As soon as I cleared customs at Lisbon Airport, I was in my rental Volkswagen heading east into Alentejo, eager to dip my spoon into a bowl of açorda à Alentejana, the garlicky bread-thickened, cilantro-packed soup found in every home, restaurant, and farmhouse in the region. The rustic dish is served hot, so the eggs that are traditionally broken into it poach on contact—one bite and I always remember why Alentejo is my favorite place in the world.
I've never understood travelers to Portugal who, hell-bent on catching rays at a southern beach, bomb through this vast province rippling across a third of the country, where cork oaks, misshapen as scarecrows, dance into infinity, whitewashed villages pop up like icebergs off-course, and medieval castle towns cling to mountainous outcrops of…
