The other bacalhau dishes you’ve never heard of

If there’s one ingredient that sums up the contradictions of Portuguese food culture, it’s bacalhau. A dried, salted fish that doesn’t even swim in our waters, but somehow made its way into our national DNA. You’ll see it hanging stiff in markets, soaking in tubs behind restaurant counters, and showing up at Christmas dinners, weddings, and weekday lunches alike. In Portugal, salt cod is a national obsession and a great part of our cuisine revolves around it.

The story of bacalhau starts with preservation. Long before we had fridges or freezers, salting and drying fish was the only way to keep it edible for more than a few days. During the presence of the Roman Empire in the Iberian Peninsula, around 2000 years ago, fish salting and curing was already being done, using smaller local species like sardines and mackerel, amongst others. Fish preservation became particularly important around the 1500s, as our country started sending ships across the Atlantic and had large inland populations far from the coast. Cod, fished in the cold waters of the North Atlantic, especially around Newfoundland, Canada, was ideal: lean, firm, and quick to cure. By the 15th and 16th centuries, salt cod was a staple food across Portugal, eaten out of practicality, not preference.

But habits have a funny way of becoming traditions. Over time, we didn’t just tolerate bacalhau: we fully embraced it. Generations learned how to transform this unassuming slab of salted fish into something worth craving. We soaked it, shredded it, baked it with cream, fried it into fritters, layered it with onions and potatoes. Not because we had to anymore, but because we liked it. A lot.

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Photo by Time Out Lisboa

Even today, when we have access to all kinds of fresh fish from our coast, bacalhau holds its ground. It has a completely different texture, firmer, chewier, more resilient, and a flavor that’s richer and deeper than fresh cod. It doesn’t flake the same way. It doesn’t taste the same. Salt cod is a thing of its own, and in Portuguese cooking, it stands apart.

It helps that bacalhau became tied up with religion. During centuries of strict Catholic observance, meat was off the table on many days of the year, such as Fridays, Lent, and more. Salt cod filled that gap. It was the reliable protein that ticked the “no meat” box without feeling like a sacrifice. Convents, military canteens, and family kitchens all relied on it. By the 20th century, even the Estado Novo dictatorship was pushing bacalhau as a symbol of Portuguese resilience, embodying traits that were seen as virtues for locals, such as simplicity and humbleness.

Photo by Público

The Portuguese have created more recipes with salt cod that anyone can count. Some say 365, one for each day of the year. Some think that is an exaggeration, but many would also argue that there are easily hundreds more, passed down in scribbled notebooks, dictated over the phone between family members, or simply improvised on the fly with whatever’s in the pantry.

Most visitors, and even many locals, only know the classic bacalhau recipes, such as bacalhau à Brás, bacalhau com natas or bacalhau à Gomes de Sá. These are indeed delicious, but they are just the ones that made it to the mainstream. There’s also a whole world of lesser-known bacalhau dishes out there. Some are regional specialties that never left their birthplace. Others are on the verge of disappearing, still cooked by a few home cooks or served at local food festivals, but barely known outside those circles.

These are the dishes we’re exploring today. The ones that don’t show up on your typical Lisbon tasca menu. You’ll need to get out of the city, or know someone’s grandma, or just get lucky by stumbling across a festival in a rural town. But if you do spot one of these dishes on a menu, don’t hesitate. Order it!

Portuguese salt cod dishes you probably haven’t heard of

Tibornada de Góis

Photo by CM Góis

Tibornada is one of those rare bacalhau dishes that most Portuguese people have heard of, but few outside the central region have actually tasted. Traditionally from Góis, in the Serra da Lousã area, is a rustic preparation of salt cod, boiled potatoes, and cabbage. The key to bringing these simple ingredients to life is azeite novo, that is, freshly pressed olive oil, poured hot over the dish right after it comes out of the olive press (lagar).

Originally, tibornada wasn’t an everyday meal. It was eaten once a year, at the end of the olive oil pressing season. The dish marked a kind of rural celebration, when workers and olive grove owners would taste the very first oil of the season. The bacalhau was often grilled in the embers, giving it a slightly smoky flavor and firmer texture than versions boiled or baked. The potatoes and greens, usually couve portuguesa, acted like sponges for the hot oil, soaking in its bold, slightly bitter, and intensely fruity flavor.

The name tibornada is related to tiborna, which refers to slices of warm bread soaked in olive oil, a common way to test and taste the season’s first press. Tiborna could easily be compared with Italian bruschetta. But in the Góis area, that concept was expanded into a full meal, actually skipping the bread. Instead of just dipping bread, people used the oil to coat an entire plate: salted cod, vegetables and, on certain occasions only, cornbread (broa de milho). When it comes to tibornada, the hot olive oil isn’t a garnish, but the actual star of the dish.

Tibornada is closely tied to the olive oil culture of central Portugal, particularly in the Vale do Ceira, where Roman-era olive groves still shape the landscape. Back in the day, besides being used for cooking, olive oil was also used as fuel. The pressing season, often happening in winter, was a labor-intensive task that involved entire communities. It made sense that at the end of it all, people would gather to share a meal like this. Even though tibornada is festive, it’s quite a straightforward recipe, which tastes bold but somewhat clean.

While you can now find tibornada year-round in a few places, like Restaurante Álvaro’s in Góis, don’t expect to find it on city menus and certainly not in tourist spots. If you see it on offer during a visit to central Portugal, especially in the districts of Góis, Lousã, or Tábua, don’t miss the chance to try it.

Bacalhau recheado à moda de Monção

Photo by Riveralves

This is one of those bacalhau recipes that keeps a low profile, unless you’re in Monção. There, in the northern Minho region of Portugal, it’s become something of a regional statement. Known as bacalhau recheado à moda de Monção, or sometimes simply bacalhau à Monção, this stuffed cod loin dish brings together classic Portuguese flavors with some surprising touches. It’s rich, meaty, and more decadent than your average salt cod preparation.

The basic idea is straightforward but works really well: thick loins of soaked salt cod are sliced open and filled with a strip of cured pork, traditionally, dry-cured ham (presunto). The stuffed fillets are dusted with flour and lightly fried until golden. Then comes the layering: a sauté of onions, garlic, tomato, and green pepper goes on top, followed by a generous spread of mayonnaise. The whole dish is baked until bubbling and golden, then garnished with black olives and fresh parsley. Served with crispy fried potatoes, it’s a plate that doesn’t hold back.

The mayo might throw some people off, but once it hits the oven, it takes on a slightly tangy, savory crust that balances the saltiness of the cod and ham. In fact, using mayo to oven roast salt cod dishes au gratin isn’t unheard of, as this is also what happens in their recipe of bacalhau à Zé do Pipo, typical from Porto. In Monção’s recipe, the cured pork infuses the fish from the inside, adding depth and a meaty backbone to the dish. 

Despite its traditional feel, this dish doesn’t have a long and well-documented history. Versions of stuffed bacalhau have likely existed in the Minho region for some time, especially given the area’s heavy use of cured meats and strong ties to rustic cooking. But the current wave of recognition, and the name bacalhau à Monção, can be traced to a much more recent origin. In 2023, celebrity chef Vítor Sobral, one of Portugal’s most respected culinary figures, was invited to create a signature dish to represent the local cuisine of Monção. What he developed was a modern, chef-driven reinterpretation of this stuffed cod idea, replacing the presunto with a thicker, more rustic slice of cured pork belly. His version became the centerpiece of a regional culinary campaign that included training local chefs and a dedicated weeklong food festival Semana do Bacalhau à Monção. It was all part of a wider effort to put Monção on the culinary map, not just for its famous foda à Monção lamb dish, but also for a standout salt cod recipe.

So while the name bacalhau à Monção now appears in glossy brochures and promotional events, it’s important not to confuse Sobral’s recent creation with the older, more homemade versions that inspired it. The traditional dish, more often simply called bacalhau recheado in family kitchens, doesn’t need reinvention to be impressive, as it’s already packed with flavor and personality.

