Bacalhau à Lagareiro

This is the dish that made me understand what azeite really means to Portuguese cooking. Not a drizzle. Not a finishing touch. A flood. A baptism. The cod should be swimming in olive oil when it reaches the table. If it isn't, you haven't made lagareiro.

The name comes from the workers at the olive press, the lagareiros, who had access to the freshest, greenest oil straight from the stone. They'd roast their bacalhau simply and pour that new oil over everything until it pooled on the plate. This wasn't excess. This was the whole point.

Avó Leonor made this for special occasions, when she had oil from her cousin's grove in Moura. She'd heat it with garlic until the kitchen smelled like something sacred, then pour it sizzling over the roasted cod. The sound it made. I can still hear it. That sizzle is the song of this dish.

And the potatoes. Batatas a murro. Punched potatoes. You roast them whole in their skins, then give each one a good punch with your fist to crack it open. The cracks drink the oil. The skins get crispy. It's violent and satisfying and delicious. At Mesa da Avó, I let guests punch their own. Everyone smiles. Everyone eats with their hands.