I wrote an unsalted opinion on my experiences with the Portuguese kitchen, “The Bland Truth: My Critique of the Portuguese Kitchen“ and was published in the Dutch newspaper De Volkskrant on February 28 and in the Portuguese newspaper Diário de Notícias on March 3, 2025.
Below is the English version of this article:
The Bland Truth:
My Critique of the Portuguese Kitchen
Portuguese food is great — when it wants to be. After living in Portugal for nearly two years, the Portuguese cuisine remains a culinary enigma to me. With fresh fish and seafood that would entice Neptune himself and olive oil of a quality that deserves museum veneration, the recipe for success seems complete. All the more remarkable, then, that a country which once dominated the global spice trade has devolved into a gastronomic culture where ‘overcooking’ appears to be the motto.
Walking through the streets of Lisbon, one might think that Portuguese cuisine still reflects the rich history of the country as a colonial power. This was, after all, the empire that gave Thai cuisine its spiciness and introduced new flavours from Africa to India. But anyone entering a traditional Portuguese restaurant encounters a culinary reality that would make Vasco da Gama shudder.
Take, for instance, the national obsession with bacalhau, the dried and salted cod that, according to legend, can be prepared in 365 different ways. After tasting what feels like the complete annual assortment, I must conclude that the variations differ mainly in name – the taste remains remarkably consistent: salt. Whether it’s bacalhau à brás (with egg and potato), bacalhau com natas (in cream sauce), or simply boiled bacalhau, the result is reminiscent of an old newspaper soaked in seawater.
The treatment of vegetables also raises questions. In a country blessed with fertile soil and abundant sunlight, one would expect vegetables to retain their natural flavour. Instead, they are often so thoroughly overcooked that even the most vital broccoli capitulates into a colourless mass without character.
It must be said that this culinary experience is at least friendly to one’s wallet – for about ten pounds, you get a generous portion of any dish in most local restaurants. The question is whether quantity outweighs the quality of preparation.
Most intriguing is how a nation that once controlled the global spice trade now uses spices so sparingly. The average Portuguese kitchen cupboard seems to know only two flavourings: salt and more salt. It’s as if somewhere in history it was decided that the experiment with spices had lasted long enough.
For the culinary adventurer in Lisbon, there is hope in the form of international restaurants. African establishments serve piri-piri chicken that actually tastes of more than just hot pepper. Indian restaurants offer curries that recall Portugal’s rich history in Goa. Even Brazilian restaurants show how Portuguese cuisine might have developed if it hadn’t decided somewhere in the eighteenth century that further evolution was superfluous.
The tragedy is that all the ingredients for culinary greatness are present. The fish and seafood are among Europe’s finest, the olive oil is truly sublime (mine comes directly from the farmer), and the possibilities for integrating influences from former colonies are endless. Yet traditional Portuguese cuisine manages to transform this promising foundation into dishes that make British deep-fried cuisine almost seem avant-garde.
Let this not be a definitive judgement, however, but rather a call for culinary revolution. For somewhere, in a forgotten kitchen cupboard in Lisbon, there must still be a dusty spice jar that remembers more glorious times. A time when Portuguese cooks not only explored the world but also dared to experiment with more than just salt and nostalgia. Perhaps it’s time to open that jar again, if only to give rest to the spirit of Vasco da Gama – for even the most hardened explorer deserves better than endlessly overcooked bacalhau.
Who knows, if Portugal recalibrates its culinary compass, we might find our way back to that time when the country not only traded spices but actually used them.
Until then, it remains a gastronomic mystery: how a nation that taught the world to season has itself become lost on the way to the spice racks of history. But hey, there’s always pastéis de nata – because even in the darkest culinary times, there must be something to eat your worries away with.
It did not stay with only this post, so continue here to see how the response was:
