A Lisbon Guide for Bifanas, Pastel de Nata, and Bacalhau
Lisbon is loud. Trams rattle through tight, tiled streets like rusty toys on a track. If you’re not careful, you’ll get swiped. There’s an energy around every corner. The sidewalks shine, not because they’re clean, but because they’ve been worn down by generations of tired feet and drunk stumbles. It’s easy to get lost here, and you should. Turn a corner and you’ll end up in a packed square with a guy yelling over espresso. Locals lean against counters with beer at 11 a.m. That’s what’s so great about it here. There’s a comfort in that distressing enegy, once you’re used to it.
The food scene is built around that comfort. No foams, no tweezers, no Instagram tricks. Just good food. If you eat one thing here, you’ve done it wrong. You need it all, but we’ve highlighted the big three. The bifana, a pork sandwich dripping with garlic and sweat. The pastel de nata, all flaky sugar and custard. And bacalhau, the salted cod and a piece of history for the people here. You don’t need a fine dining budget. Just a decent appetite and a willingness to walk…a lot.
Bifanas
A bifana is not polite. It drips, burns, and leaves mustard on your fingers. It's the kind of thing you eat with your elbows out and your face close. And in Lisbon, it’s everywhere.
The sandwich is simple. Thin slices of pork, often marinated in garlic, white wine, and spices. Cooked until tender. Stuffed into a crusty Portuguese roll. That’s it. Some joints grill the meat. Others braise it. You’ll see both. One is clean and sharp. The other is greasy and melts into the bread. Both are right.
The bifana came from the centre of Portugal—Vendas Novas, in Alentejo—but Lisbon made it its own. It became the people’s snack. It’s what you eat before football, after work, or on your way to the next drink. Add mustard. Add chili oil. Even add cheese (I did). Eat fast.
There are a dozen good places. But two stood out to me on my visit.
O Trevo, sitting on the corner of Praça Luís de Camões, is the most famous. It’s where Bourdain bit into one and called it “porky, spicy goodness.” The place has been around for decades. The kitchen is open. You can see them slapping the pork onto the grill behind the glass. Inside, it’s tight. Locals order canja (chicken soup) and imperials (small beers) with their bifana. If there’s a table, sit. If not, lean and eat. Think Kat’s Deli, but in Lisboa.
Then there’s As Bifanas do Afonso, near the cathedral. This spot is a street legend. No chairs. No menu. Just a counter and a line. Their style is braised—northern-style with garlic, bay leaf, and white wine. The sandwich is sloppy and perfect. Add cheap yellow mustard. Or go in with the house chili oil. Wash it down with vinho à pressão, a sweet, fizzy tap wine.
Both places are fast and cheap. That’s the point. There’s no wrong way to eat a bifana. Just don’t stop to think. Grab, bite, wipe, repeat.
Pastel de Nata
You’ll smell it before you see it. Butter, eggs, caramel. Warm sugar air floats out of bakery doors and hits you like a hug and a dare at the same time. After 6 or 7 in one day, it’s more like a siren call.
The pastel de nata is a custard tart. But it’s not polite tea food. It’s hot, sweet, and made to be eaten fast. The top is blistered and black in places. The crust is flakey and sharp. The filling is creamy, barely set, and just eggy enough. This thing started in a monastery. No joke. Back in the 1800s, monks in Belém needed money and had extra egg yolks. They baked them into tarts and sold them. Now, every corner in Lisbon sells some version of it. Most people will tell you to go to Pastéis de Belém, where the original recipe still lives. Go if you want. It’s incredible.
But our favourite? That’s Manteigaria.
Walk in and you’re hit with the sound of ovens and pastry chefs moving fast. You can see everything. Dough rolled, cream poured, tarts fired. It’s a factory for obsession. The crust shatters. The custard leans just sweet enough. Cinnamon is there if you want it. So is powdered sugar.
They serve it hot. Straight from the tray. No time for display cases. Eat it standing. One is never enough. Two is normal. Three means you’re honest with yourself.
We recommend pairing it with a bica, a short, sharp espresso. The sugar hits fast. The burn of the coffee pulls it back. You’ll walk out wired and happy. Maybe with flakes on your shirt.
Bacalhau
Bacalhau isn’t a fish. It’s a ritual. It’s like Turkey on Thanksgiving, but year round and everywhere. A memory soaked in cold water for two days. Portuguese people don’t just eat cod. They live with it. It shows up at weddings, funerals, and every other Sunday. Some say there are 365 ways to cook it. Others say that’s not nearly enough.
It’s always salted and dried. Never fresh. You rehydrate it, break it into flakes, and build a meal. The taste is salty, rich, and somehow clean. The texture fights back. It’s the kind of fish that remembers the sea. Lisbon has a thing for it. The city leans into bacalhau like it’s comfort food with backbone. You’ll see it baked, fried, boiled, grilled, stewed, and whipped into fritters. It’s cheap protein. It’s wartime survival. It’s also really, really good when done right. There are too many spots to name, but one worth slowing down for is Faz Frio.
It’s been around forever—maybe since 1863. No one really knows. Tucked into a side street in Príncipe Real, it still feels like a local’s place. Stone floors. Old wood. Private booths with carved partitions. The kind of restaurant where people eat quietly and drink slowly. The menu runs deep, but bacalhau is the main draw. They serve a different version every day. You might get bacalhau à Brás (shredded cod with onion, egg, and fried potato). Or lagareiro style, roasted with olive oil and garlic. Or com natas, baked creamy with potatoes. All of them land heavy and right.
They also serve seafood rice, Alentejo bread soup, and steak, if you’re not into fish. But you came for the cod. Faz Frio is a place that doesn’t care about your schedule. It cares about lunch. And maybe wine. And maybe history. And at night? It’s an absolute blast.
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