A Full Circle Pilgrimage; Pt. 1

The tale of my immigration to Portugal to dig up my roots; 35 years after my fathers immigration from Lisbon to Miami.

I never thought it could happen to me. I was fulfilling my passions and working toward a greater purpose—wasn’t I? Yet one morning, sometime in late 2023, was the first of many where my body refused to get out of bed. It was as if all my limbs weighed 200 lbs each. I tried to ignore it at first as I was in relatively good physical shape, but this was a sickness of the spirit. Mind over matter could no longer override this feeling.

On paper, it seemed I was on my way to achieving lifelong dreams of reforming Miami’s local food system as Culinary Director of Paradise Farms and The Sacred Space Miami—and in some ways, I was. But after over a year of pouring everything I had into that vision, I had nothing left to give. The cumulative big-city loneliness, lack of inspiration, and overall fogginess pushed me to leave my position without any clear direction to follow.

Shortly after my last day at work, and after a few days of doing absolutely nothing, flashes of that old village in Portugal I had visited with my family—and ate that amazing tomato when I was 22—kept recurring in my mind. So I decided then and there that I would immigrate to Portugal, just as my father had immigrated to Miami from Lisbon when he was 18, and I would go as soon as possible. I bought my ticket for a February 4 departure, almost the dead of winter over there.

My family and friends in both Miami and Portugal were very confused.

“What will you do up there all by yourself?”

“Why are you coming in the middle of winter?”

“What will you do for money? For your career?”

“How are you going to communicate with the villagers?”

Great questions, I thought. But I had no answers—only a very comforting gut feeling that this was what I needed to do.

I arrived in Lisbon and was greeted by my uncle Nuno at the airport. We went to his house and immediately ate lunch: olives, fresh bread, dourada (sea bream), and choco (cuttlefish) grilled over charcoal, served with garlicky potatoes, white wine, and queijo da Serra da Estrela, a sheep cheese I would later become very familiar with.

Immediately, the differences in food culture struck me. A routine lunch still consisted of simple, amazing ingredients. My palate stood at attention for the first time in a while after eating takeout almost every day for lunch in Wynwood.

During dinner, I kept asking questions about the village I was about to go live in—Aldeia Velha—as it was my main source of excitement. The response was the same from most of the family: a feeling that it was just an old place in nature, fun to visit once a year like an old family heirloom.

I had two more days in Lisbon—one day for solo exploring, and one day for meeting my great uncle Jorge.

The day of solo exploration, Lisbon gave me everything it always gives: a modern city draped in a backdrop of well-preserved old-world architecture and history; fresh seafood coming off the boats; artisans and artists’ work on display throughout the streets; pastelarias pumping out pastéis de bacalhau (codfish croquettes) and pastéis de nata; the sky glowing orange at sunset over the river as sailboats floated by; and Fado music at night.

I couldn’t help but notice, however, that even since my previous visits, Lisbon was beginning to suffer the same fate as most large cities across the world: bumper-to-bumper traffic most of the day, an increased cost of living pricing out locals, and gentrification by corporate giants taking over local staples that couldn’t make ends meet anymore.

The next day I met with my uncle Jorge, whom I had not seen in over six years. I had almost forgotten what he looked like.

Uncle Jorge is my grandmother’s brother and somewhat the “head” of the family. He’s retired and always the one to initiate family get-togethers, including the harvest tradition, when he hosts us at his vineyard every September. The men harvest grapes all morning while the women prepare lunch, then we celebrate and feast with at least 30 family and friends—and, of course, plenty of wine. He makes the wine only to give away; it’s not for sale.

I parked my rental car and walked toward the restaurant, where I spotted him standing on the corner waiting for me—his hair almost comically blowing in the wind, a slight smirk and zen look on his face, donning his favorite football team’s shirt: Benfica.

