Precisely at midnight, in the excellent company of Senhor Emilio Mateus, we set out to explore Alfama, Lisbon's oldest quarter. There is magic in the twisting, haphazard strets of Alfama and, like literary critic Charles-Augustin Sainte-Beuve and his mistress who had been here 130 years before, Debbie and I were also being escorted by Emilio Mateus.

No ghost, our Emilio was the great-grandson of Sainte-Beuve's charming companion. Despite his 82 years, Senhor Emilio remains a charmer and even though he has a reputation for being "the oldest and best known pedarist in the city" he was obviously intrigued with Debbie's uniquely American style of youth, beauty and long blonde hair.

Huddled on a small hill above the river, Alfama houses the poor of the city. As we explored the narrow back streets, we realized that we had discovered what is the twin of every North African casbah from Tangier to Tunis. We made our way past tall tenements, some of them leaning at angles so great that the only thing that kept them from collapsing was the weight of an adjoining building In a style reminiscent of a Humphrey Bogart movie, prostitutes leaned against streetlamps, twirling their handbags and eyeing every man who passed. And, even at this odd hour, street vendors lined the streets selling everything from hot buttered breads to condoms.

It was neither the prostitutes nor the bread that had brought us here. With the fall of night, Alfama resounds to the sad, intoxicating strains of fado. The word "fado" means fate - and these are songs that weep for lost love, flown illusions and death that has come too soon.

It was neither the prostitutes nor the bread that had brought us here. With the fall of night, Alfama resounds to the sad, intoxicating strains of fado. The word "fado" means fate - and these are songs that weep for lost love, flown illusions and death that has come too soon.

In each of the four places we visited that night, the lights would dim and a woman with a black shawl draped over her shoulders would take her place between two guitarists. The guitars strummed an introductory chord, the woman closed her eyes, and her voice rose in haunted tragedy. Don Emilio, not that long ago the impresario known as the King of Fado, whispered "many people think that all fadistas wear the black shawl in mourning for Maria Severa. Actually its because fado was born among the poor widows of Lisbon and, as you've probably noticed, poor widows always wear black shawls."

In the first establishment we visited, Don Emilio was honored with a bottle of truly magnificent Grahams 1963 Vintage Port, a remarkably lucious wine with a beautiful bouquet. In the second, our table was graced with a bottle of 1985 Dao, a rich, velvety wine not dissimilar to the several excellent reds of Bordeaux. This was followed, in both of our next ports-of-call, by bottles of Sandeman's 1966 Vintage Port. While not as great as the '63 wine, its fruitiness and rich bouquet made it no less comfortable on the palate.

With so much of this potent wine, all that prevented us from falling into a drunken stupor were the luxuriant platters of food that were brought, practically non-stop, to our table. Crabs au gratin, cooked with finely chopped leeks, lots of butter and brandy and browned under a hot grill; fried baby lamb chops with spiced snails; a leek pie surprisingly but marvelously seasoned with cinnamon; spicy fried freshwater crayfish; herbed shrimp croquettes; grilled quail; and even a roast suckling pig found their way from kitchen to stomach. It seemed as if we had entered a world where feasting could go on without end. We were delighted at the fact that no knives and forks were put on the table. To heighten one's sense of sensuality, all here was meant to be eaten with the fingers.

Despite the heady influence of the wine and food, we could not help but notice a certain similarity between most fados. In song after song we picked out the words tristeza, amor, o meu coracao sadness, love, my heart. In fado, all loves are doomed, all lovers are cruel, and five hours of fado can plunge anyone into a rapture of gloom. At five in the morning, with this black sorrow still echoing in our ears, Debbie and I parted from Don Emilio and decided to make our way by foot back to our hotel. We were so immersed in our music-inspired depression that we were not certain whether making love or committing suicide would be more appropriate.

Even though it was Sunday morning, we came across a tiny square where dozens of women with bottles and jugs were crowded around a public well. A lone policemen had the unenviable task of permitting the milling women to advance to the faucets - each in what he judged to be her proper turn. For this he received flashing smiles from those he favored and scathing abuse and threats from those he held back. Debbie asked him why he never smiled. "Smile", he said dryly, "I'm too busy praying for my life."

Something about this downcast policeman cheered us up and gave us enough of a second wind to make our way to the cool, aromatic herb shop Evranaria Rosil, one of the few stores open on Sunday. An expert herbalist prescribed and mixed an infusion of medicinal herbs that took away our hangovers and whatever remained of our depression. By the time we arrived at our hotel, the elegant if not somewhat pompous Meridien, and our magnificent outsize bed, suicide was the last thing on our minds.

Lisbon is the perfect city for idle strolling and, instead of sleep, we decided to breakfast at one of the already crowded cafes on the Rossio, the main square of the city. The gay mosaic sidewalks, music pouring out of a dozen restaurants, (even early on Sunday morning) and a host of young and not-so-young couples recovering from a night of hectic lovemaking added to our rekindled appetites. A small clay pot of rich brandy flavored partridge and liver pate made an excellent starter. Fried eggs, crisp around the edges and with a tangy garlic sauce were served with lots of creamy butter and heavy, flavorful country-style bread. Even though it was still early, large glasses of dark beer washed it all down wonderfully and then we ended with large mugs of steaming hot coffee, enriched with just the hint of cinnamon.

