EGG TART HUNT IN PORTUGAL
A weeklong adventure in search of the best custard tart in a puff pastry
Portuguese egg tarts, or pasteis de nata, have been an obsession of mine since I first discovered them in Macau.
When my husband and I lived in Beijing from 2011 to 2014, we were quickly severed from the American world of sweet desserts. Instead we found ourselves living in the land of red-bean filling. Bite into a dessert, see the dark center and think, mmmm, chocolate. But nope — without fail, the filling was actually bean puree.
Then we visited Macau. The Portuguese colonized Macau in 1557, and although China now runs this region near Hong Kong on the southern edge of China, the place retains its Portuguese character.
It was love at first taste for the pastel de nata — a custard tart in a puff pastry, small enough to hold in the palm of your hand but satisfying enough to serve as a breakfast treat, afternoon snack or dessert. Not too sweet, but sweet enough, pasteis de nata (the plural form) feature egg-yolk custard filling with a lightly broiled top. When it’s fresh, you take a bite, and you have A Moment.
More recently, my husband and I decided to visit Portugal, home of pasteis de nata. I’m not saying we went to Portugal expressly to eat them, but I wouldn’t deny it either. I also wouldn’t deny that to make it more interesting, I announced that we were on a oneweek quest to find the best.
Day 1
Jet-lagged, grungy and edgy after an overnight flight into Lisbon, we dumped our bags at our hotel and headed straight to the Tagus River waterfront. There, in the Time Out Market, inside the refurbished Mercado da Ribeira, we found a branch of Manteigaria, considered by many to be the best source of pasteis de nata in Lisbon. The little shop certainly had nothing else to offer in its glass case, just row after row of the doll-size pies with a gently browned top. I took a bite. I closed my eyes, and the warm custard filled my mouth with hints of lemon and cinnamon. The flaky puff pastry crunched just enough. There it was again: A Moment.
Day 2
We headed to Belem, about 6 miles west of downtown Lisbon. We skipped for the moment the famous Jeronimos Monastery — the navigator Vasco da Gama rests inside, but he wasn’t going anywhere. Instead we headed straight to the cafe that claims it is the home of the egg tart. At Casa Pasteis de Belem, the products seem to be identical to pasteis de nata. The casual restaurant turns out 20,000 egg tarts a day. Two long lines for takeout stretched down the block. But following a tip from our Uber driver, we slipped inside, where a much shorter queue waited for a place at one of the cafe’s 400 seats. Yes, the cafe is a tourist hot spot, but it’s been a tourist hot spot since 1837, so it must be doing something right.
Before very long, we were seated and ordering one — no, make it two; no, make it three — egg tarts, along with a strong cup of cafe com leite (coffee with milk). The menu described a sugar-cane refinery and small store originally on this spot. When Portugal closed down its convents and monasteries after an early 19th-century revolution, a worker from the monastery came up with the pastry as a means of survival, following “an ancient secret recipe from the monastery.” That secret recipe, cooked up in a “secret room” inside the cafe, is still used today.
Within minutes, we had our prize — three plump egg tarts. The crust was a degree crunchier. The custard filling was warmer and more souffle-like, so they were most likely whisked from the oven minutes before. They were good. But were they the best? I wasn’t ready to declare a winner.
Day 3
We hopped on a train to Evora, about 85 miles from Lisbon in the Alentejo region, which is known for its hearty cuisine. In this charming medieval city, we were presented with a new dilemma. Yes, there was pastel de nata, but there was also a new specialty, the queijada de Evora. We stopped at Cafe Arcada, a no-frills place right on Praca de Giraldo square in the center of the city. We needed to try the Evora specialty. It was a tart exactly the size of pasteis de nata, and the same golden color. But the queijada de Evora was filled with dense cheese custard, more like an Italian ricotta cheesecake than a souffle. It was really good, but I wasn’t ready to drop my pastel de nata allegiance.
Day 4
I faced a new dilemma: My husband, Bob, the consummate sweet tooth, withdrew as a judge. In other words, he refused to eat another pastel de nata. He had reached his limit.
There we were in Sintra, about 20 miles west of Lisbon. I needed to think fast. “Oh, look,” I said to him. “These pastries are a specialty of Sintra!”
Outside of Fabrica das Verdadeiras Queijadas da Sapa, I pointed to the sign that said the shop had been making queijadas since 1756. We plopped our euros on the counter.
These queijadas were made with a very thin, firm crust, and the filling was lighter and sweeter than the queijadas in Evora. They were good, but not life-changing, although that judgment could have been clouded by our exhaustion from fighting Sintra’s enormous crowds that day, coupled with unseasonable heat and — I’ll admit it — a certain tart fatigue.
Day 5
In search of breakfast, we stumbled across a little cafe in the Lisbon neighborhood of Graca selling something we ate often in China and loved: jidan guanbing. These treats are freshly cooked crepes filled with egg, a spicy sauce, meats and greens. Here was our chance to wax nostalgic about China and take a savory break from the pastel de nata immersion.
Day 6
We visited the beach town of Cascais, about 20 miles from Lisbon. It was a brutally hot day, and we strolled along the town’s pretty beach. Walking through town, we glanced across the street and saw a shop named The World Needs Nata. But does it? We were momentarily tempted but trudged on. The tart fatigue was real.
Day 7
As we prepared to leave Lisbon, we realized we had time for breakfast in the airport. Suddenly, the prospect of leaving Portugal made us regret those tart-abstinent days. Just before the security check, we saw redemption: Confeitaria Nacional por Baltazaar Castanheiro, considered the oldest and most traditional confectionary of Lisbon. “Since 1829,” the sign said. We bought our last couple of pasteis de nata. The tops were a little over-broiled and the flaky crust a little too flaky. Even so, a mediocre pastel de nata is better than none.
The winner? The pastel de nata of Day 1, made by Manteigaria. Sticklers will argue that our research was capricious and inaccurate. They might be right. But now that we’re home from Lisbon, I regret every single day without pastry in Portugal. I’m going to try to make those little beauties myself.