The woman behind the counter slid the small cup across the marble and I dropped a coin into the saucer. She nodded without looking up. I drank it in three sips, standing, the way everyone does here, and left.
I’ve been in Vila Nova de Milfontes since late July. The mornings are still cool enough for a second cup. I started writing down what each one cost because I realised breakfast was the one meal I never skipped and never thought about. Lunch I plan. Dinner I negotiate with myself. Breakfast just happens, every day, without any decision at all.
For a week I kept a tally. Not in any organised way — just the figures on the back of a receipt, folded into my pocket. Coffee at the counter, always under a euro. A bread roll from the padaria two doors from where I’m staying, maybe thirty or forty cents. Some mornings a peach or a handful of plums from the frutaria on the corner, run by the woman who bags everything in paper even when I’m eating it on the bench outside. One day I added a pastel de nata because the tray was right there and I was hungry and it was still warm from the oven.
The total for seven days came to less than I’d guessed. I’d been assuming I was spending more. Some internal accounting that didn’t match the real numbers. I’d already noticed the same gap at the Tuesday market, where the vegetables cost less than I’d braced for. Breakfast just made it visible because it repeats. Same cup, same counter, same coin in the saucer.
On Wednesday the bread was still warm when I bought it. The woman at the padaria wrapped it in a thin sheet of paper and I tore a piece off before I reached the door. She watched me do it. I think she was amused. Or maybe she was thinking about something else. I ate the rest on the bench by the river, watching a dog try to decide whether the water was worth the swim.
On Friday the frutaria was closed. I walked back to the supermarket and paid more for a peach that tasted the same. I wrote down both prices on the receipt, one above the other, and drew a line between them. The difference was small enough that it barely registered in the weekly total. I stood outside eating it and a man on a bicycle rode past with a crate of bread balanced on the handlebars. He didn’t wobble.
The coffee is strong and small and finished before you’ve decided whether you wanted it. I think that’s the point. You drink it standing, you put the coin down, you go.
I kept the receipt with the tally on it for a few days. Then I used it as a bookmark and lost track of which book it was in. The numbers are still there somewhere, folded between pages I haven’t gone back to. I could look. I probably won’t. The total surprised me at the time and I can’t remember it now, which feels like the wrong way round. I expected to hold onto the figure longer than I did. Or maybe the point was never the number itself.
If you’re thinking about it
- Coffee at the counter is cheaper than sitting at a table. Stand, drink, leave.
- The padaria near the river bridge opens early. Bread is best before nine.
- Fruit from the frutaria is cheaper than the supermarket and better.
- A week of breakfast here cost less than I expected. Budget for less than you think.
- Pastel de nata from the tray nearest the door. The ones at the back sit longer.
Anyway. The coffee here is good.