The sun was up as we continued our stroll, getting as far as the area known as Belem. As we entered the vast gloom of the Jeronimos Church, we knew we had returned to a Lisbon of an earlier era. King Manuel the Fortunate began the construction of this church in 1496 and it is here, in the timeless dusk of flickering candles, that a host of kings and queens lie, their stone catafalques resting on the backs of marble elephants. Also here is the tomb of the renowned explorer, Vasco da Gama.

Even though the Portuguese revere da Gama's memory, many wonder whether he was a fearless sailor or simply a lucky fool. On his three voyages to the Indies, in between a series of peccadilloes with his cabin boys, he managed to get lost no less than twenty-two times. Two thirds of his crew died en route and he succeeded in losing no less than nine of his thirteen ships before he made his way back to Europe. A stone likeness of the explorer lies prone on top of his tomb and a mischievous monk cannot resist pointing out that the intrepid explorer is portrayed with an out-size erection, "probably because that and not his brain was the most active part of his body".

Because it was Sunday, we could not resist a visit to the bullring. One must understand that if there is a basic difference between the Portuguese and Spanish character, it may best be seen at bullfights. In Spain, where the bull always dies, and matadors are often badly mauled, tragedy flickers over the bullring like summer lightning.

In Portugal, when man and bull confront each other, both will survive. Here everything is spectacle. Darting horses, ridden by 18th century costumed cavaleiros show their glory by dodging, not killing the bull. One cannot help but marvel at the skill of the cavaleiros and their mounts. Time after time these seeming centaurs gracefully avoid being trampled by a hurtling half-ton of enraged bull by the merest fraction of a centimeter.

Debbie and I cheered especially loudly for the forcados or bull tacklers. In the Portuguese bullfight, when the cavaleiro has run the gamut of his skills, he retires from the arena and is followed by eight forcados who form a column facing the bull. They tease the bull and then receive his charge head on and attempt to wrestle him to a standstill. This tradition is not a new one and 3,500 year old Cretan frescoes show youths tacking bulls much as forcados do today. Even though it is rare for anyone to be seriously injured, this is no game for the faint of heart. I was invited to join the forcados in one of their "games". As a person devoted primarily to women, food, wine and intellectual pursuits, I was not at all hesitant to admit my cowardice in the face of a 1200 kilo charging bull.

We made our way out of the bullring at two in the afternoon. It was our aim to drive to the village of Sintra, on the Cabo da Roca (Coast of the Sun), to keep a date with Chris, a Greek friend whose family maintains a small home here. The drive was spectacular and it was still light when we arrived. Sintra is charming and stucco houses, softened by time, gleam red, blue, pink, orange and yellow in the afternoon sun. Above all, however, Sintra is green. Dark green trees with vine bound trunks; clear streams bubbling over rocks coated with rich velvet moss; and lichen, the color of young olives cling to every wall. There is a feeling that this is a silent, private, timeless place.

It had been too many hours since we have had any sleep, so Debbie and I found a small pension and convinced the owner to rent us a room for two hours. He smiled tolerantly, convinced that our motives were ulterior, but we fell asleep virtually the minute our heads hit the pillows.

Later, with Chris, we found ourselves on the southern coast of the town. It was a balmy evening and the beach was beautiful and we quickly located the restaurant Sao Paolo, here to indulge in the very serious business of dining on shrimp couscous. Philippe, do Marenga, the owner and chef is said to have been born in Brazil, but his is the Portugese couscous par excellence. With several bottles of slightly sparkling, very dry and light Vinho Verde, (the "green wine" that is really white), the couscous went down easily.

After dinner a short drive took us to Estoril, the traditional home of exiled royalty, where stately palm trees line the long drive leading to the famed Casino. Before too long we found ourselves ensconced on red velvet chairs in a quietly luxurious room dedicated to the joys of roulette. Debbie and I marveled at the good grace with which our sad-eyed croupier, announcing the winning numbers in three languages, deftly separated us from our escudos.

We admired the quiet elegance with which a very dignified White-Russian princess accepted $150,000 for a diamond tiara and then wagered the entire amount on black. Her bet won, her tiara was returned and she received one hundred and fifty large chips, each worth a thousand dollars. She sipped a glass of Champagne, left one of the chips as a tip to the croupier, nodded to all seated at the table and quietly left.

We also marveled at the vulgarity of the wife of a former Panamanian general as she lost nearly $100,000, pouting and mumbling under her breath that she will take revenge on the croupier, her husband and anyone else within reach. Her husband, remained oblivious of all of this, as he was busily engaged in trying to put his hand up the dress of any woman unfortunate enough to come within reach of his overactive fingers. When he realized how much money his wife has lost, he turned apoplectic. She merely smiled at him, her revenge quite complete.

By now it was two in the morning. We left a small tip for the croupier, bid Chris adieu, drove back to Lisbon, and ascend to our room. Don Emilio had sent us fresh fruits and several bottles of Port, but they would have to wait as there are more pressing things on our minds.

And so to bed.

To peruse my favorite Portuguese recipe, for Shrimp Couscous, click here.

© Daniel Rogov