The Douro River, which is nearly 300 meters wide, quietly lies in front of Roger.

The river water cannot see the flowing appearance, it seems to be just undulating in place, and dazzling spots light up from time to time.

It seemed that they were not in a hurry to flow westward from the trumpet-shaped Douro estuary and into the Atlantic Ocean.

It seemed as if they were more willing to bask in the sun on the side of the old town of Porto, the capital of Portugal, which was used as a port in ancient Roman times.

However, the ships shuttled back and forth on the river were all in a hurry to earn millions in a minute.

Especially those wooden boats painted yellow.

Roger learned from the local people that they are all "wine boats".

This uniquely shaped yellow wooden structure ship transports wines made from wineries and family workshops in the upper reaches of the Douro River to Porto.

These wines are stored on the banks of the southern bank of the Douro River, in huge wine cellars that stretch for several kilometers.

Roger could clearly see the wine cellars and the stores that displayed products and negotiated business along the river.

He knew that Porto was called "Wine All" in a true name.

At this time, the bells of the Porto Cathedral came from a hill more than 50 meters high on the east side.

Roger was not sure whether this was a Portuguese morning prayer or a midday prayer, or a prayer in the middle.

He now knows that Christians on the Iberian Peninsula prayed differently from Sicily.

Not only are the rituals complicated, but even the objects of prayer are different.

People on the Iberian Peninsula not only replaced "Hallelujah" with "St. Jacob".

Even "Jesus" has to stand aside.

Although they believed in Christ, they placed the crucified crucifix in the middle of the altar of the church.

But they prefer to keep "Holy Mary" on their lips.

Roger thought of "St. Jacob", so he thought of the Portuguese pilgrimage that he had just finished in the opposite direction a few days ago.

His heartbeat suddenly accelerated, and his body felt a little sweat.

Roger felt a little hot.

He looked into the sky, and there was no cloud in the blue sky of Porto.

He didn't know that it was the rain that had consumed all the water vapor some time ago.

It's still as the locals said: "The rain here is more precious than wine."

Although it was only morning, the enthusiastic sunshine seemed to want to grill Roger.

So Roger moved the wooden chair into the shade of the tree.

He was careful not to touch the newly scabbed wound on his hand.

When he sat down again, the bruises on his knees began to hurt again.

Roger ignored it, and there were several areas on his body with bruises like this.

This minor injury is nothing to him, and it will be healed in a few days.

He knew that as long as he did something, he would not feel any pain.

So Roger turned his attention to the local Portuguese cuisine on the wooden table.

He first tried the cheese as an appetizer.

These things called "queijo" in Portuguese are split on several dishes because they taste differently.

Roger's tongue is not as sensitive as his ears.

He couldn't tell which one was the "amarelodabeirabaixa" cheese made of a mixture of goat and sheep's milk;

Which one is the "" cheese made from goat milk in the alpine region of Portugal.

But he could at least taste the hard and spicy cheese produced on the steep slopes of the Atlantic Ocean.

and the peppery flavor of the "terrincho" cheese produced in the far back mountain in northeastern Portugal.

“Come on tangerine sauce, it tastes great with cheese.”

Miledi, who had been hiding in the shade of the trees by the wooden table, smiled and recommended to Roger.

The wounds cut by gravel on her cheeks made her smile look weird.

Roger didn't think the wounds on Miledi's face were annoying at all.

He only felt warm in his heart and the guilt that arises.

"Okay, then come some."

Roger was very satisfied with the cheese with orange sauce.

Then he picked up a small grilled sardine from the basket on the table.

Instead of eating it on bread according to the Portuguese tradition, he swallowed it in one bite.

He chewed, and the fragrance spread from his mouth to his nose.

Roger used his nose to express a satisfied "Yeah~".

Miledi asked with a smile, “Is it delicious?”

"It's delicious, don't you come?"

"I'm too lazy to move."

"What, your arms are not healed yet?"

"The right hand can move, but the left arm still has no strength."

"It's like this if you lose your strength, it'll be better in a few days. You should eat more, so it's going to be better quickly. I suggest you get a roasted suckling pig."

Roger bypassed the inside of the table with Milan dera sausage stuffed with chicken, duck, beef, rabbit meat and bread.

He used his carry-on knife to cut the Portuguese-style roasted suckling pig in the wooden tray.

He put a piece of Miledi's plate and poured her a fragrant fresh pepper juice.

Roger himself also took a big piece.

He saw that the suckling pig had a fragrant skin and tender flesh and was not dry, which was very different from the Chinese-style suckling pig in his previous life.

He asked the waiter beside him: "This suckling pig is well roasted, why can't the meat be dried up?"

The waiter responded respectfully: "Sir, first pickle sauce made with olive oil, wine, black pepper, thyme, garlic and other ingredients, and then apply olive oil to the skin during the baking process."

"Thyme? Is it the kind of thyme that symbolizes courage, the thyme given to the knight before going to war?"

"Yes, sir, that thyme."

Roger then took a big bite with the fragrant fresh pepper juice, and the layered texture pushed his taste buds to the peak of enjoyment.

Miledi suggested: “This one is better with Porto wine.”

Roger obeyed Mileidi's advice, and he trusted her very much now.

He followed the advice and smeared Porto red wine.

The red wine tastes very good, mellow and a little sour, covering up the fishy pork and removing the greasiness of fat meat.

“This wine tastes good.”

The wine merchant, who had been waiting by the side and finally received Roger's praise, smiled happily.

The wine merchant nodded and thanked him as if he was tied to a yellow wine boat that was undulating along the river bank.

The wine merchant introduced: "This is made from excellent wine grapes grown on the slopes of the Douro River.

"The roots of this grape are deep underground, and the changes in temperature and temperature in all seasons will not affect them, so the wine produced is very stable."

Roger skipped the chopped squid beard, seasoned minced meat, onions, etc. into the squid, sealed with a wooden sign and filled the cooked fragrant squid.

He targeted Portuguese paella.

He found that unlike the paella that Castilla had eaten, the Portuguese paella here was made with soup.

Roger took out shrimps, crabs, clams, and blue shells from the soup.

He chewed the rice soaked in seafood soup, and he felt that it was a great word.

Unfortunately, there are no Portuguese egg tarts here.

Roger missed his old pasteisdebelem store in Belling, Lisbon, in his previous life.
Chapter completed!