Monção sits in the upper northwest of Portugal, where the flavors tend to be bold, the portions generous, and the cooking honest. It’s no surprise that this dish, with its blend of land and sea, speaks to the region’s food culture. While bacalhau doesn’t always play the starring role in Minho (that honor often goes to lamb or pork), when it does appear, it’s often dressed up like this, rustic in appearance but quite fancy when it comes to flavor and texture.

Bacalhau à Narcisa

Photo by Teleculinária

Bacalhau à Narcisa is another northern Portuguese dish where salt cod is fried until golden, then layered with thin slices of fried potatoes and onions, all cooked in generous amounts of olive oil. The result is pure Portuguese comfort food.

This is straightforward Minho cooking, with just a handful of ingredients, cooked properly with no big theatrics. In cod Narcisa style, the actual fish remains the star, being juicy, slightly flaky inside, and almost meaty from the frying. The potatoes are buttery-soft inside with just enough crisp around the edges, and the onions, sweet and melting, and generously coating in olive oil, cling to everything almost like a glaze. 

Despite being known today under multiple names, such as bacalhau à Braga or bacalhau à Minhota, the dish traces its origins to one specific place: the old Restaurante Narcisa in Braga. Opened in 1930, it was one of those bustling tascas that built its reputation on hearty cooking and consistency, eventually becoming a local institution. By mid-century, bacalhau à Narcisa had become the signature dish, so associated with the place that even visiting celebrities made the pilgrimage just to try it.

The name Narcisa came from the restaurant’s original name, but some locals still argue it should have been called bacalhau à Eusébia, in honor of the original cook behind the recipe. Eusébia, the matriarch of the kitchen, was known for her bold hand with olive oil and for following traditional Portuguese cooking technique with her own signature touches. Eusébia died in 1972, but if you ask locals who really invented the dish, her name still comes up.

Originating in Braga, this dish initially spread across the Minho region and eventually a little all over Portugal. It was copied, adapted, and renamed, especially as other restaurants wanted in on the success. Eventually, it became known more widely as bacalhau à Minhota, a label that, while geographically correct, tends to erase the more specific Braga roots. Still, whatever you call it, it remains one of the most iconic ways to cook bacalhau in the north of Portugal. Around Lisbon, though, you are much more likely to come across bacalhau à Minhota, but the recipe would essentially be the same. Track down this northern speciality in the Portuguese capital in codfish specialized restaurants such as Casa do Bacalhau (Rua do Grilo 54) or at the Adega Solar Minhoto (Av. Rio de Janeiro 29F).

Bacalhau à Conde da Guarda

Photo by Panelinha de Sabores

Few bacalhau dishes spark as much speculation as bacalhau à Conde da Guarda. Some say it was a noble’s comfort food. Others claim it was created by a chef in a swanky Lisbon hotel kitchen. There’s even a version that links it to a 19th-century ambassador borrowing inspiration from the French brandade. The truth? No one really knows for sure who first baked shredded cod with creamy potatoes, garlic, and a cheesy crust until it bubbled and browned. But one thing’s certain: whoever invented it knew exactly what they were doing.

Most versions trace the dish to the 19th century, possibly in the city of Porto, where the 2nd Conde da Guarda, Luís de Oliveira de Almeida Calheiros e Meneses, was said to frequent a humble restaurant. Legend has it he ordered his cod cooked a very specific way: oven-baked, soft in the center, with a golden crust on top. The staff obliged, the dish caught on, and soon the name stuck. The irony? Despite its aristocratic name, the dish itself is humble, and even a bit frugal: there’s less cod than in other recipes, and it’s stretched with potatoes and cream to serve more mouths with less fish.

Another version suggests that the Count, involved in the cod trade, had no teeth, and this dish was whipped up as a solution for him to be able to eat. No chewy fillets or hard crusts, just creamy, spoonable food. Whether that’s true or not, it adds to the legend. Yet another theory credits the origin to Lisbon’s famed Restaurante Aviz, a haunt of European royalty and Lisbon elites in the early 20th century. In that version, either chef Manuel Ferreira or his successor João Ribeiro codified the recipe in print, pushing it from local classic to national repertoire.

