It was a chilly evening in Lisbon, the kind where the mist from the Tagus River seems to creep through the cobblestone streets, and the city’s charm wraps around you like a warm blanket. I had been living in Portugal for a few weeks by then, still finding my way around, adjusting to the rhythm of the narrow streets, trying to make sense of the language, and of course, enjoying the food. Lisbon has a food culture that is rich, comforting, and undeniably satisfying, but there was one traditional dish I had yet to try: Caldo Verde. And let me tell you, that first taste? It was nothing short of transcendent.
I remember walking into a small, cozy apartment tucked away on a quiet corner in Alfama, a neighborhood known for its labyrinthine streets and soulful Fado music. The warm aroma of garlic, sausage, and simmering broth hit me as I stepped inside. The atmosphere was intimate, with the kind of rustic charm that instantly made you feel at home. Our hosts, the Canguia family, greeted us with a warm smile and pushed a sat us down at the kitchen table. I asked her in my broken Portuguese how their day was and recounted what we had been up to.
The lady of the house asked me if I had ever tried a soup called “Caldo Verde.” I said that hadn’t and asked what it was. The way she explained what the soup was, with such certainty and pride, made it clear that this was a dish that had a story, one that connected generations of families, friends, and strangers alike.
When the bowl arrived at my table, steaming and vibrant with its green hue, I was struck by its simplicity. There were no frills—just thin slices of chorizo, perfectly wilted kale, and a smooth, velvety broth. The texture was hearty but not heavy, the flavors bold but balanced. The kale, tender but still slightly chewy, brought a freshness to the dish, while the sausage added a smokiness that enveloped the soup in warmth. It was the kind of meal that felt like a hug from the inside, like a comforting reminder that no matter where you are in the world, there are little pockets of joy that exist in the form of food.
The first spoonful was everything I could have hoped for. The warmth of the broth spread through me immediately, shooing away the winter cold. The richness of the olive oil and garlic lingered on my tongue, and the chorizo added a savory depth that took the whole dish to another level. Each bite felt like a deep dive into the soul of Portugal—a reminder of the simplicity and elegance of its culinary traditions. It was a revelation, and I found myself savoring each spoonful with the reverence one might reserve for a rare and beautiful experience.
It wasn’t just the flavors that captivated me, though. It was the connection I felt to the dish itself. Caldo Verde wasn’t just food—it was a story, a culture, a moment in time. As I sat there eating, the rain gently tap against the window, I could imagine generations before me enjoying the same meal, gathered around tables in small homes like this one, sharing laughter, stories and the warmth of the soup. I was part of something much bigger, and that feeling of belonging, of being connected to the heart of Portugal, made the experience feel almost spiritual.
Since that first bowl, I’ve tried Caldo Verde in many places around Portugal, even attempting to recreate the magic in my home with American ingredients. Each bowl has been different, but none have ever matched that first moment—the magic of discovery, the thrill of experiencing something new and instantly loving it. Caldo Verde has since become more than just a dish to me; it’s a symbol of everything I’ve come to love about Portugal—the authenticity, the warmth, and the deep connection to its culinary roots.
Hayden Coombs 