by Lucy Coleman
‘You think this place is small for the size of the queue? This is nothing! In summer it goes on forever,’ she informs me. ‘But you will be surprised when you get inside, I promise, Seren.’
‘It’s infamous, though, isn’t it? I mean, anyone coming to Lisbon will no doubt jump on YouTube as I did, and there are entire videos about the search for the most authentic custard tartlets. It’s a part of the pilgrimage for sweet lovers coming here,’ I acknowledge.
‘Ah, that’s so true. Now, of course, they make them all around the world, but here it is the real thing. The convents and monasteries in Portugal were shut down in 1834, including the Mosteiro dos Jerónimos, where the original recipe was created. When the clergy and labourers were expelled, a little shop began selling the tarts previously made in the monastery’s kitchen. Three years later, the café here was set up and began making the infamous pastries following the original, secret recipe. Egg custard tarts are by far the most popular, see those cardboard sleeves bearing the logo?’
The vast majority of the people exiting the little shop are carrying elongated white boxes in their hands, decorated with a single, circular crest in pale grey. But some also have white paper carrier bags full of a wide variety of baked goods, and there’s a constant stream of people going in and out.
‘Once tasted, never forgotten. I keep on coming back and I always will,’ Carolina chuckles. ‘The queue is moving quickly today. In summer, people are usually foot-weary because of the heat and tend to sit at their tables for longer to recover.’
Carolina is a tall woman, very statuesque at around five-foot-ten. At five-six, she makes me feel petite, and I envy her those long, graceful legs.
‘Anyway, we deserve this little treat for reaching yet another milestone on the chart,’ she says, as we continue to inch forward. The queue snakes behind us down as far as the street corner. The small doorway to the café is within sight now, located to the left of the shop front. The pavement is full and people coming towards us have no choice but to walk in the road to navigate around clusters of family members, toddlers in pushchairs, and groups of friends meeting up. After two very overcast days, everyone seems eager to soak up the warm spring sunshine today.
‘You’re right, we have cause to celebrate. The first press release has triggered a phenomenal amount of interest. How far away are we from announcing that tickets for the fashion shoot at the Santuário Nacional do Cristo Rei are going on sale?’ What excited me about the idea is that it’s a unique experience and the perfect way to get people talking about this summer’s exhibition at the gallery.
Carolina looks at me intently.
‘It’s all set to go, but the developers are running a week behind. I’m confident they will be able to confirm the link is live within the next forty-eight hours. So you can expect that email to pop into your inbox early next week.’
I’m sure Carolina can see the look of relief flashing over my face. Those sales are vital to help offset the costs, and without turning the actual shooting of the video into an event, it wouldn’t have been doable.
‘That’s wonderful news. Once people start snapping up those tickets, word of mouth will help to spread the news. I will feel much happier though after Antero and I meet with Rafael Osorio for the first time, on Monday. I’m not sure what to expect, as he hasn’t had a lot to say in the video calls. I’m told he’s enthusiastic, but he comes across as being quite reserved from what I’ve seen so far.’
‘Until he has something to say, apparently. He can be very insistent I hear,’ Carolina replies, wincing a little. ‘Ah, that reminds me. I told Antero we were coming here, and he said he would be delighted to join us.’ She glances at me, nervously.
Goodness, Carolina and Antero? I didn’t see that coming. I give her a reassuring smile and a tell-tale pink hue begins to travel up her neck.
‘Oh, I do hope he can make it,’ I enthuse. ‘The more the merrier as far as I’m concerned.’ Having wandered around Lisbon with a guidebook in my hands on several weekends, it’s nice to go somewhere in the company of other people. I certainly wouldn’t have come here on my own. It’s not easy feeling like the odd one out, sitting at a table all alone surrounded by groups of friends and families.
‘You are feeling sad?’ Carolina enquires, frowning.
‘No. But I appreciate this little trip out this morning. Oh, here’s Antero!’