We embraced and began to catch up. His English was limited, so not everything got through. I realized as we spoke that, of all the times we’d met, this was my first time meeting him as an independent man. The previous encounters were all in my early twenties, behind the safety of communicating through my father. It was like I was meeting family for the first time—an exciting feeling, full of potential.

We made our way to Inhaca, a staple restaurant right in the middle of the city.

Upon entering, I saw there were already four or five tables connected in a straight line with three men at one end waiting for us, also wearing Benfica shirts. My uncle was greeted by the staff as an old friend would be. It was game day—turns out they do this every game day.

We sat, and more guests began to arrive until the entire table was filled with Portuguese men. Immediately and in unison, the staff dropped wine glasses, fresh bread, and shrimp in garlic and olive oil, and began filling all our glasses with white wine.

I quickly finished my plate of shrimp and looked over to see the others soaking up the garlic oil with bread. I hesitated, looking at the basket filled with three or four varieties of fresh bread—I’d been gluten-free for as long as I could remember in the US.

But I decided I would not deny myself the full experience of this culture, both for my own sake and out of respect. I reached for the bread, dipped it in the warm garlic-shrimp oil, and ate it.

Ecstasy.

Next: plates cleared. Then came presunto de Alentejo and percebes (gooseneck barnacles—a delicacy, notoriously dangerous to harvest as they cling to rocks where the Atlantic crashes hardest).

Wine glasses were refilled, all in a seamless flow. My uncle showed me how to open the percebes by twisting the “tooth” and pulling the rubbery outside off to reveal the razor clam-like flesh inside.

Meanwhile, his friends kept filling their glasses and laughing as they expressed to me, in broken English, how “us Portuguese” really prioritize enjoying life.

Now for the main course. Plates and glasses cleared once again. We graduated to a bottle of red wine as the main dish came out in a giant pot and was served tableside: stewed galo (rooster), incredibly tender, in a beautiful sauce with roasted golden potatoes.

Then, of course, dessert: fofa (fluffy white sugar cake), cut-up fruit, espresso, and aguardente (brandy).

My uncle explained to me how in Portugal there is breakfast, lunch, lanche (snack time), and dinner. After this, we were headed to have a light lanche in a couple of hours...

I had to pass on the cake, as I didn’t want to shock my system too much. But I did have some aguardente and coffee, as those seemed to be held in the highest regard.

It was a king’s welcome to the country—my heart full, and my stomach stuffed. Any doubts about my decision to come here were far from my mind at this point.

Next, we headed to my uncle’s house, solely so he could gift me two boxes of wine from his vineyard.

Then off to lanche we went: a seafood place near Benfica Stadium. Two of his friends joined us, and we had a “light” meal of small sweet shrimp from the north coast, served chilled with a bit of sea salt and their roe still inside. The sweetest shrimp I’ve ever had—with a snappy, sea-filled crunch from the roe.

Then a small tenderloin filet in its own gravy with potato crisps, and of course, more wine and espresso.

After conquering hunger yet again, off to the football game we went—naturally, Uncle Jorge is a season ticket holder with his own reserved parking space.

It was an incredible spectacle. Passion poured from every section, including the visiting French team’s section, where they sang their team’s song at the top of their lungs for the entire two-hour game.

I quickly got into the match as well, and by extra time it was tied 2–2. The displeasure on Uncle Jorge’s face was obvious. He gestured for us to leave before time expired—he just couldn’t bear it anymore.

As we got in the car, we heard the stadium erupt. He turned on the radio. Benfica had been awarded a penalty in the final minute—and scored the winning goal.

Uncle Jorge still seemed disappointed; he cared more about the quality of play than the final result.

I thanked him as much as I could for everything, then went off to Uncle Nuno’s place to get some sleep before the journey to Aldeia Velha (Old Village) the next morning.

Nuno’s family saw my grandmother and me off. She insisted on making the entire trip with me, worried about countless things—as grandmothers do.

And so, my grandmother—who spoke not a lick of English—and I—who spoke only a few words of Portuguese—set off on our adventure.