Silêncio!

Fado is absolutely charming.

I got a tip from the hostel that there is a small bar that has the best Fado in the city. And no, Fado is not a type of pasta, it is a mournful ballad sung with a guitar accompaniment.

Thank goodness I had the address. We passed several stuffy, uncrowded restaurants where the Fadista was probably paid and ignored. When we stepped into building 39, it looked a bit like a teeny tiny Applebees with photos and items plastered to every inch of the wall. It was packed so we stood awkwardly near the bar until about two songs in an old, no, ancient man saw some seats open up and waved us over to it wildly as if it was his personal responsibility to make sure we had a great view.

This particular Fado bar doesn't pay its singers. People that want to sing just show up on Mondays and Wednesdays. Like Fado open mic night.

I have found Portuguese people incredibly warm and welcoming! Especially old men. (?!) We got tips, advice, and some animated stories from the men at our table.

"Show up at 12 and stay until 3." Why? Because sometimes professional singers get off their late shifts at the restaurants and stop in here to sing one song to a crowded room. Oh, and the tourists listen to one or two sets and leave around 11:30.

"Silence!" When anyone is singing you can't make a peep. Unless you are ordering a drink. And you can shush other people! I love a bar where you can--and should--shush other people whenever you want.

"Try some blood sausage." And by the way, sausages on a tiny grill-pot with alcohol flames is big here. But they bring it to your table and leave it burning. The guy flipped it a few times, so we asked when that would be necessary? "I can't explain. You either know it or you don't." So sausage flipping is something you just know . . .

One of the best parts of this Fado club is that it is crowded. There are no free tables. Ever. The Fado singers from around the neighborhood come in late and don't have reserved seating, so they plop down at the end of different tables in the restaurant. Every time I go, I get a singer at my table. Tonights was actually a Fadoista-Jurista! And the extent of my Portuguese tells me he is writing a book about philosophy, love, the existence of God. . . and quantum physics. (?). Lost in translation perhaps. At any rate, when he got up to sing he blew me a kiss! A Fado set dedicated to me, or . . . to the American tourist who pretends to understand what he's saying.

Approaching 3 a.m. the owner gets up to sing. The man has made long introductions before every singer, with smattering laughter from the crowd. He sings with bravado and acts as if he owns the place. Which he does. But between you and me, I saw him behind the bar frantically wiping a stain off of his suit coat before he went up to perform. "Street Fado" stars. Regular guys who love to sing.