In
Manteigaria Silva, one of Lisbon’s oldest delis, not much has
changed since 1928. Cured hams dangle from the ceiling, port and Madeira wines
compete for shelf space and slabs of golden cheese await the blade. And
alongside the
lombo (air-cured pork) and
chouriço (chorizo) lies a sausage so thoroughly Portuguese
that
a 2011 public vote declared it one of the nation’s seven gastronomic
wonders:
alheira.
Alheira
likely saved hundreds, maybe thousands, of souls
In
countries that eat sausages, a high proportion of filler is not generally
considered a positive. But in Portugal, alheira, a garlicky affair stodgy with
breadcrumbs, is highly prized. And it’s much more than just comfort food. In a
time when Jews were being persecuted in Rossio Square, just metres from
where Manteigaria Silva’s cream awning extends today, alheira likely saved
hundreds, maybe thousands, of souls.
Every
dish can tell a million stories, if only there’s someone to hear them. Yet
Portugal’s cuisine is more narrative-heavy than most, a complex tapestry of
invasions and colonisations that slips and slides between continents and
religions.
“Like
many dishes in Portugal, the most popular and time-honoured ones have stayed
with us over many centuries from the period of Moorish rule – also known as a
golden era for Jews in Western Europe,” Paolo Scheffer, an expert on Lisbon’s
Jewish history, explained.
From
the 8th Century, the sophisticated Muslim culture from North Africa that
outsiders called the Moors ruled much of Iberia, including the hilly city known
as Al-Ushbuna. A Jewish community had long lived and flourished here, and Jews
and Muslims lived in harmony.
Jews
and Muslims both left their gastronomic mark on modern-day
Lisbon
From
marzipan and rosewater pastries to soups, stews and sausages, citizens of both
religions left their gastronomic mark on what is today the city of Lisbon. “We
have Moorish sausage, Moorish fish dishes and even Moorish broth, which is now a
seafood dish calledcataplana,” Scheffer observed. “But those dishes
would have adhered to Judaic and Islamic dietary laws without the popular
ingredients added today like shellfish, pork and rabbit.”
By
the 12th Century, when Christian crusaders first roared through Lisbon, raping
and murdering Muslims, Jews and fellow Christians alike, the city already had
its own culinary culture: Christian elements, such as pork and shellfish, merged
with this established set of flavours. Later, as Portuguese navigators spread
across the globe, ingredients like tomato, chilli and black pepper would leave
their mark in turn. At times, Scheffer said, it’s hard to separate what’s now
identified as Christian Portuguese food from the established Arab and Jewish
cuisines.
Following
the tradition set by the Moors, medieval Portugal, even after the Christian
conquest, was a generally tolerant place. However, in 1492, Ferdinand of Aragon
and his warrior queen Isabella of Castile defeated the last Moorish emirate –
Granada – and took the Alhambra Palace as their own.
Avid
Catholics, Ferdinand and Isabella believed that practising Jews might encourage
those who had converted to Christianity to go back to their old religion. They
appointed interrogators to persecute the Jews in their kingdom: their rule of
terror would be known as the Spanish Inquisition.
As
a result, tens of thousands of Jews who had flourished in Moorish Al-Andalus
were thrown out of Spain. They fled to Portugal, particularly Lisbon, but the
city did not stay safe for long. After overcrowding caused a plague outbreak,
Christian citizens forced all Jews to live outside the city walls.
By
1496, Portugal’s Jews were also forced to convert to Christianity, or leave. Ten
years later, rampaging citizens and sailors killed thousands of converted Jews
in a citywide pogrom. In 1536, the Inquisition formally arrived in Portugal, and
soon both practising Jews and Jews who had converted to Christianity were among
the unfortunates parading in penance or burnt at the pyre in Rossio Square.
Jews
went to huge lengths to conceal their faith
Disguising
themselves as Christian converts, Portugal’s secret Jews went to huge lengths to
conceal their religion – from writing Hebrew prayers in Catholic prayer books to
combining Jewish words with Catholic rituals. (One community in Belmonte kept
its faith alive in secret for more than 400 years.) In the rugged mountains of
northern Portugal’s Trás-os-Montes, one of these hidden communities created
Portugal’s best-known alheira sausage: Alheira de Mirandela.
In
Trás-os-Montes every home preserved pork sausages to see the family through the
winter, hanging them from the rafters in meaty coils. Jews – who did not eat
pork – were conspicuous for their missing sausages.
“They
were seeking refuge from the Inquisition,” Scheffer explained. “So the town of
Mirandela developed a bread sausage that could fool informers and local zealots
who denounced them to the Inquisition for not eating pork.”
To
Ashkenazi Jews, Scheffer observed, the Alheira de Mirandela seems very
like kishke, a kosher sausage
stuffed with fat, meal and flavourings that’s often served in the slow-cooked
Jewish Sabbath bean stew known as cholent. The Jews of Trás-os-Montes
traditionally made theirs with bread and chicken, although a present-day Alheira
de Mirandela is no longer kosher and can include everything from pork to game,
or even be vegetarian.
Today,
the alheira has travelled far beyond the mountains. Rather like the British
banger, it’s a comfort-food staple. You won’t find it in fine dining joints, but
it’s ubiquitous in supermarkets, and appears alongside steak and eggs in
workers’ cafes or neighbourhood diners.
At
Zé dos Cornos, a white-tiled little place below Lisbon’s
Castelo de São Jorge, I watched local workers chow down from huge rectangular
plates. The Alheira de Mirandela came glossy, grilled and horseshoe-shaped,
alongside a fried egg, French fries and white rice. In the smoky and garlicky
sausage, chunks of juicy game mingled with chunks of sour, soggy
breadcrumbs.
The
Moors, most of whom, despite their North African ancestry, had known no home but
Al-Andalus, stayed in Lisbon for a long time. Even today, the hillside district
where they lived is known as Mouraria (Moorsville). But it was not until the
early 19th Century that Jews began to return and, even as Hitler rose to power,
there were no more than 1,000 Jews in Lisbon.
Yet,
during the early days of World War II, the neutral city again became a refuge
for Europe’s Jews. Defying the dictator Salazar, Portuguese diplomat Aristides
de Sousa Mendes issued travel documents to thousands of Jews: more than 10,000
Jews would set sail from Lisbon to safety across the Atlantic.
Today,
although towns and cities across Portugal are beginning to rediscover their
Jewish history, the alheira is more a part of mainstream Portuguese cooking than
a symbol of the people who created it. Like the Portuguese word for ‘Saturday’ –
'Sábado', for the Jewish Sabbath – and the brilliant Arab-influenced tiles that
illuminate Lisbon's teetering streets, the sausage is an indicator of a past as
cosmopolitan as it is complex.
