NVM Review

By Warren Rojas

Given that there’s ALWAYS a group of working-class Portuguese—by day, they pound coffee; come nightfall, their cups runneth over with Gatao—at Espresso transfixed by some sort of sporting event or another, you better believe they’ll show up en masse once their countrymen take the field in South Africa.

The unassuming restaurant boasts just a handful of TV sets (twin plasmas grace the bar and main grill; some older units are tucked into opposite ends of the main lounge), but wants not for dedicated patrons. It’s the type of place where fathers and sons (and, increasingly, grandsons) first talk sports, the elders swigging beer and spinning yarns while the younger generation stares on with unshakeable pride.

The kitchen knows its constituency well, turning out native dishes like grilled sardines or steak with clams. Bracingly pickled fare (black olives, cauliflower) accompanies everything.

Fried pastry pockets sporting minced shrimp swirled in a creamy seafood paste are prime snacking material. Grilled quails are simply gorgeous, their tiny frames perfumed by salt, herbs and coal firing, their meat moistened by olive oil, lemon and vinegar. Pork ribs yield spice-rubbed meat flanked by hand-cut and spot-fried spuds finished with the barest salting.

By Warren Rojas

Given that there’s ALWAYS a group of working-class Portuguese—by day, they pound coffee; come nightfall, their cups runneth over with Gatao—at Espresso transfixed by some sort of sporting event or another, you better believe they’ll show up en masse once their countrymen take the field in South Africa.

The unassuming restaurant boasts just a handful of TV sets (twin plasmas grace the bar and main grill; some older units are tucked into opposite ends of the main lounge), but wants not for dedicated patrons. It’s the type of place where fathers and sons (and, increasingly, grandsons) first talk sports, the elders swigging beer and spinning yarns while the younger generation stares on with unshakeable pride.

The kitchen knows its constituency well, turning out native dishes like grilled sardines or steak with clams. Bracingly pickled fare (black olives, cauliflower) accompanies everything.

Fried pastry pockets sporting minced shrimp swirled in a creamy seafood paste are prime snacking material. Grilled quails are simply gorgeous, their tiny frames perfumed by salt, herbs and coal firing, their meat moistened by olive oil, lemon and vinegar. Pork ribs yield spice-rubbed meat flanked by hand-cut and spot-fried spuds finished with the barest salting.

By Warren Rojas

An opening salvo of chourica assada ($8.75) reveals charcoal-grilled sausage rounds accompanied by vinegary black olives, carrots and cauliflower. The traditional alentejana ($13.75) brings a citrusy symphony of stewed pork (each bite releases another lemon-lime gush), diced potatoes, clams and more mesmerizing vegetables (pickle rings, chopped celery, black olives, sliced peppers).

By Warren Rojas

This neighborhood charmer remains a well-guarded secret among the Portuguese. So don't tell them we breathed a word about the amazing bacalhau a braz ($13.75)-grilled codfish folded into scrambled eggs decorated with caramelized onions, black olives and tomato wedges-lest they lock us out.