Regardless of who deserves the credit, bacalhau à Conde da Guarda is now a beloved recipe in traditional Portuguese cuisine, certainly not as common as other creamy specialities such as oven baked cod with cream (bacalhau com natas) or shredded cod with bechamel and breadcrumbs (bacalhau espiritual), but much appreciated for those who occasionally come across it or simply cook it at home.

This dish is a casserole-style preparation that sits somewhere between bacalhau espiritual and comfort food royalty. The bacalhau is cooked and shredded, sometimes involving a soak in milk first to mellow its saltiness, then sautéed with onion, garlic, and olive oil. It’s folded into mashed or puréed potato (some recipes use small diced boiled potatoes instead), enriched with cream (natas), and seasoned with pepper and a touch of nutmeg. Once it reaches the right creamy consistency, it’s topped with breadcrumbs and grated cheese, and baked until golden. What comes out of the oven is a rich and deeply satisfying dish, with a hint of elegance.

In places like the Restaurante Belo Horizonte in the city of Guarda, bacalhau à Conde da Guarda is still served weekly. If your travels in Portugal take you to Guarda, you know what to do!

Bacalhau à Assis

Photo by O Tempero da Nesita

Some dishes are born in noble kitchens or refined restaurants. Others, like bacalhau à Assis, are created out of pure necessity and a bit of creative panic. The story goes like this: sometime in the early 20th century, in Serra da Estrela, a brutal snowstorm hit the Covilhã region, cutting off supply lines to a modest mountain guesthouse. The owner, Henrique Assis, was left with a house full of hungry guests and little more than scraps in his pantry: salt cod, some potatoes, carrots, onions, a bit of cured ham, a couple of peppers, a few eggs, and a splash of oil. He threw them together, and bacalhau à Assis was born. What could’ve been a forgettable kitchen improvisation became a regional legend. The dish took off among locals and visitors, and today it holds a special place in the food culture of Covilhã. It’s a lesser-known cousin of bacalhau à Brás, but more rustic, more mountain-style, and definitely heartier.

Henrique Assis himself was a curious figure. He was of Chinese descent, reportedly brought to Portugal by a local military officer, he grew up in Covilhã, married a Portuguese woman named Rosa Fortuna, and spent his life mastering traditional Portuguese cuisine. He ran several kitchens, including the once-famous Pensão O Skiador aland the elite Clube União da Covilhã. His nickname, “o chinês,” was common in town, and not exactly subtle, but a sign of how rare his presence was in early 20th-century Beira Interior. And yet, he became a respected local cook, with a signature dish that still carries his name nearly a century later.

So what’s bacalhau à Assis like on the plate? It starts with shredded, previously soaked salt cod, sautéed with thinly sliced onions, garlic, presunto cut into small strips, and slivers of red and green bell pepper. Meanwhile, potatoes and carrots are grated into thin matchsticks and fried until golden. The vegetables add a sweet base note that sets this dish apart from most others in the bacalhau repertoire. Once everything is cooked, it all comes together in the pan: cod, onions, presunto, fried potato, carrots. Then come the eggs, beaten and seasoned with salt, pepper, and chopped parsley, folded in gently until just set, but still creamy and moist. The final result is rich but not heavy, colorful on the plate, and full of texture: crispy edges from the matchstick potatoes, softness from the onions and eggs, and a punch of umami from the cured pork and cod combo.

You’re unlikely to find bacalhau à Assis on a tourist menu in Lisbon, but it’s still alive and well in Covilhã, especially among families who’ve inherited the recipe through generations. It also lives on in the Tertúlia Bacalhau à Assis, a group dedicated to celebrating and preserving this humble dish. Even the Clube Nacional de Montanhismo, which now operates in the same space where the dish was born, occasionally pays tribute to it. It may not be the most famous cod recipe in Portugal, but it’s one that clearly showcases how improvisation in the kitchen often leads to outstanding results.

