Gambas ao Alho

There's a moment in every tasca when the gambas arrive. You hear them before you see them: that sizzle, that pop of oil, that garlic hitting your nose from across the room. The terracotta dish lands on the table still bubbling, and everyone reaches for bread at once.

This is the dish that taught me what petiscos are supposed to be. Not fussy appetizers. Not delicate little bites. Real food, shared food, the kind of cooking that makes people lean in and fight for the last prawn and mop up every drop of that garlicky oil with torn pieces of bread.

Avó Leonor didn't make gambas often. She was from the interior, from Alentejo, where the sea felt far away. But when she did, she was generous with the garlic. "Se não cheira a alho, não presta," she'd say. If it doesn't smell like garlic, it's no good. She'd add a splash of white wine at the end, let it hiss and steam, and bring the whole dish to the table still screaming.

The secret isn't complicated. Fresh prawns. Good azeite. More garlic than feels reasonable. A little heat from malagueta or piri-piri. And the confidence to serve it while it's still alive with heat. This isn't a dish that waits. The bread is already torn. The wine is already poured. Eat.