And so it is that after six-weeks of being in a city of Brazilian sea and sunshine I am having my first, much-anticipated sugar cone of soft-serve – nuts, chocolate sprinkles, wafer and all: across the road from my city apartment in the midst of Pontes Vieira Avenue traffic. No, it’s not how I envisioned the moment. But a day of culinary exploration only has one appropriate ending in a seaside town such as Fortaleza, and that is with ice cream. A different attempt at closure would just not have sufficed.
Why did I wait so long to redeem myself of my cravings, you may ask, when the number of times I’ve frequented the sea along with all it’s sand-roaming ‘sorvete’ vendors has led me to believe that I must have been a mermaid in my past life? If there is one thing I have learnt, travelling on a budget the size of my newly acquired Brazilian bikini with the hopes of stretching its seams over the bum and breasts of an entire year does wonders for disciplining a sweet tooth.
My meanderings today led me to a fish market that has to be one of the most exciting and authentic treasures these beaches have coughed up. Wooden box stalls marked in hand-painted numbers line their counters with the morning’s catch. The timely rumblings of lunchtime nudge my brow in the direction of one particularly diverse selection of raw delicacies. Fish frosted and fresh as salt, I cannot help but pick one out, and 500g in a plastic packet later the thought enters my mind of what to do with the flapping thing.
Behind the hustle of sweating locals chopping guts and crushing ice, my eyes fall upon a shabby restaurant overlooking a quietly beautiful bay donned with the type of small, wooden, might-just-sink-on-a-windy-day fishing boats that idle as introductions to an industrial port nearby.
I decide to approach the chef wearing milkman rubber boots and hovering over a steaming outdoor gas stove. Looking him in the eye, and desperately resisting the urge to look him down again, I questioningly lift my pink scaly lunch towards him for lack of Portuguese expression. He understands exactly.
On observation I realise I am not the first with this idea, and sit down to share the humble atmosphere with fellow diners who have also surrendered their buy to a sizzling pan of oil and garlic in a makeshift food shack backstage. As I wait, my mind lingers on the sound of fickle waves crashing not far ahead, and the rising aroma of cooking seafood.
A metal pan placed on the table slanting just over my lap disrupts my daydreams and the sight and smell of succulent fish, spitting hot and deep-fried, consumes the ravenous instincts I share with the mouths and hands of those eating around me. I do not even stop to recognise the moment as yet another culinary experience acquainting all senses to the life of another people.