I wave when I spot him crossing the road and he breaks out into a huge grin as he approaches. Glancing behind us to check with the people who are next in line that they are happy for him to join us, he offers the two women his most dazzling of smiles. What a charmer he is – it does the trick.
There is a slight awkwardness, though, as he leans in to give Carolina the customary greeting and then turns to me. Our eyes meet and we exchange a meaningful smile. We are about to cross that dividing line and he kisses first my right cheek, then my left.
‘We are friends too, no?’ he enquires, and I nod, gratefully. ‘So, are you ready for our meeting on Monday? Hopefully, Rafael will be in a good mood and eager to impress.’
‘He’s a perfectionist, I hear, which is a good thing as there’s a lot at stake.’
Carolina joins in. ‘It’s exciting, though. Everyone is talking about it and the buzz has only just begun.’
I can feel their enthusiasm as they both turn to look at me. The pressure is building, and the impression I’m getting about Rafael is that he’s temperamental. A chilly sensation hits my stomach for the briefest of moments before I shake it off with a laugh.
‘Well, let’s hope that his ardent followers start snapping up those tickets the moment they go on sale.’
‘It will be something a little different. I’m sure people will be curious to see all that goes on behind the scenes when it comes to a fashion shoot. It’s an experience few will ever get to see up close so it will be a novelty.’
A sudden mass exodus of people from the doorway ahead sees the queue eagerly pressing forward. From the outside, it’s a grand-looking building set over three floors. Some of the symmetrical windows on the first and second floors have been replaced with patio doors that open out onto small, ironwork balconies. At street level, all I can see is a narrow entrance that I presume leads through into the café, and beyond that is the shop, which is packed with people.
When, eventually, it’s our turn to step inside, we follow the snaking line in front of us. The first thing that hits me is the background noise level and the way the high ceilings and tiled floors amplify a whole range of discordant sounds: voices, footsteps, the clanking of metal on metal. The second is the delicious smell. The air is rich with that heavenly aroma of buttery pastry fresh from the oven, so gorgeous it sets the taste buds tingling. My mother wasn’t the sort of person who baked, but for me it’s evocative of Sunday morning brunches reheating croissants and pains au chocolat. The sweetness instantly makes my mouth begin to water.
We traipse behind a Portuguese family of five, into what feels like a labyrinth of corridors going off in various directions. It’s bewildering and both Carolina and I hurry to follow in Antero’s footsteps as we pick up the pace. All the tables look full as we move from room to room. Waiters walk purposefully, carrying loaded trays and I strain my neck to catch glimpses of pastries, cakes and coffees of all descriptions. Dressed in black trousers and waistcoats, with crisp white shirts, the demeanour of the staff is extremely efficient but friendly.
One stops to talk briefly to Antero, but I can’t follow their conversation. Pointing to a room on the right as he effortlessly raises the platter in his hand above my head, the waiter throws me a fleeting smile. This is turning out to be quite an experience. If only cafés at home were like this one. It exudes its own energy, like a club for sugarholics. This isn’t just a bakery, but a factory employing goodness knows how many people, and the further in we go, the louder the noise of the general background chatter and from the sheer volume of people moving around. The rooms are large with ti
led floors, and swathes of wall tiling which amplifies every little sound and adds a cavernous echo.
We stop, briefly, to glimpse through a window into just one of the many preparation areas where two long, stainless-steel counters are laid out with enormous trays of freshly cooked tarts and squares of what look like a gooey, yellow sponge cake. It’s a production line with rollers guiding the trays along a conveyor belt, trolleys waiting ready for collection, and huge cabinets that could be ovens, or steamers – it’s hard to tell.
There’s another long queue ahead of us for a large, open-plan seating area, but Antero diverts off to the right and we head into yet another small room of tightly packed tables. Weaving in and out, we make our way back out into the sunshine and discover a little courtyard where the breeze is so welcome, I greedily gulp in the air. Antero sprints ahead to claim the first available table we’ve seen so far.
