All Roads Lead to … O’Portuga

It’s not every day you walk into a restaurant and realise that you know the place’s inner workings from door to dessert.

Having veered into humanities cliché about a decade ago, O’Portuga is where I cut my teeth on old chestnuts and came dangerously close to the title of Bubbly But Worst Waitress in the World.

A pleasant enough place on Sam Nujoma Drive, straddling an aesthetic between white table cloth and neighbourhood restaurant rendered in tones of brown, O’Portuga is comfortable, easy to find and boasts a quaint little patio where you can watch the World Cup or the homeless people passing by while you hook your handbag to your leg and stow it under the table.

It’s also a place where you can hover in the doorway for an awkward amount of time before a waiter takes the slow boat to China in your vague direction before telling you to sit wherever there isn’t a reserved sign.

My sister and I choose a table on the breezy patio and wait till kingdom come for someone to head back our way. Luckily, while we wait, we are treated to the smooth tunes of crying baby as the child’s mother sucks on a beer and the tables of women scattered around the outside area wince, roll their eyes and think about getting their tubes tied.

At some point halfway into our next life, our waitress returns, takes our drinks order and disappears for an eternity. And though the waitress’ pace would indicate a full house, a Sunday evening finds it lively but not chaotic.

The table of beautiful Angolan women across the way have their sangria flask filled, the table of black women behind us enjoy an Alto and the trio of yuppies in front of us say “the customer service is sh*t”.

This is about five minutes before the electricity on the patio goes off for a beat, we all sigh into the darkness and Yuppie 1 says “yes. I came to eat in the dark”.

Somewhere in all of this, a plate of two Portuguese rolls, some olives, butter and a delicious chicken liver pate arrive and sustains us until our order of a rib and wing combo and a beef espetada arrive to impressive effect.

Not the rib combo. That’s more of malnourished, meh and entirely forgettable wings affair astride some weakly spiced and sparse ribs.

As for the espetada, it arrives impaled, hanging from a skewer and it’s all pretty spectacular until we eat our way upwards and go from succulent cooked meat, simply but deliciously flavoured with garlic, to the bright pink, bloody chunks of meat at the top despite advising the waitress we want our meat medium to well.

Alas, we doggy bag most of it to cook in the microwave later and fill ourselves up with fries. Which are the crispy, seasoned, generous things of dreams.

The N$25 chocolate mousse also impresses as a decadent and rich dessert with a scoop of cream, all of which could do with being refrigerated at a much colder temperature.

Highly erratic with meat great when it’s good and disappointing when it’s chicken, O’Portuga certainly isn’t what it used to be. That being: manned by a hawk-eyed manager who sent waiters scurrying across the floor in a triumph of service, savouries and satisfaction.

Head here if you have a lot of time on your hands and don’t mind crying babies.

Seriously, another woman came in with a bawling kid and Monica and I really thought it was a thing.

O’Portuga is situated on 312 Sam Nujoma Drive and is open daily for lunch and dinner.

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