My first taste of Peri Peri Chicken was in Nando’s, 2008. We were in London. We were going to watch Oliver! at West End. It was freezing. It was one of those school trips where me and a bunch of other hapless 15-year olds had no clue where we were going to be taken to for dinner. I can’t recall the interiors of the restaurant but I do remember my eye catching the free flow frozen yoghurt machine and thinking how our teachers were put on earth to torment us by not signing us up for froyo. All I could think of was how to steal myself some. Until the food arrived. Piping hot grilled chicken lathered with an oily, red, sauce. Thick juicy chunks of chicken liver served with toasted buttery garlicky bread. An array of greasy bottles with sauces ranging from hot to the very hot, to use to my heart’s content. How could chicken – and its attendant parts – be so good?
Fast forward 16 years later, and I’m sitting in A Valenciana, somewhere in Lisbon, having the real Peri Peri Chicken.
During the Age of Exploration, when the Portuguese were gallivanting – and conquering – their way around the world, they found a path to Africa. And apparently discovered a kind of sauce known in Swahili as “Pepper Pepper”, which was a form of chilli pepper blended with garlic, oil, herbs, lemon and vinegar. Of course it was delicious, and of course the Portuguese took it with them back home, slapping it onto chicken. The rest was history.
Fast forward 500 over years later, and I’m sitting in A Valenciana, established since 1914, where grilling meat has been their forte for literally a hundred years. It’s packed, filled with locals, having a coma inducing lunch.
I’m having my first bite of the Peri Peri Chicken. Served unceremoniously on a metal plate (aesthetics are the least of their concern here), I could taste the char and crispiness of the skin, the tenderness and juiciness of the meat, and fragrance of the chili oil and salt, which I doused and sprinkled generously onto my meat dream.
Hands soaked with melted chicken fat and olive oil, eaten with freshly fried chips, carrot rice, olives and mixed salad, alongside a Sagres beer, the meal was complete. A rotund elderly Portugese woman next to our table told me to eat with my hands, which I swiftly complied. To stave off the food coma that was sure to follow, I had to sip on an espresso (bica). It didn’t matter anyway. A nap was still called for after.
