Capital Letter

A reflection on Brazilian street food when you live in another country

One of the most common ways to feel homesick when you are living away from your home country is about food.

I feel a lot.

But it is not because there are no ingredients here or the seasoning is more or less spicy than there, or anything like that. It is more about a very specific type of cuisine.

You would be right to say that it must be my mother’s food and especially my grandmother’s, who has that unique taste that if you grew up with master chefs at home, you also know well. And even if you try to cook the same thing following the same steps, or if you go to a restaurant, the taste will never be the same because they have ancient and secret know-how that is only released after you become a mother and then a grandmother.

Well, aside from that which is an obvious nostalgia and that you feel recurrently even without being away, there is another one that I feel specifically living here in Dublin. Which is the Podrão.

Or as I call it now: Big Rotten.

Podrão, which I didn’t even know was a term widely used in Brazil, is nothing more than that delicious and greasy street food. Maybe in some places in Brazil Podrão is a specific dish, like hot dog = podrão. I do not know. But when I mean it, is basically any type of street food that is a little questionable, just as greasy and deliciously delicious. Especially after that tour with the lads. Ah, you know what I’m talking about.

The fact is that there is no Podrão here in Dublin. I think it even exists, but it’s not the same. To start, the street food here is expensive, which already takes away part of the unique experience that this gastronomic art provides. In addition, it is very difficult to find places that make this dish special. In the centre, it is practically impossible, as it all comes down to McDonald’s and Burger King. You could even pretend that a Big Mac is an X-Anything just to avoid suffering from this nostalgia, but the setting doesn’t allow it. Besides the price, the lack of fat flavour and a possible piece of an extra unknown ingredient, one of the main components the Podronistic tradition is missing here, is the characteristic uncle/auntie of the establishment.

These beings are unique in the folklore of the Podrão and become so essential or in some cases even more important than the food itself. They are part of the process, you call them by name or they call you by yours. Internal jokes in your circle of friends are created out of them and you would never be able to imagine them outside the beloved establishment. They almost always have a unique characteristic that makes them unforgettable or a nickname too good to be true. When you go there with your friends, you are sure that this is a corner that you can call your own.
In my hunt for a new corner here in Dublin, I am having to surrender to the Turks. I think that some of the snack bars they have around here are the closest to the options I had in Brazil. Even so, the taste doesn’t even come close, much less the charisma of the characters. What ends up summarizing their Podrão to just a snack of a doubtful origin and not one of the pillars of haute cuisine.

And if it is to risk my food health it is better to be with someone that at least I will look at and remember with affection, instead of anger.

We agree that when eating a Podrão you accept the risks that it can cause. It’s like a silent mental contract between you and your supplier that it might make you not sleep well that night, or even miss a day at work, but it will be worth it for those brief moments when you taste that sweet lard nectar.

Even those risks I miss. The more folkloric the place, the greater the nostalgia. Ah! how I miss the taste of that oiled pastel where you could see your aunt inside the kitchen surrounded by “walls” made of bamboo and rough cement with a canvas covering, propped up on a stool with one leg raised all bandaged because of the thrombosis and with the fluff greased in a mix of sweat and fat, frying that divine mass and whistling at a non-existent rhythm …

Perhaps that would be an interesting branch to invest in here in Ireland. Wouldn’t it?