T’S one minute past noon, on a crisp Lisbon spring day, and the queue outside Cervejaria Ramiro is already winding down the street. It’s been a city legend since 1956 and you can see why—the seafood is some of the finest you’ll eat anywhere; tiny local prawns, delicately striped, briefly boiled and eaten whole; clams cooked with fistfuls of garlic, the flesh sucked from the shell, every last scrap of oil mopped up with great hunks of fresh bread; vast Carabineros prawns, blood red in hue and as big as my fist;—or goose-necked barnacles —twisted out of their leathery, lizard-like skin to reveal the sweetest pink flesh. And, for pudding, Ramiro, that great Lisbon steak sandwich, slathered with sweet mustard. Revered it may be—and rightly so. But it’s entirely unpretentious, too,
