
Chef Margarida
Açorda de Camarão
The peasant bread soup of Alentejo dressed for company, sweet pink prawns swimming in a broth of garlic, coentros, and golden azeite. Humble origins, elegant result. This is who we are.
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The clam dish that made a poet immortal, nothing but garlic, wine, and coentros meeting the brine of the sea. Ten minutes from pan to table. Bread mandatory.
Some dishes don't need explaining. You put a pan of amêijoas à Bulhão Pato on the table and everyone reaches for bread before you've finished setting it down. The broth is the thing. That garlicky, wine-bright, herb-flecked broth that pools at the bottom of the pan and demands to be mopped up with torn chunks of crusty pão.
I didn't learn this dish from Avó Leonor. She was Alentejana, landlocked, more likely to make açorda than cook seafood. But the grandmothers I've documented along the coast from Setúbal to Cascais all make it the same way. Fast heat, good wine, don't touch the clams once they're in the pan. "Deixa-os em paz," one told me. Leave them in peace. The moment they open, they're done. A second longer and you've made them into rubber.
This is tascas food, the kind of cooking that happens in the small family-run restaurants of Lisbon where the menu is whatever came off the boats that morning. Raimundo António de Bulhão Pato, the poet who gave this dish its name, understood that the best food needs no poetry. Just good ingredients and the restraint not to ruin them.
At Mesa da Avó, we serve this dish in the pan it was cooked in, still bubbling, with a basket of bread and a bottle of cold vinho verde. That's the complete experience. Pão, azeite, vinho, sempre.
This dish honors Raimundo António de Bulhão Pato, a 19th-century Portuguese Romantic poet and notorious gastronome who frequented Lisbon's tascas. The recipe became associated with him at Cervejaria da Trindade, one of Lisbon's oldest beer halls, where he was a regular. By the early 20th century, his name had become inseparable from this simple preparation of clams.
Quantity
1 kg
scrubbed and purged
Quantity
1/4 cup
Quantity
6 cloves
thinly sliced
Quantity
3/4 cup
Quantity
1 large bunch
roughly chopped
Quantity
from 1/2 lemon
Quantity
freshly ground, to taste
Quantity
for serving
| Ingredient | Quantity |
|---|---|
| fresh clams (amêijoas)scrubbed and purged | 1 kg |
| extra virgin olive oil (azeite) | 1/4 cup |
| garlicthinly sliced | 6 cloves |
| dry white wine | 3/4 cup |
| fresh cilantro (coentros)roughly chopped | 1 large bunch |
| lemon juice | from 1/2 lemon |
| black pepper | freshly ground, to taste |
| crusty bread | for serving |
Rinse the clams under cold running water, scrubbing off any grit. Place them in a large bowl of cold salted water and leave for 30 minutes to an hour. They'll spit out any sand hiding inside. Discard any clams that are open and don't close when tapped. Those ones are dead. Never cook a dead clam.
Heat a wide pan or cataplana over high heat. Add the olive oil and let it shimmer but not smoke. Add the sliced garlic and let it sizzle for 30 seconds. You want it fragrant and barely golden, not brown. Brown garlic is bitter garlic.
Add the clams all at once. They'll hiss and spit. Immediately pour in the wine. Put the lid on. This is the moment where you do nothing. Deixa-os em paz. Leave them alone. Don't stir. Don't peek constantly. Let the steam do its work.
After 3 to 4 minutes, lift the lid. Most of the clams should be open. Give the pan a shake to redistribute them. Replace the lid for another minute if some are still closed. The moment they're all open, you're done. Any clam that refuses to open after 6 minutes gets discarded. It was dead before you started.
Remove from heat immediately. Squeeze the lemon juice over the clams. Throw in most of the coentros and give the pan one final toss to coat everything in that fragrant broth. Grind fresh pepper over top. Scatter the remaining coentros. Serve straight from the pan with torn bread on the side. The broth is the whole point. Make sure everyone has bread to soak it up.
1 serving (about 150g)
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