The interior walls were matte ecru and the tables metal. I occupied a table directly in front of the tiny bar crammed with liquor bottles and juice cartons. Behind this stood a burly, scruffy and solitary waiter who handed me the menu before returning to his post.

The Portuguese restaurant table is a little Italianate, equipped with decanters of extra virgin olive oil, and wine vinegars. A small pot of queijo fresco (fresh cheese) arrived with a platoon of flour-dusted rolls of bread.

Dubious, I smeared a little on some bread and ate. It tasted like a milder, milkier and silkier ricotta. The waiter, clearly amused by my curious behaviour, swooped over, inverted the pot onto my side plate and swiftly quartered the mound with my bread knife. Deadpanning, he pointed to the salt and pepper shakers. I nodded and so did he, as if we both had tacitly reached a consensus over an issue of great importance. Anyway, fresh from the bizarre pantomime and bolder helpings of queijo, I placed my orders.

An oblong steel plate of sardines escabeche (fried fish marinated in an acidic mixture) soon arrived and it was quite good - the mellowed onions and acerbic vinaigrette sliced through the gutsy, meaty fried fish perfectly.

For the main, it was 'Northern-style pork', though what this meant exactly I did not (and still do not) know. The meat appeared in hunks beneath a roof of fried coins of potatoes and sadly left much to be desired, with the tough meat fraying into splinters as the knife left it. On the upside, or so I consoled myself, the meat tasted wonderful, deep with a sweet, porky savouriness.

Dessert was pudim flan, a wobbly tower of tartrazine. Toothsome and bittersweet.

I took to the streets to weather my post-prandial fatigue, taking in the architecture and snapping random photos. The pedestrian comes first in Portugal, making jaywalking a rather safe and leisurely pastime. Later that evening, I sat at a café to rest and rashly ordered cocktail of emerald and ruby cubes of jelly which were disappointing. Still, it was nothing that a cup of black coffee couldn't cure.

   

My friends with whom I were staying decided to use the weekend to explore Obidos and I went along. This small town is a pleasant, scenic 80 minute drive north from Lisbon. Cobblestones and houses in white frocks with blue bands give Obidos an aura of Grecian idyll. The array of souvenir shops suggests it has succumbed to commercialism, but this is not to say I didn't find it terribly charming. We walked along, admiring roses and fuschias in bulging blossom, and visiting shops and cellars.

After picking up some bottles of wine and sherry, we went to a small roadside fruit vendor and got ourselves some pears, tubby lemons, cherries and loquats.

Somewhere near Leiria, we stumbled upon a nondescript restaurant perched on the hilly rim of a pine forest, with bright yellow PVC Carlsberg chairs dotting the deck that overlooked a vast freshwater lake. There were several tables of people enjoying cold beers and we decided to lunch there after we learnt that more nutritious sustenance was being offered. Whatever food that came was simple but inspiring and delicious. There was an astringent salad of cartilaginous pig ears and black olives, a bowl of tiny clams cooked with parsley and wine, another bowl of snails steamed with garlic and a platter of whole river eels that had been gutted and trundled in cornmeal. The experience was really surreal: it was the stuff of romantic travelogues and very wishful thinking. After some coffee and arroz doce (sweet rice pudding), we left.

After whisking through the gothic fairytale town of Cintra, it was time to return to Lisboa. The road back was a long, meandering one that spanned several hills. On one vertiginous edge was a cluster of roadside makeshift grocers displaying their wares. Impressively well-stocked. They had everything from olive oils, fresh fava (beans), salsichas (sausages), percebes (goose barnacles), local cheeses and cured meats to fresh flowers. But the stall that appealed to me most was one featuring jars and clay urns of mel (honey).

Shrubs of wild flowering herbs thriving on the desolate interiors of continental Portugal are a haven for bees. The lavish sunshine means plenty of nectar and perfume which results in a more charismatic honey.

On my final evening in Lisboa, I feed my already tubby Tumi luggage with jars of local rosemary, heather and pine honey I picked up at a speciality shop in the city. A couple had suspended whole almonds and pine nuts, incidentally local produce as well. There was one other bottle: a bottle of sugar cane honey, reminiscent of molten gula melaka, but it never made it home, electing instead to explode in its straightjacket of boxer shorts in my luggage.

I was nervous at the airport, mulling over the penalties for taking the equivalent of a delicatessen with me to London. Naturally, I ran into a little problem at the check-in counter. Apparently, I lacked an authentic-looking passport and visa for travelling into the United Kingdom. They were pleasant about it though, appeasing me with profuse apologies. I noticed a few Chinese travellers receiving similar treatment and felt slightly, if perversely, better. After 15 minutes of waiting, all was well; my well-fed luggage disappeared behind the counter and I made my way to the gate, as calm as can be.

• ACORDA DE MARISCOS ( BREAD SOUP WITH PRAWNS)
• GRILLED, MARINATED PORK CHOPS
• ARROZ COM ABAIXAR-SE (DUCK RICE)
• PUDIM FLAN ( ORANGE BLOSSOM FLAN)