The bread arrives at ten to seven

Every morning at ten to seven, a white van with a bad clutch stops outside number 9 and a man in a floury apron carries three paper sacks across the lane. That is Senhor Albano, who has baked at the end of our street since 1989. Marta takes the sacks, says good morning, and decides what breakfast will be.

She does not decide in advance. She opens the bags, feels the crust, and looks at what the dough has done overnight. On a damp day the loaves are heavier and she will slice them thin and toast them. On a dry day the crust crackles and she leaves them whole in the basket, with a knife, for you to tear at yourself.

Four loaves, one rule

Albano makes four things for us. A wheat loaf with a thick crust, a rye loaf with caraway that he started making after a customer asked for it twice, a soft roll for the children, and on Saturdays a sourdough that takes two days. The rule is that he bakes what he would eat himself, and that nothing is sold the day after.

The rule is that he bakes what he would eat himself, and that nothing is sold the day after.

Whatever is left goes to the neighbours. Dona Fernanda on the corner has been collecting our leftover rolls since the week we opened and returns the paper bags, folded, each Friday.

What is on the table

Breakfast is laid between eight and half past ten in the room that becomes the wine bar at night. There is bread, of course, with butter from the Azores and a jar of orange marmalade that Marta makes from the tree in the courtyard. There are eggs cooked as you ask, a plate of cheese and cured ham, fruit from the market at Santa Clara, and yoghurt with honey.

If you are vegetarian or vegan, tell Marta the night before and she will do something better than a plate of fruit. If you want to eat on your terrace or in your room, she will carry a tray up at half past seven. A tray is not an extra charge. We consider it part of the house.

Why we do not do a buffet

We tried a buffet in the first month. The eggs went cold, the croissants dried out and the room felt like an airport. Marta asked for one week to do it her way, which was to cook everything to order and to put whatever is good that morning on the table in plates for sharing. We have not looked back.

It means breakfast takes a little longer. You will sit, somebody will bring coffee, and you will have time to look at the room. We think that is the right speed for a house in Alfama.

A small thing to do

On your last morning, walk down to the bakery before breakfast. It is three minutes from the front door, and Albano starts to sell at half past six. Buy a pastel de nata, eat it standing up at the counter, and watch the queue form. Then come back, and see what Marta has decided.