A Welcome Blur Between Old Friends and New
A Welcome Blur Between Old Friends and New
Ginja in Lisbon
The one thing I had to do in Lisbon was try ginjinha, my new friend told me.
Ginjinha, or “ginja,” is a deep red Portuguese liqueur made with sour cherries. It’s served all over, he explained, but there are a handful of places to really try it. Also, he and a friend had plans to meet up for ginja later. If I came back in an hour, they’d take me with them.
I had just wandered into the shop where he worked, so it would have been generous to say our friendship was even five minutes old. An hour later, I stood waving outside the door.
“Man, she doesn’t know where the best ginja is!” he said to his friend, as the three of us set off, up a hill. In this city of hills, you’re always climbing or descending, but somehow, mostly climbing.
At Ginginha do Carmo, a modern bar tucked under one of Lisbon’s many staircases, my new friends ordered me my first ginja the touristic way—in a chocolate cup. You could sum up the drink as sweet, sour, and alcoholic. But it tastes a bit different from bar to bar, because many make their own. Sometimes it’s syrupy sweet, and other times it’s wine-like and makes your head spin. What’s typical is that you buy it at a tiny bar that may as well just be a counter with a door, and you sip it outside, standing with friends and a happy mix of young and old, locals and tourists.
On the street in front of Ginjinha Sem Rival, our third stop, we decided to meet up again next week. I’d bring another friend I’d just met, and we’d all have dinner and finish off the ginja list.
The plan was to meet at A Ginjinha, which has been making and selling the liqueur since 1840. I showed up 15 minutes late and found myself 20 minutes early. As a longtime expat from Paris told me later, with a look, “There are lots of things to say about time here.” My contribution: here, things happen when they happen.
Our second drink was meant to be at Os Amigos da Severa, one of my friend’s favorite ginja bars. When we arrived, we found a darkened doorway where a lively bar was supposed to be, but he insisted it would be so great that we should wait. Nobody knew when the bar would actually open, but it was no big deal, because there were benches nearby and a shop where we could buy cold beers. Someone had a guitar, and while we waited, we sang every song we knew, in the square where the legendary fado singer Maria Severa once lived.
Out of songs and in search of a bathroom, we peeked into a warmly lit restaurant at the edge of the square. Its tables were packed with appetizers, but it was empty, waiting for the night’s reservations. Yes, of course, they served ginjinha. Eventually, the bar would open and the restaurant would fill, but for now, as the sky turned navy and apartment windows lit up around the square, the four of us sat on the restaurant’s patio, sipping ginja, talking politics, and playing with a neighborhood cat. New friends or old friends, it was hard to tell.