A man on the corner announced an almanac called Borda d’Água. I bought it for fun, after he explained to me that it has been published since 1929, exactly as it was then, in black and white, with a list of utilities, like when to sow and harvest the agricultural products. I flicked through it drinking coffee on the corner outdoor café, and found myself thinking that the almanac might well include the seasonal scents in Lisbon: to grilled sardines, during the festival of the Popular Saints (June and July); to cozido à portuguesa, on cold days; to codfish, all year round; to olive oil broth, which is the basis of all rice and seafood dishes, on weekdays; to lamb and octopus, cooking longer in the oven, on weekends and bank holidays All of a sudden, I am hungry.

It smells like rosemary, coriander, bay, oregano and glasswort It smells like cinnamon, saffron, mint, nutmeg and pepper. Every day a new scent, on every street, anytime. This gentle breeze blowing from the Tagus brings the smell, as if it were wandering in search of customers, and we want to try everything to know what it tastes like Like our mother’s kitchen, like our childhood memories, like fishing on the high seas, like hunting for survival, like fruits and vegetables picked up on the day. I have never spent so much time in restaurants, devouring menus as if they were literature and indulging in the names: peixinhos da horta (fish from the garden, meaning breaded green beans), iscas com elas (liver with them), bacalhau com todos (codfish with everything), dobrada (tripe), pica-pau (woodpecker), prego (nail, meaning beef), bitoque, tripes, caldeirada (stew), sarrabulho (stew with pork blood), jaquinzinhos (small mackerels)… and those dishes that respond by a name: Bulhão Pato, Gomes de Sá, Zé do Pipo, Abade de Priscos.