"How many calories are in this thing?" I asked the waiter.
"About 3,000," he replied. "And that's just in the sauce."
I ate a whole francesinha à cunha. A francesinha is Porto's contribution to the culinary world, a madly bad-for-you take on the French croque-monsieur. The francesinha à cunha at this fine establishment, according to the local who tipped me off - and Google, it seems - is famed for being the biggest in town.
It consists of two slices of bread, two steaks, a load of cured meat, a fair few slices of ham, melted cheese, a fried egg and a sauce made out of beer, wine, port, brandy and various other secret ingredients. It comes with French fries, a bowl of pastries, and, in my case, a bottle of vinho verde, the wonderfully fresh white wine from the north of Portugal.
It was absurd, delicious and immobilising. I felt like I'd gulleted a cannonball, gained a first fold of a Portuguese port-belly.
"You must only eat these once a week, maximum," my knowledgable waiter said. "But I eat at least three. Because I am strong."
I've added "eat francesinhas every day for a week" to my list of spectacular ways to die.