Bacalhau albardado

Photo by 24Kitchen

If you’re into deep-fried comfort food (and really, who isn’t?), bacalhau albardado should be on your radar. Think of it as the Alentejo cousin of the more familiar pataniscas de bacalhau, but instead of shredded cod mixed into a loose batter, here you get actual chunks (lascas) or full pieces (postas) of salt cod, dipped in a leavened flour batter and fried until crisp and golden. It’s rustic, satisfying, and wildly underrated.

The coating (polme) is key. Made with flour and yeast (and sometimes egg, depending on the cook), it puffs slightly as it fries, creating a light, crisp exterior that crackles when you bite in. Inside, the cod stays juicy and flaky, especially if you’re working with a nice thick piece that’s been soaked just right. In the Alentejo, where bacalhau albardado is most at home, it’s commonly served with a vinegary salad or, more indulgently, with a helping of sauce rice with beans (arroz de feijão). The contrast between the crunchy, golden cod and the soft, saucy rice is hard to beat.

The name albardado comes from the verb albardar, which basically means to coat something (in this case, fish) with batter or flour before frying. It’s the same root as the term for breading or battering meats and vegetables. The technique is old and widespread, but in the Alentejo, it became a go-to method for stretching the bacalhau further and, at the same time, adding flavor and texture.

While it’s a dish with deep roots in the south, you’ll find variations scattered across Portugal. In Águeda, for instance, they go one step further: after frying the cod, it’s topped with a rich onion sauce thickened with egg yolks and vinegar, and finished with chopped parsley and sometimes a pinch of mustard, resulting in a richer and more complex dish.

This is another one of those salt cod dishes that’s hard to find in restaurants unless you’re deep in the Alentejo or in a home-style eatery that leans heavily into traditional fried foods. Some tascas might serve it as a daily special, and you’ll occasionally find it at food festivals or events celebrating regional cuisine. But most of the time, this is home-cooked fare, often enjoyed with a nice glass of Alentejo wine.

Bacalhau à moda de Viana

Photo by Blogue do Minho

In Viana do Castelo, the northernmost seaport on Portugal’s Atlantic coast, bacalhau was historically speaking a type of “currency”. For centuries, this was the departure point for cod-fishing expeditions bound for Newfoundland and Greenland. The city has salt cod baked into its bones. And it’s no surprise that one of the most enduring and regionally beloved cod dishes bears its name: bacalhau à Moda de Viana.

There’s more than one version of this recipe floating around the Minho, but what ties them together is the celebration of local staples: bacalhau, cabbage, crusty cornbread (broa de milho), and a solid bath of good olive oil. It’s a dish that feels rustic and nourishing, but still comes across as elegant when done well. Whether it’s cooked wrapped in cabbage leaves and roasted in the oven, or layered in a casserole with golden confit onions and broa crumbs, bacalhau à Viana is a dish with a clear local identity.

One of the most classic preparations starts with thick cuts of salt cod that have been soaked for several days to mellow their saltiness. Instead of flaking it or mixing it into a sauce, the loins are left whole, lightly boiled or roasted just enough to open into tender layers. Each piece is wrapped in cabbage leaves, usually savoy cabbage (couve lombarda), and tied up with kitchen string before being baked in the oven. While they roast, the cabbage dries slightly and takes on a roasted edge, while the fish inside steams in its own juices. The dish is served over slices of boiled potato and finished with slow-cooked onions sautéed in a generous amount of olive oil. 

Another version, slightly more contemporary but still loyal to tradition, opts for confiting the cod in olive oil along with garlic and onions, then serving it over sautéed cabbage and boiled potatoes, often with a fried slice of broa de milho on the side for crunch. In both cases, the texture contrasts are what make it: flaky fish, silky onions, earthy cabbage, soft potatoes, and crispy broa crumbs or toast. Occasionally you’ll find it garnished with black olives or parsley.

While bacalhau à Moda de Viana is mostly tied to home kitchens and local festivals, you’ll find it in traditional restaurants around the city of Viana, especially during themed food weekends promoted by the local tourism board. Events like the Fim de Semana Gastronómico celebrate both this dish and others from the region, like pataniscas and a local sweet known as torta de Viana, pairing them with Minho wines, like vinho verde, in restaurants all over the municipality. If you’re in Viana do Castelo or the surrounding Minho area, keep an eye out. It might go by bacalhau à Viana, bacalhau à moda de Viana, or even just bacalhau com couve e broa on a handwritten chalkboard.

