SpiceLines

They’re called Almeijas Bulhao Pato, after Raimundo Antonio Bulhao Pato, an all but forgotten 19th century Portuguese poet who is said to have written about a cook who prepared clams this way. Typical of the Estremadura, a region which includes much of Lisbon, it is one of the most popular dishes in Portugal.

And no wonder. The plump mollusks, scarcely an inch wide, are briefly sizzled in olive oil and garlic, then bathed in lemon juice and showered with fresh coriander the moment they open their shells. Though some recipes call for white wine, the bivalves basically stew in their own juices. The rich citrusy sauce in the bottom of the bowl is a bonus, made to be sopped up with hunks of crusty bread.

The seafood at Doca Peixe—which translates literally as Fish Dock—is so fresh that it practically swims to the table. When you walk in the front door, your eye instantly lights upon a brick counter filled with crushed ice on top of which is arranged the glistening catch of the day. For Saturday lunch that includes red mullet, John Dory, sea bream, golden bream, tiger prawns, octopus, sea bass and more, all of it looking and smelling as if it is just moments out of the water.

That shouldn’t be surprising. Portugal has long been a nation of seafarers. It has almost 600 miles of Atlantic coastline and, reportedly, Europe’s highest fish consumption per capita. Yet what I remember from previous trips is not fresh fish—though B and I did share a frighteningly expensive lobster and shellfish platter at Gambrinus on our honeymoon—but, rather, dishes made with salt cod, eaten for centuries by sailors on voyages of discovery and still a much-loved staple in every Portuguese supermarket. (To find it, just follow your nose.)

At Doca Peixe, you can certainly order cod with olives, or corn bread and turnips, or “gratinated” with Azeitao, a sheep’s milk cheese made with cardoon thistle, but the real reason to come here is for utterly pristine fish and shellfish, cooked simply so as to let the natural flavors shine through.

Our friend--let's call him the Marques--and his wife brought us here two nights ago. “It’s not a fancy place,” he said demurely. “Don’t feel that you have to dress.” In fact, the upstairs dining room which overlooks the Doca Santo Amaro and a small marina filled with sailboats, is pure casual chic. The burnt red-orange of the 25 de Abril bridge is repeated on the restaurant’s ceiling, window trim and edges of the white tablecloths, and saucy mixed media paintings with tabloid headlines—“Scandal of Nude Fergie Pics!”—adorn the walls.

I was glad I’d worn my pearls.

After the Clams Bulhao Pato, we devoured a garlicky octopus salad. Then came one of the restaurant’s specialties: fish baked in a salt crust. Two whole dourada, or golden bream, covered with coarse grey seasalt mixed with a little fresh thyme were brought to the table in individual baskets. The fish was delicate and mild, with a slight whiff of the sea, and so tender that it fell apart at the touch of fork. After that we jumped off the diet cliff with papos de anjo (angel’s chests), one of Lisbon’s many tooth-achingly sweet egg custard desserts, and a 10 year old tawny port.

The meal was so spectacular that B and I had to return, this time with Serendipity, our favorite marathoner, in tow. At Saturday lunch, Doca Peixe’s dining room bustles with 30-something couples and their young children who, sprawled across the banquettes, seem to have moved in for the afternoon. Tomorrow the bridge, visible through the windows, will be closed to all traffic for the marathon, but at the moment a commuter train is rumbling over the river.

I had planned to order exactly the same meal, right down to the plummy red wine, a Niepoort Duoro Dialogo 2007—but the very genial Luis, who remembers us from our previous extravaganza, urges us to try some other dishes. I insist upon having the delectable clams with garlic and coriander…

But then he brings a plate of Shrimp Piri Piri, plump, impeccably fresh crustaceans sautéed with garlic and served with a pepper sauce just hot enough to accentuate the sweetness of the shellfish. (A relic of Portugal’s colonial past, piri piri sauce is made from the birdseye chile which is grown in Africa. The chile itself can reach 175,000 units on the Scoville scale, but the bottled sauce comes in mild as well as scorching strengths.)

The main event is an enormous John Dory, stunningly fresh, lightly fried, served on a platter with nothing more than lemon and a touch of coriander. We fall upon it like ravenous sailors adrift at sea.

The John Dory comes with two traditional dishes: The first is a bowl of arroz con almeijas, tiny clams atop rice cooked just al dente, in a broth mildly redolent of tomato, garlic and white wine—proof of how good simple cooking can be when the ingredients are right.

The second is “bread panada,” a thick, savory bread—porridge, I suppose you could call it—enriched with egg yolk and olive oil, into which grainy white fish roe has been stirred. It is so filling that I can’t eat more than a few spoonfuls, yet it’s oddly addictive. I find myself sneaking tiny bites. Bread panadas can also be sweet, incidentally, and served for dessert.

But after all this even Luis can’t coax us into having anything more.

We say goodbye and walk along the river to Belem. Pastel de nata awaits.