I am sitting at a table in a cobbled Lisbon backstreet, shaded from the scorching sun by laundry flapping from balconies above. Laid out on the checked tablecloth is a bowl of succulent razor clams, a basket of crusty bread, a huge green salad, a fast emptying bottle of vinho verde and, the pièce de résistance, a plate heaped with glistening, grilled sardines.
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