Caras de bacalhau com grão

Photo by Necas de Valadares

When we say that here in Portugal we use every part of the cod, we’re not joking. While tourists tend to stick to the noble cuts, the loins, the thick fillets, the golden oven bakes, the real soul of Portuguese bacalhau cuisine lives in the less glamorous parts: cod cheeks (caras), cod tongues (línguas), cod swim bladders (sames), even central spines with some flesh around it (espinhaços). Among these, caras de bacalhau com grão is the kind of dish that tells you exactly where you are: in a country where thrift, tradition, and flavor collide.

Caras de bacalhau are the heads of the codfish, more precisely, the lower part of the head, without the tongue (língua), but including the cheeks (bochechas) and connective tissues nestled between bone and skin. Gelatinous, rich in flavor, and full of texture, they’re a far cry from flaky fillets but offer a depth and complexity of taste that cod lovers swear by. If you’ve ever appreciated the collagen-rich bite of a fish head curry or the cheek meat of a roast pig, you’ll get the appeal.

Their cousins, the línguas de bacalhau, are also a delicacy. These are small, tongue-shaped cuts from the underside of the cod’s jaw, prized for their springy yet tender texture. Both parts are hard to find in standard supermarkets and often sold salted in bulk at traditional fishmongers or specialty cod sellers. In Lisbon, if you’re lucky, you’ll spot them on chalkboard menus at old-school tascas, listed as a daily special.

Historically, these dishes come from a mindset of zero waste. In times when nothing could be thrown away, the entire fish was used, from the meaty loins to the heads, bones, and even the liver (the source of that infamous oil many of us had to swallow as kids). Caras de bacalhau com grão became a way to stretch a cheap cut into a full meal, pairing the richly textured fish with chickpeas, potatoes, cabbage, carrots, boiled eggs, and olive oil. This dish may also be referred to as caras de bacalhau com todos, literally, “with everything”.

While this dish was once associated with frugality, or religious abstinence, particularly during Lent, it’s now a favorite among diehard bacalhau fans, who may argue that this is indeed the best part of the fish, because of being soft and fatty. From a nutritional point of view, you’re getting more than just flavor. These parts of the cod are high in protein and packed with collagen, omega-3s, and trace minerals, making them good for your joints and skin.

Today, caras de bacalhau com grão are harder to find in restaurants, especially in urban centers where diners expect tidier, boneless dishes. But in the right place, like an old style tavern or neighborhood restaurant, you may still come across this dish, even here in the capital itself.

Feijoada de sames

Photo by Sr. Bacalhau

If you’re the kind of eater who believes flavor lives in the odd cuts and forgotten bits, this one’s for you. Feijoada de sames is the seafood cousin of the more famous feijoada à Transmontana, that meaty northern stew packed with beans and cured pork. But in this coastal version, we swap sausages and ribs for the gelatinous underdog of the codfish: the sames. It’s a humble, hearty dish from Portugal’s Atlantic coast that turns an often overlooked part of the fish into a local delicacy.

Let’s start with the obvious question: what exactly are sames? Sames (or samos, in old fishermen slang) are the swim bladders of the codfish, that is, an organ that helps the fish control its buoyancy in the water. Anatomically, they’re located along the spine and are removed along with the backbone when the fish is cleaned. For generations, these were cast-offs of the cod trade. But for the crews working the freezing decks of bacalhoeiros off the coast of Newfoundland, no part of the beloved cod went to waste. The sames were salvaged, cleaned, salted onboard, and eventually brought ashore to become part of one of Portugal’s resourceful recipes repertoire.

Think of feijoada de sames as a mashup between a feijoada and a collagen-rich seafood stew. The base is familiar: garlic, onions, olive oil, tomato, and white beans. Then you add chouriço for smokiness, a splash of white wine to lift the dish, and finally the star of the show, the sames, pre-soaked, cleaned, and cut into bite-sized pieces.

