Lisbon: A Sheepish Attempt at Lunch
By Michael Ames

Portugal—On and off rain since we arrived, and the slickness of Lisbon’s cobblestones is impeding our progress. They are not crowned, as are cobblestones in most cities. But they are fit together and, except for those places where time and imperceptible movements of the earth have disturbed them, they form a flush mosaic of matte black and creamy white squares riding the waves of Lisbon’s gentle hills. They are small: each the size of an engagement ring box, inverted, and cemented into the ground—fodder for a forgotten romantic city. 

Today, like last night and the day before, the stones are wet, slick-shined to a luster that reflects the neon lights of store windows and the glow of street lamps. On filaments of sidewalk no wider than my two feet, on inclines and double pitched descents, they dare you to stroll carefree. We slip countless times, my old friend and I, cursing under our breath with each misstep.

The slickness of Lisbon’s cobblestones is impeding our progress.  So we dial down the ambition level of our plans and return to fundamentals. Lunch. Long and easy. Wine in excess. The Lisboans take their midday meal seriously; a when-in-Rome conceit compels us.

We want to eat as they eat. These Old World people with their thick language and renaissance faces. These once-seafaring types with their explorers and their colonies. Europe’s prime ocean-front property, spearheading an expanding continent half a millennia ago, only to be held back under a dictator’s thumb as democracy and Starbucks spread across Western Europe. Now, planted comfortably in the sidecar of European progress, with time on their hands, the Portuguese may finally enjoy their lunch. 

The language has been another impediment. Nothing is phonetic. Some locals suffer our bumbling attempts. Others can’t be bothered. The slick conditions add to the disorientation. The two of us, once-savvy journeymen, are rusty travelers. We haven’t yet settled into that groove of walking, spotting and landing.

In knee-jerk spasms, we revert to our bible, our Lonely Planet: Portugal. I clutch it tight, all of my fingers engaged as bookmarks, vital to efficient referencing. We walk purposefully, though without direction. We come to abrupt halts on busy thoroughfares and consult the scripture. We are aggressive pilgrims, uneducated archeologists, passing the book back and forth, scouring its maps for lunch spots as if they were Stations of the Cross.

The book tells us of a fairly-priced place called UMA, “recommended by readers” for its “award-winning arroz de marisco” (seafood-rice stew).

Now we have a goal. We walk on, floating by countless attractive eateries bustling with jovial Lisboans. These places look great. One has a warm ambience; its lanterns and stone walls remind me of Portuguese restaurants back in the states. Through picture windows we can see bustling groups of smartly dressed locals, expectant looks on their confident faces. A good lunch is in the offing for them. There are tables still available. We walk on. 

We find UMA. It’s an unattractive little place, meekly occupying a nondescript street level storefront. Fluorescent lights and white tablecloths. It feels like an upscale mess hall, a converted barber shop. The harried owner-manager asks how many in our party.

“Dosh!” I exclaim, glowing with my chance to use the only Portuguese word I know.

As we sit, our error reveals itself fast. The short gray-haired mustachioed man is not just the owner, but also the lone server and busboy. His wife is the cashier and bartender. Long hairs are stuck to her damp forehead and her cheeks are flushed.  Less than half the chairs are occupied, and still the two are scrambling to keep up. He is pacing. His movements are spastic and his eyes are wide with near-panic. They are corking wine bottles, taking orders, bickering with each other, producing checks, and delivering them on tiny silver plates. His body jerks in his baggy burgundy cardigan as his eyes dart about the room, searching for problems, for work to be done.  Yet his anxiety is counterproductive. He is paralyzed by his worry, which in turn creates more work, which in turn creates more anxiety. He appears to be on the verge of a breakdown.

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