
Chef Margarida
Açorda de Bacalhau
Two Portuguese icons meet in one humble bowl: the bread soup of Alentejo embracing flakes of salt cod. Peasant genius that proves scarcity breeds invention, that pão and bacalhau together can feed the soul.
A cooking platform built around craft, culture, and the stories behind what we eat.

Created by
The soup that heals everything, from broken hearts to winter colds. Golden broth, falling-apart chicken, rice that drinks the goodness, and fresh mint because this is how Portuguese grandmothers have always done it.
When I was small and came down with a cold, Avó Leonor didn't reach for medicine. She reached for her biggest pot. Within an hour, the house would smell of chicken and bay leaves, and I'd be sitting up in bed with a bowl of canja in my hands. This is the soup that heals.
Every Portuguese person knows canja. It's the first solid food we give babies. It's what we make when someone is sick, heartbroken, or just needs to feel held. The broth should be golden, almost amber, from slow cooking. The chicken should fall apart at the touch of a spoon. The rice should be soft, having drunk all that goodness, but not dissolved into mush.
And then there's the mint. Hortelã. This is what separates canja from every other chicken soup in the world. That bright, green, slightly sweet note cutting through the richness. Some families add it to the pot. Avó Leonor always scattered it fresh on top, so the heat would release its perfume but the leaves would stay vibrant. I do the same.
At Mesa da Avó, I've served canja to people who thought they didn't like chicken soup. They'd had the watery, tasteless versions. They'd never had the real thing. One spoonful of proper canja and everything changes. This isn't just soup. This is a grandmother's love in a bowl.
The word 'canja' likely arrived in Portugal via the spice trade routes, derived from the Malay or Cantonese words for rice porridge. Portuguese sailors and merchants encountered congee across Asia and brought the concept home, where it merged with European chicken broths. By the 16th century, canja was established as Portugal's quintessential restorative soup, prescribed by physicians and grandmothers alike.
Quantity
1 whole (about 1.5 kg) or 1 kg pieces
Quantity
2.5 liters
Quantity
1 medium
peeled and halved
Quantity
2 medium
peeled, left whole
Quantity
2
with leaves
Quantity
3
smashed
Quantity
2
Quantity
4 whole
Quantity
1 tablespoon, plus more to taste
Quantity
150g
Quantity
1 large bunch
leaves picked
Quantity
for drizzling
Quantity
1
cut into wedges
| Ingredient | Quantity |
|---|---|
| whole chicken or bone-in pieces | 1 whole (about 1.5 kg) or 1 kg pieces |
| cold water | 2.5 liters |
| onionpeeled and halved | 1 medium |
| carrotspeeled, left whole | 2 medium |
| celery stalkswith leaves | 2 |
| garlic clovessmashed | 3 |
| bay leaves | 2 |
| black peppercorns | 4 whole |
| coarse sea salt | 1 tablespoon, plus more to taste |
| short-grain rice | 150g |
| fresh mint (hortelã)leaves picked | 1 large bunch |
| extra virgin olive oil | for drizzling |
| lemon (optional)cut into wedges | 1 |
Place the chicken in your largest pot. Add the cold water. This is important: cold water extracts more flavor and gelatin from the bones than starting with hot. The water should cover the chicken by about 5 centimeters. If it doesn't, add more.
Set the pot over medium-high heat and bring slowly to a simmer. As it heats, a grayish foam will rise to the surface. Skim this off with a spoon and discard. Don't skip this step. This foam is impurities, and leaving it makes the broth cloudy and muddy-tasting. Keep skimming until the liquid runs clear.
Once the broth is clear, add the onion halves, whole carrots, celery, smashed garlic, bay leaves, peppercorns, and salt. Reduce the heat to low. The surface should barely tremble, with a lazy bubble rising every few seconds. This is not a boil. Boiling makes the chicken tough and the broth greasy.
Let the canja simmer gently, uncovered, for about 1 hour and 15 minutes. You'll know it's ready when the chicken leg pulls away from the body with almost no resistance, and the broth has turned a deep golden color. The kitchen will smell like comfort itself.
Carefully lift the chicken from the broth and set it on a cutting board. Remove and discard the vegetables (they've given everything to the broth). Let the chicken cool just enough to handle. Pull the meat from the bones, discarding the skin and bones. Shred the meat into bite-sized pieces with your fingers or two forks. Don't make it too fine. You want to know you're eating chicken.
Return the broth to a simmer. Taste and adjust the salt. Add the rice directly to the broth and cook, stirring occasionally, until the rice is tender and has absorbed some of the liquid, about 15 to 18 minutes. The canja should be brothy but substantial. If it becomes too thick, add a splash of hot water.
Return the shredded chicken to the pot and warm through for 2 minutes. Remove from heat. Ladle into deep bowls, making sure each portion has plenty of chicken and rice. Scatter fresh mint leaves generously over each bowl. Drizzle with your best olive oil. Serve immediately with lemon wedges on the side for those who want a bright squeeze of acidity.
1 serving (about 400g)
Culinary guides, cultural storytelling, and the editorial depth that makes cooking meaningful.
Discover Culinary Explorer
Chef Margarida
Two Portuguese icons meet in one humble bowl: the bread soup of Alentejo embracing flakes of salt cod. Peasant genius that proves scarcity breeds invention, that pão and bacalhau together can feed the soul.

Chef Margarida
The fishwives of Porto built this stew in layers, never stirring, letting the fish steam gently over potatoes and peppers. Whatever the market offered that morning became dinner by evening.

Chef Margarida
The soup that unites Portugal, from Minho in the north to Lisbon's June festivals. Just potatoes and couve sliced thin as breath, a ring of chouriço floating like a promise, proof that poverty breeds genius in the kitchen.

Chef Margarida
The beef stew every Portuguese mother makes, built on a slow refogado and patient braising until the meat surrenders to your fork. Grab bread. This is comfort defined.