But here’s where things get real: texture. Sames are not your average flake-and-fork cod. Their texture is slippery, gelatinous, even cartilaginous in parts, somewhere between tripe and squid. For some, that’s a hard pass. For others (and we’re a loyal bunch), it’s the definition of comfort food. When done right, they soak up the broth’s flavor like sponges and give the dish a luxurious, lip-smacking feel that only comes from slow-cooked collagen.

To prepare them properly, soaking is key. Because sames are preserved in salt water brine (like some other cod parts), they need a long desalting period, often longer than regular cod fillets. And they must be gently cooked and not boiled in maximum heat. A quick blanch, followed by a simmer in the stew, ensures they stay soft without turning tough or rubbery.

Feijoada de Sames’ origin is linked to the fishing communities of Figueira da Foz, a coastal city long associated with cod fishing. According to the local food historians and the Centro Interpretativo do Bacalhau in Lisbon, this dish was a staple for the moços do convés and cães de bordo, that is, the deckhands and low-ranking crew who made magic out of the scraps. Along with dishes like fried cod tongues (línguas de bacalhau fritas), caras de bacalhau com grão, and the soulful chora de bacalhau, a fish head broth eaten after a long shift, feijoada de sames stands as one of the best examples of maritime nose-to-tail eating.

Cataplana de bacalhau

Photo by Receitas Globo

Cataplana de bacalhau is one of those dishes that manages to feel both festive and deeply comforting. It brings together humble ingredients like codfish, potatoes, peppers and onions, but cooks them in a way that elevates everything. The magic lies in the vessel itself: the cataplana. This clamshell-like copper pot, hinged on one side and clamped shut on the other, is a Portuguese culinary symbol, especially associated with the Algarve. While its exact origins are debated, it likely evolved from North African influences, particularly the Moroccan tajine. Both cook slowly, gently, and in sealed environments that trap steam, intensify flavor, and preserve the integrity of each ingredient. The cataplana, however, is uniquely Portuguese, first made by the copper artisans of the Algarve and still a mainstay in southern kitchens.

Originally handcrafted in copper for its excellent heat conductivity, the cataplana is now also made from aluminum or stainless steel, though the old-school versions are still the most beautiful. More than just pretty cookware, the cataplana is a highly efficient tool: it reduces cooking time, keeps everything moist, and makes you look like a genius at the table when you open the lid and the aroma hits. Traditionally used for seafood stews, especially clams and mixed shellfish, the cataplana is versatile enough to handle meat, vegetables, or, in this case, salt cod.

In the case of cataplana de bacalhau, the salted and soaked codfish is layered in the pot with sliced potatoes, onions, garlic, red and green peppers, diced tomato, and sometimes, in the modern kitchen, a handful of cherry tomatoes for sweetness. Bay leaf, olive oil, and a splash of white wine add depth, while chopped parsley or coriander freshen up the whole thing. In some versions, small shrimp are added toward the end of cooking for an extra hit of flavor and texture. Everything goes into the cataplana raw, lid closed, and then it simmers gently for half an hour. The result is a layered, steamy, fragrant dish where the fish flakes perfectly, the vegetables soak up all the juices, and the sauce is made for bread-dipping.

If you see cataplana in restaurant menus, keep in mind that this dish is big and meant to be shared. In Lisbon, we can thankfully eat a good cataplana de bacalhau without having to cook it at home, thanks to restaurants that specialize in all things cod, like Casa do Bacalhau. Another excellent spot is Tasca da Esquina (Rua Domingos Sequeira 41C), the modern Portuguese restaurant run by chef Vítor Sobral. There, cataplana de bacalhau takes on a slightly more refined approach, and if you go with company, it’s a perfect opportunity to order both the cataplana and another of Sobral’s creations: bacalhau à Monção (featured above). That way, you get to try at least two of the lesser-known cod dishes we’ve recommended here!

We’re always exploring the tastiest sides of Portuguese food culture. Follow Taste of Lisboa on Instagram for more insider tips, delicious eats and lots of history too.

Feed your curiosity on Portuguese food culture:

For the love of cod: a historical look behind Portugal’s obsession with bacalhau

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