“One does not travel to discuss the cuisine,” declared Margherita Gonzaga, Duchess of Ferrara.

Judging by her expression, she had eaten at the grandest tables in Europe and found every one of them slightly disappointing—or socially exhausting.

Besides, with a ruff that tight, I wasn’t entirely convinced she could eat.

Eleanor of Austria, former Queen of Portugal, looked considerably less concerned.

Those pursed lips suggested she knew exactly what Portugal was capable of putting on a table—and she was prepared to let Margherita discover it for herself.

After a day trip to the Berlengas, we returned to Peniche hungry and wandered into a small, unassuming restaurant filled with local families.

Bread arrived with cheese and olives.

A cold bottle of Vinho Verde followed.

Margherita attempted a bite.

The ruff held firm.

Eleanor took a sip of wine and said nothing.

Then came the platter.

Whole grilled fish, squid, octopus, and potatoes—fresh local seafood, simply prepared and served in a quantity bordering on royal tribute.

Margherita stared at the charred tentacle.

Then at me.

Then back at the tentacle.

Her side-eye made the question perfectly clear: Had I brought her to Portugal to be poisoned by a sea monster, or did the commoner across from her actually possess excellent taste?

She took a bite.

Silence.

Another bite.

Her expression barely moved.

“Infuriatingly delicious.”

Eleanor’s lips finally unpuckered.

No elaborate sauces. No culinary performance. Nothing requiring an explanation.

Just fresh seafood, fire, potatoes, bread, cheese, olives, and wine.

Portugal had made its case.

The jury deliberated.

The Duchess reluctantly conceded.

The former Queen of Portugal looked entirely unsurprised.

And I?

I poured another glass of Vinho Verde and accepted the verdict.