‘Well done, you,’ I exclaim, as Carolina and I catch up and take a seat either side of him. ‘It’s certainly quieter out here. But what an amazing place, it has the buzz of a smart wine bar back in the UK. And I love the intricate blue and white tiles everywhere.’ Some are friezes, others portray entire scenes made up of ceramic tiles. It’s enchanting.
‘I told you to reserve your judgement until you were inside,’ Carolina replies.
A waiter appears to hand out the menus and take our drinks order. He informs us that he will be back shortly. Serving here can’t be easy, as even outside in the fresh air, the sounds reverberate and it’s a cacophony of noise.
‘You cannot say you have lived in Lisbon until you have eaten your first pastéis de nata here,’ Antero informs me, slapping his hand down onto the table. ‘So many bakers have come up with their own recipes and it’s worth giving them a try. Then you can decide for yourself who produces the most delicious one.’
I break out into a smile. ‘I have already tried one, or two.’
They both laugh.
‘Or a dozen?’ Carolina enquires knowingly, and I nod.
‘So, what else is good on this menu?’ I ask, skimming down the little pictures of a wide variety of confectionary. I ignore the savoury section, today is not a day to worry about being good, or for counting calories.
‘Shall we order a little selection of things to try as it’s your first visit?’ Carolina suggests and I nod.
Our espresso coffees arrive in tiny white cups and saucers bearing the iconic logo of the famous café. As Antero places an order, I glance around. There isn’t a frown in sight, as I watch people filling their mouths with delight and going back for more. There are buns, slices of gateaux and cheesecake, as well as doughnuts and savoury items resembling pasties.
‘It must be strange, Seren, settling into a new country as well as into a new job. You must miss your family and friends.’ Antero looks across at me, a small furrow creasing his brow.
‘At times, I do. But in the four months I’ve been here so much has happened that I haven’t really had time to sit and think about my old life. It seems so far away now. At first it did feel a bit like being on holiday but that passed surprisingly quickly.’
‘Did you know that Seren is a sculptor, Antero?’
He casts a quick glance in Carolina’s direction before looking back at me. ‘I had no idea.’
I shake my head, laughing. ‘I dabble. It’s merely a hobby.’
‘But an unusual hobby. What medium do you use?’ he asks.
‘Metal. When I was a young child, I fell in love with a sculpture in our local park. It was a globe set within a frame, as though someone had put the earth in a metal box to protect it. I would run my hands over the solid bars, and it felt cold in winter and hot in summer, as if it wasn’t an inanimate object. As a teenager, I went to evening classes at a local college to learn how to weld. My parents thought I was learning how to make jewellery.’
‘You have always had an independent mind, then?’ Antero replies, just as the waiter appears carrying a large, and very full, tray.
I nod briefly as we make room on the table for an array of plates, and hints of orange, cinnamon and vanilla begin to waft up.
The waiter fusses around, chatting away in Portuguese and, no doubt, making sure we have enough napkins and spare plates before he bustles away.
Both Carolina and Antero indicate for me to tuck in and I reach out for my first, original recipe custard tart. The flaky pastry is so crisp that flakes start to drop down onto my lap as I pick it up. It’s the size of three, or four, modest bites and the top of the filling is a gorgeous lemony-yellow, obscured in places with patches where the top has caramelised. This is not the time to be shy, so I take one huge bite – almost half the tart in one go.
Then the taste sensation hits. The flavour of the warm, yet crisp flakiness is quickly replaced by the creamy gooiness of the rich egg custard. Cinnamon adds a little zing, but then the hint of caramel wraps it up like an encompassing hug. I let out a little involuntary groan of delight and my friends both burst out laughing. Swiftly followed by two gulps of espresso, the robust, roasted flavour is the perfect partner to offset the sweetness.
‘It’s official, this must be on a par with the nectar of the gods. And it was invented by the monks,’ I comment, thinking they certainly knew how to eat. But this moment has been made even more special being able to share it with Carolina and Antero. ‘This little trip here today was a great idea, thanks guys. Now, you’d better grab some of these quickly, as I’m not ashamed to say that one is not going to be enough.’
