Steeped in Portuguese Tradition

I normally patronize highly traditional bakeries, run by plucky octogenarians, which make me feel as if I've stepped out of a time machine. Here, for example, is my go-to place for glorious 20¢ bread rolls:

Today I hammered all the way back to the 19th century. Padaria Julião is a tiny shack perched on a windswept mountaintop, and it's too suffocating for me to feel comfortable taking photos, so I've stolen these:

This was a pilgrimmage for bolo reina, a sweet Christmas bread relatively lightly festooned with dried fruit (my blood sugar can't handle it's daunting sibling, bolo rei). The baker—who has the hollowed cheeks, dirty forehead, and gleaming eyes of a character from a Tarkovsky film—wouldn't stop emphatically pointing at the label, which said "com FAVA e BRINDE". It was printed in all-caps, with underlining, plus the baker-messiah agitatedly stabbing the letters with his coal-blackened finger.

I took home the bread, shot this quick photo after removing a slice,

...and popped it into the air fryer for a brief rewarm. Then I settled down at my computer to ask ChatGPT why "com FAVA e BRINDE" was so blazingly essential.

"Ah..." it began to reply, as I suddenly chipped a tooth.

"Flouting Portuguese and European law, they're doing this the old fashioned way, baking a fava bean and a Christmas king figurine right into the bread."

I looked down, and Hello, Santa. Yup.

His mouth was a little bloody, just like mine, and he was also half-cocooned in plastic wrap, perhaps serving as a dental warning strip, a petite Father Christmas condom, or else the remainder of a larger clot dissolved into the crumb, i.e. macropolymers. Portugal always aims big.

What's more, I'm ashamed to admit that I prefer modern bolo reina. This wood-fired bakery is normally dynamite, but the bolo reina was dull and gummy. I suppose it's because this item is so deadpan-traditional that no one intends or expects deliciousness. Bolo Rei is like repeating the lord's prayer. You're never aiming for some new angle. You speak the words and you're done.

Ah, tradition! Sometimes it's brutish inertia, never questioned, never improved. I recall my grandparents' disdain whenever they spoke of "the old country". Between my chipped tooth and the "meh" confection, I can hear them hollering "SEE???" from beyond the grave.

For once, I wanted to get back into the time machine and dial back to present day. Maybe go find some snazzy Lisbon cafe—"Baubles, Bangles, and Bolos" or whatever—and buy a shiny and exorbitant bolo reina tarted up with dried kumquats and nutella drizzle, with Santa in plain daylight riding a marzipan fricking reindeer.