I’d been passing this beautiful old pastry shop every day of our stay in Lisbon, checking out the sweets in the window, deciding which I would try when I finally stopped in. One late afternoon following a long walk through the Alfama, my time had come. The bar inside was jam-packed with fashionable women, chatting, sipping, snacking. It was so busy; no one seemed to speak English; I was intimidated but determined. Then, a very stylish older woman with a cane entered and everyone went silent. The young ladies behind the counter treated her with reverence and respect; they already knew what she wanted and brought it to her at a smaller counter off to the side: two small doce de ovos pastries, a glass with about two inches of hot coffee, a small container of cold milk. Occasionally someone would come up to inquire after her health, to simply say hello. When she paid and left, her itemized receipt remained on the counter, so I picked it up, showed it to a saleswoman and said in Portuguese, “I want this.” But as you can see, I had one more pastry than she did.