First stop: the vegetable ladies. They’ll charm you, they’ll chat, and sometimes they’ll mug you blind for a handful of herbs. You pay up anyway. Then it’s off to the butcher, who knows exactly how I like my pork bifana slices cut paper-thin, my Azorean steaks, thick and marbled like the curves you want to taste, not just touch.

Seasonal fruits are the next logical stop.

And of course...the fish guys.

Here’s the rule: at first, you play the field, try all the fish guys. But sooner or later, you have to pick your guy... I mean Your guy. Because if you don’t, the others will smell betrayal on you like sharks in bloodied water. Market politics makes Game of Thrones look like a church picnic.

Groceries dumped in the car, it’s breakfast time, the Algarve way. Which means meat, bread, alcohol, and absolutely no apologies.

Back in my Portimão days, I had a snack bar between the veg stalls and the fish guys. The routine was simple: two bifanas, two beers, and a coffee spiked with something unholy (at eight in the goddamn morning). Then you’d stroll to buy your fish, smiling like a man who’s already three drinks in while the rest of the town is still brushing their teeth.

Now in Tavira, I’ve upgraded. There’s this joint with a horseshoe-shaped bar, a breakfast arena where gladiators in aprons do battle daily.

The son, let’s call him Pedro, looks like he’s been drinking aguardiente since the cock crowed. Red-eyed, loose-tongued, he works a leg of ham like a drunk lumberjack. Forget delicate prosciutto, he’s hacking off pork chunks like he’s splitting firewood.

The mother is the anchor, the heart, the saint. She floats from customer to pot, stirring bifanas into aromatic submission, frying up breaded chicken cutlets, sliding out ham and cheese toasties, and serving a tuna stew built from fish parts no Michelin chef would touch (but you’ll lick the bowl clean). Her bean and tripe concoction could resuscitate the dead on a cold Algarve morning.

And the drink? Wine, obviously. But not bottles with poetic labels and tasting notes. No, this is jug wine, vat wine, farmer’s wine. The kind you drink in gulps, not sips. The kind that makes you wonder why you’ve been wasting time on anything else.



Around you, the regulars, hardcore locals who’ve been on aguardiente, beer, and wine since sunrise. These people don’t do “moderation.” They nod, you nod, and suddenly you’re family, bound by pork fat and cheap wine.

This is breakfast. This is Portugal.

Forget your sad “Full English” and its canned beans and tragic toast. This is greasy, boozy, life-affirming food served by people who don’t give a damn about your hangover.

And maybe that’s the point. These mornings aren’t about nutrition or discipline or ticking off boxes on some wellness app. They’re about showing up, eating like a human being, drinking before noon and remembering that life is short and meant to be lived, not managed.

Because one day, you won’t be able to eat tripe stew for breakfast with strangers who feel like old friends. And on that day, you’ll wish you had.