In a quiet, unassuming Tasca near our apartment in Lisbon hangs my favorite sign in all of Portugal. It’s advertising Água Pé, or “foot wine,” which sounds interesting in any language. Foot wine is the first thin runoff of grape juice, pressed before fermentation begins. Most people discard it, but not in Portugal. Here, it’s paired with roasted chestnuts in the winter. Even though it’s very light. Which, like the sign sort of makes no sense at first but then makes complete sense because in November there is a little break from the cold when it’s warm again and that’s when you drink it.
After walking past this sign for years De Anna and I went inside to try foot wine. Instead of the usual transaction, or telling us it was out of season (it was) they poured her a glass, told us the history, and left the entire jug with us, wandering off as if we go in there all the time. No rush, no bill, no expectations. Just an awesome story, and some foot wine.
That moment, like the sign itself, is what I love about Portugal. Open. Honest. Without any pretense, and uniquely beautiful. A place where strangers will bridge any language barrier to connect, share their traditions, and offer more than you ever imagined—expecting absolutely nothing in return.
