The Perils of Ordering Bifana
Carlow Nationalist July 2010
'HAY BIFANA!', a crude sign stuck with tape to the inside of the glass declared to all and sundry; the sign's scribe had even added an exclamation mark with an exaggerated flourish to emphasise his obvious pride in this 'Haying' of 'Bifanas'. But, as crude as the sign appeared it was exactly what I had wandered the back streets of Lisbon in search of.
Inside the dark restaurant, where men lazed on the long, counter sipping an assortment of drinks, the air was pungent with the scent of herbs and spices. One or two of the men even managed to turn briefly, catching a glimpse of the stranger who had wandered into their early-morning midst.
At the counter I took stance at an empty space. The man nearest me was drinking from a miniscule bottle of beer, in front of him an empty plate sat scattered with crumbs and a crumpled tissue. He tipped the bottle to his lips, forced his head back to drain the last drops then belched loudly and left.
The man behind the bar didn't smile. But I didn't take this to be a bad sign; he looked like the type of man who rarely smiled except with the telling of some bawdy joke, or when Sporting scored a match-winning goal, or when a foreigner makes a fool of himself. He had a thick, grey, Portuguese moustache tinted yellow by nicotine and time. "Bom dia" I said. "Bom dia" he replied barely wrinkling his face. "Um bifana, se faz favor," I said pleased with my linguistic prowess. I had spent half an hour before leaving my room trying to extract the exact words which I would need in my task; no more, no less, and it appeared to have worked.
The man turned to where an assortment of pans bubbled on the flame of a small gas hob sending their herby deliciousness into the air. At last, I thought, a bifana, just what I've been waiting for. For the uninitiated a bifana comprises of slices of deliciously spiced, tender, hot meat sandwiched between two baps whose crusts crunch like shattering egg-shells as one's teeth penetrate their freshness. The meat is simmered in pans of tantalising gravy throughout the day; new slices being added to the mix as their colleagues are removed, sandwiched and swallowed by hungry lines of men and women like those about me here in the back-streets of the Portuguese capital. It would only be minutes now I thought and I would again taste the pleasure which I had long been denied.
Looking up I saw the man turn to me. He exhaled a long gush of sibilant sounds in my direction. What was this? I thought, is he asking me a question? My lack of comprehension caused him to gush another string of words which sounded not unlike a tongue-twister employing the use of words beginning and ending in 'SH' sounds. My God, I hadn't prepared for this. Stupidly I opened my mouth. "Eh, um bifana, se faz favor." It only made him mad and another litany of sound spluttered from beneath his walrus moustache.
Leaning heavily on the counter he scratched his head, looked towards the ceiling for divine inspiration then spoke slowly. Still it meant nothing to me and worse still it was attracting the attention of the others at the bar who were now leaning beyond their drinks and looking my way. Again he repeated his words. I must have looked like I had just arrived from the planet Moron. "Sim" I tried, "um bifana." The poor man slapped his forehead with his palm. My mind was working overtime, what could he possibly be asking me, THINK you fool!
And then an idea hit me; perhaps he is asking what type of meat I would like in my bifana? I never thought for an instant that my lovely hot sandwich could come in other varieties. Seeing a glimmer of enlightenment on my face he asked his question once again, this time enunciating each word like one does when talking to an idiot travel writer who doesn't speak the language. "Puerco!" I answered proudly, "Puerco!", indicating that I would in fact like pig meat in my bifana.
I have never before or since seen a man double-over, so violently overcome by great peels of laughter. His whole body contorted in spasms and waves as great, noisy guffaws of mirth broke the silence of the place. I didn't know where to look; certainly not at the line of men at the bar who had joined in his merriment. I could feel my face burning bright red. I wanted to die there and then without ever knowing the reason for my sudden and embarrassing demise.
I didn't notice the small thin man who had sidled up beside me, he tapped my shoulder, his face was riddled with stifled laughter. "Perdon Signor" he said, "my friend he ask you what language you speak". His face began to crack, a little at first and then opened into an open barefaced laugh. "He ask what language you speak and you answer...." his cackling was like a knife in the heart. "...and you answer," he stowed his laughter long enough to explode the words, "...and you answer, PIG!"
I saw the joke, eventually, and joined in their laughter slapping myself like an idiot. After what seemed like an eternity the laughter stutteringly ceased and the man presented me with my bifana. I tried eating it nonchalantly but every so often the word PIG would come back to haunt me and I would smile, look at the men along the bar, slap myself in the forehead and shout PIG. I could hear their laughter drumming in my ears as the door closed behind me, in fact, I can still hear it.
GETTING THERE:
AER LINGUS fly daily from Dublin to Lisbon. www.aerlingus.com