‘She passed the test,’ Carolina says, giving Antero a little wink.
He looks back at her and lingers for the briefest of moments, but it’s enough to tell me there is something simmering away between the two of them. Carolina looks away, a little awkwardly.
‘Antero, what do you do in your spare time?’ I ask, eager to get to know a little more about him.
‘I play guitar in a band,’ he replies.
‘It would be great if we could come to see you play sometime.’ I can see that Carolina is delighted by my suggestion and Antero, too.
‘We’ll arrange something, very soon,’ he replies, before popping a whole custard tart into his mouth.
Silence ensues for a little while and sitting here in the company of two people I haven’t known for long, but with whom I’m beginning to feel a real connection, I’m starting to finally feel at home.
Carolina and Antero have both gone out of their way at work to help and support me as I’ve struggled to get to grips with the many obvious barriers. Their acts of kindness have created a special bond and have not gone unnoticed, or unappreciated. I will never forget the hands of friendship they have offered to me.
5
A Momentous Monday
The morning flies by but leaves me with mixed feelings as I sit with Antero after our meeting with Rafael and his assistant. Carolina has headed back to her office to tidy up the notes she took down, which in this case will not be an enviable job.
‘My head is spinning, Antero. Am I right in thinking that his main concern is the background noise from the suspension bridge? What on earth are we to make of that? After all, there is nothing we can do about the Ponte 25 de Abril and the traffic that flows across it. It’s a main artery and the nature of an outdoor fashion show is that life goes on as normal around it. Surely he understands that?’
Antero shrugs his shoulders.
Rafael kept using the same words, as if we weren’t getting it. But he didn’t always give Antero time to translate for me so that I could respond to him before he started speaking again. He talks fast and is expressive with his hands, and body. Several times I thought he was going to launch himself out of his chair and stand, to labour the point he was trying to make. Poor Antero had his work cut out and the pauses while he tried to catch me up on what was being said seemed to frustrate Rafael.
‘He relaxed a little when I explained that the video would have a professional backing track and a voice-over for the ex
hibition in the museum. But he kept coming back to the noise, over and over. His other concern is that the waiting staff circulating with the platters celebrating the culinary delights of Lisbon will be a distraction. He’s insisting there is a set break in filming while the food is served.’
‘Well, that’s not a realistic option, I’m afraid. Rafael is acting as if he is the star of the show, but each element is equally as important. The income earnt from promoting the Portuguese food industry is also helping to subsidise the cost of the fashion shoot. I’ll have to come up with a solution that will satisfy both parties.’
‘He wasn’t in a listening mood, today, I fear.’ Antero sounds almost apologetic, but there wasn’t anything he could have done differently.
‘I noticed! Were there any other demands?’ I’m trying my best to remain cool, but the meeting felt more like one man having a rant. Antero did his best to placate Rafael and the man did shake hands with me before he left, but he came across as demanding and inflexible. The parting look he gave me seemed to imply that if I didn’t already get the gist of his concerns, it was Antero’s job to explain it to me in great detail, so I could then get them sorted.
‘Rafael is not a very diplomatic man, Seren, but it wasn’t as bad as it sounded. He has no limiter… filter. Whatever is in his head, he has to say it immediately. He asked that you get back to him as soon as possible to let him know what can be done. In my opinion, I think the wisest thing is to reply by email rather than invite him here for another meeting. That way we can deal with his response in a much more structured, and calmer, way. You agree?’
‘I do, thank you, Antero, and I’m sorry it was such a rough ride. It was hard to get him to listen at all at one point, and I appreciate the enormous amount of patience you demonstrated. I’ll work on this over the next couple of days and send the document to you for translation; we’ll take it from there once we have his response. Right, I think it’s time for a lunch break. I’m certainly in need of some fresh air and a walk to stretch my legs after that little fiasco.’
