dance performances, and art shows, we think of the similar intense cultural life of our adopted home in Cortona. Looking at the menus posted outside each restaurant, I find these soups, all of which I look up in my now-essential Maria Modesto cookbook. The Portuguese range of soups astounds me. Carlos said, “Italians have pasta. We have soup.” I’ll skip the fava with pig’s head in favor of dozens of others. Reading the recipes, I can almost taste these traditional soups that are available all over town this March:

 
Sopa de beldroegas
: purslane, which volunteers in my garden.
I’ll try this soup with the traditional bread base, garlic,
and cheese.

 
Sopa de poejos
: pennyroyal, which also springs up unasked at
Bramasole. This soup, too, is made with soaked bread,
with the addition of onion and garlic.

 
Sopa de tomate à Alentejana
, also
Sopa de tomate com toucinho,
linguiça e ovos
: tomato soup made with beef stock,
sometimes served with sausage and eggs.

 
Açordo de espinafres com queijo fresco, ovos e bacalhau
:
“dry” soup of spinach, fresh cheese, eggs, and cod.

 
Sopa de poejos com bacalhau
: pennyroyal with dried cod.

 
Sopa de peixe com hortelã da ribeira
: fish with a strong river
mint with the appearance of tarragon.

 
Sopa de cação
: skate with coriander and vinegar,
sometimes paprika.

 
Sopa de feijão com mogango
: beans and pumpkin, something
the pilgrim families might have made.