Heart attack on a Portuguese plate

I can’t remember the previous time I’d had one; it must have been at least ten years ago. In those days, I didn’t have an imaginary finger wagging at me, warning of cholesterol overload. Yesterday, though, we found ourselves in a little tasca we’d not visited before, and they rather boasted about their way with this particular heroic sandwich.

For those who aren’t familiar with this culinary delight/nightmare (delete as applicable), it is a predominantly northern Portuguese dish and, like much of the food from the north of the country, it is not for the faint-hearted. In this case, literally. When I first started working in the Porto area some thirty-odd years ago (and some were very odd years indeed), I almost immediately came across this mighty repast, and it became my quest to discover the finest francesinha on the planet. This huge task was soon whittled down to size, for it quickly became clear that Francesinhas existed only in their pure form in a region near Porto, and, many claimed, only within the city itself. Some would go so far as to insist that only this place or that place had the truly ‘authentic’ version and that all others were fakes, rip-offs, frauds. I was interested in both the passion behind the claims and the dish itself, so I set about a five-year plan: to track down my favourite francesinha. I’m delighted to say that I never actually settled on just one version, so I never did join the purists club who, like purists everywhere, ruin everything by claiming that there is only one true shining path. I had a list of favourite places, all producing subtle variations on a theme, each worthy of adoration on its own terms.

So, what does a decent francesinha consist of? Most aficionados would claim the sauce is the most important thing. I would disagree. The sauce is not more important than the rest of the ingredients, and while a mediocre sauce can ruin an otherwise excellent concoction, a top-class sauce will not save an assembly of low-quality goods. It should be noted that o molho is often a secret recipe, guarded in ancestral sources/sauces by the chef, but it should, at a minimum, be made of onion, tomato, piri-piri, brandy, port wine, and a secret stock. (One chef once told me that ‘the secret’ to the stock – that is, the secret he was going to tell me, not the one that really mattered – is a base of boiled prawn heads). A decent francesinha contains good quality beef steak, fresh sausage and linguiça – all of which have been freshly grilled – plus some slices of ham, all stuck between two thick slices of bread. The bread is then covered with layers of cheese, pressed down firmly, and placed under a grill to melt the cheese. By rights, a fried egg is then placed atop this teetering pile. When the waiter asks ‘com ovo?’ note that this is actually a challenge. Egg in place, the sauce is poured generously over the top. The assembly should be big enough to sway slightly on the plate, like a skyscraper in a high wind. The only way to eat it is to fork in mouthfuls of cheese and ham and linguiça and steak and bread and sauce all at the same time. It’s not a pretty sight and, for heaven’s sake, use that serviette as a bib.

The origin of this gastronomic immensity dates to the 1950s, when a migrant returning from France to Porto tried to create a Portuguese version of the croque-monsieur. For years, there was just one restaurant that served them, though these days they can be found everywhere. Be warned: many are mere imitations of the heroic original and must be treated with caution. One rule in this matter (as hinted earlier) seems to be that the further you go from central Porto, the more flaky the effort. I must report that the worst so-called francesinha I have ever had was in Lisbon. I draw a veil over that horror show.

Back to my lunch yesterday. It didn’t look promising; I was about fifty kilometres from a cidade invicta, and the restaurant was decorated in a traditional Minho style, which didn’t seem right at all. Nevertheless, I ordered and waited. I didn’t have to wait very long, which is not a good sign, for traditionally these are made freshly on request and so there can be a little wait; it’s part of the ritual. Never mind, it looked as it should – glistening and gleaming with forbidden cholesterol – so I took a bite. Oh dear, what was this? A frankfurter? Not just a frankfurter, but a tinned frankfurter. Oh no no no. I ploughed on because I’m a trooper, but it was definitely substandard. It wasn’t the worst I’d ever had, not by a long chalk, but the dizzying heights of perfection I yearned for were far above this attempt.

Perhaps it’s just as well it didn’t work out. I can now return to my francesinha-free diet. That box of statins is giving me a funny look.