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start and a rustic rabbit pie for the main, washed
downwith a glass of Portuguese red. It’s like you’ve
been fed by a farmer’s wife, albeit one deserving of
a Michelin star or two. Smashing.
A short hike through the squiggle of the Alfama
district leads to the fortresslike
LisbonCathedral (
5
)
.
In the cloister of this medieval monolith—beyond
the vaulted ceilings and the enormous rose win-
dow—there’s an archaeological site, a hole in the
ground revealing Roman steps andMoorishwalls.
The main body of the church echoes with the
DAYONE
| ThestoryofLisbon
is wri en in its skyline. You
see this from the balcony of
your roomat the
Four Seasons
Hotel Ritz (
1
)
: the blocky archi-
tecture of the Estado Novo
dictatorship that ruled here
for part of the 20th century;
the exuberant avenues of
the post-earthquake Baixa
district; the old russet-roofed
neighborhoods that tumble
over the city’s sevenhills; and,
in the distance, the Tagus
River, source of Portugal’s for-
mer status as a global power.
It’s f itting, then, that
you should begin your stay
here with a trip to Belém, a
riverside district full of archi-
tecture erected to trumpet
the power andprestige of the
Portuguese navy, circa 1500.
Ten minutes after hopping
into a cab, you find yourself
admiring this sprawling cel-
ebration of God and country,
but also eyeing the façade
of
Pastéis de Belém (
2
)
. The
bakery’s signature confec-
tion,
pastel de nata
, is madly
delicious—you could say it’s
a custard tart, but thatwould
be like saying Beluga caviar is
fish eggs. You eat five.
The highlight of Belém is
Jerónimos Monastery (
3
)
, a
looming 16th-centuryhermit-
age built in the Manueline
style, a local twist on Gothic
grandiosity that employs
nautical motifs: ropes and
martyrs, seaweedand stained
glass. You step inside its
chapel—the vaulted interior
pi ed with age, the air thick
with the scent of damp mor-
tar—before exploring the warren of cloisters, refectories
and confessionals. The monastery leaves you feeling
peaceful, even joyful—which, you imagine, is what its
architects were aiming for.
Next, you cab it to a very different riverfront destina-
tion:
Bica do Sapato (
4
)
, near the Santa Apolónia cruise
terminal downtown. This restaurant, part-owned by
John Malkovich, comes off like a pop art installation—
a geometric assemblage of mod furniture and baubly
lights. The food, too, pushes the boundaries of ingenuity
(spider crab cream?). You try the roasted black sausage to
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