Francesinha

I need to be honest with you. This is not a sandwich you eat. This is a sandwich that happens to you.

The first time I had a proper francesinha was in Porto, at a tiny place near Ribeira where the tables were plastic and the walls were covered with football scarves. The waiter brought this thing swimming in sauce, cheese still bubbling, and I understood immediately why tripeiros (that's what we call people from Porto) get into actual arguments about whose francesinha is best. Every restaurant has their secret sauce. Every cook swears theirs is the original. They're all lying and they're all right.

This isn't traditional grandmother food in the way my açorda is. The francesinha was invented in the 1950s or 60s, depending on who you ask, by a man who'd worked in France and came home missing the croque-monsieur. What he created was something entirely Portuguese: more meat, more cheese, more sauce, more everything. It's excess made edible, and I mean that as the highest compliment.

At Mesa da Avó, I don't serve francesinha because it's not my story to tell. But when friends from Porto come to Lisbon and get homesick, this is what they ask me to make. The sauce is the soul. Get the sauce right and everything else follows.