What's That Smell?!

and other surprises from a small village in Portugal

The first condition of understanding a foreign country is to smell it.

Rudyard Kipling

And so it was that, following our noses home from an evening walk the other day, Kiitos and I noticed something new and delicious in the air outside the white house with the yellow trim on the road that runs through our village. I couldn’t quite place it, however.

I’ve noticed the three young guys who live here are often cooking dinner this time of night. As the kitchen window on the side of their house looks out over the main road through town, I sometimes see the shadowy shape of one or two of them up there.

Recently, we’ve begun exchanging waves to one another, which is not unusual around here. But the other night, the spicy scents were so delicious, I finally called up to the window to ask what it was they were cooking.

“Would you like some?” a disembodied voice called down from the window.

“Yes, please!” I said. I saw the shadow of a hand wave in response.

Moments later, I heard footsteps running down the inner courtyard steps. The gate opened and a young man stood before me smiling. He handed me something wrapped up in foil.

I took what he offered. It was warm. I held it to my nose and breathed in the spices.

“What is this?” I asked.

“We’re Indian,” he said, much to my surprise. “Actually, Punjabi. It’s just what we threw together tonight.”

I had no idea there were any Indians living – and cooking! – in this little village of 119 people. But then again, it should not be surprising. The relationship between India and Portugal dates back to 1498 when Vasco da Gama figured out the sea-route from Europe to India and Portugal subsequently colonized many parts of India during their Age of Discoveries.

I thanked him and told him how much I love Indian food. That seemed to surprise him.

Kiitos and I continued on our way. The naan with its delicious contents I found inside the foil didn’t even make it back to my house.

A few days later, I brought over a container of fresh gazpacho I’d made using produce from the nearby fields and left it on the stoop of the white house with the yellow trim. Two days later, the container was returned to me, clean and empty, with smiles of appreciation.

I don’t speak Punjabi or Portuguese (yet) and this young guy speaks only a little English.

In the end, it doesn’t matter – we both understand the language of food.