PV88+WP Lisbon, Portugal
Taste – 9.3
Atmosphere – 8.9
Service – 8.8
Value – 6.2
Everything looks close on a Lisbon map. But hills never show up. Hundreds of stairs, quietly destroying your calves, with a leader up ahead shouting “ALMOST THERE”. This is exactly what happened on the way to Ciclo.
Ciclo sits in a neighbourhood I never would have stumbled on, and the whole street had a bizarre buzz to it. Across the way, someone had rigged a beer tap outside a store window, with an old man, a young couple and a hippie lady all happily chugging away. Bikes flowed over the cobbled streets, exposing foreheads and bruised asses with every bump. Bras, underpants and T-shirts flapped from people’s railings while the homeowners smoked under the marmalade sun. It felt like a Romcom setting. But when I entered Ciclo, I was sweating like an onion.
The exposed metallic beams matched the woody oak furniture, sunlight pouring through the glass front, filling the room and making it bounce. Perched in the corner, peering out at the festivities, we were the only ones there. Felt weird and exclusive. Like we ran the joint. Could have given me the confidence to waltz into the kitchen and start making a cheese toastie.
Ciclo is doing the new thing: sharing plates and wasting nothing. Whatever produce comes through the door gets used top to bottom, whole chickens, vegetables down to the offcuts, all farm to table. It makes for some genuinely one-off dishes, and since the menu shifts with whatever comes in, you never eat the same meal twice.
First, Sardine pate. Paired with relish and sourdough, it seems like a dream nowadays. You know a place has thought of everything when all the pieces turn up. None of this buying the pate, bread and relish separately for an exorbitant price. And it all worked perfectly: smooth, with a clean, briny hit that makes you slump and melt into your seat.
The chorizo slices were nothing special, just a plate of cold-cut chorizo when I had hoped for a proper dish. Felt like staring at a small red murder scene, folding the pieces up one by one and stuffing them in my mouth, letting the fat drip and dissolve.
Then came the pork croquettes, the make-or-break. A good croquette is an art, and too often they come out stodgy and thick, overcooked to the point of it becoming like a rock. But these were outstanding. A dark, crisp shell with real firmness, like biting into a perfectly crunchy slice of toast, giving way to a rich, well-balanced creaminess from the tender pork within. They paired perfectly with the marinated sardines. A light bite to calm the full-on croquette, balanced like a bike on stabilisers.
Then the mussels, and this is where Ciclo shone. Big, plump, coated in herbs, a generous slick of butter and a carrot puree, all piled onto a crisp slice of bread. Best mussel I have ever tasted. Sent you to dreamland like Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs.
After all that richness came the marinated cucumber, strawberries and red shrimp rayu. A palate cleanser, basically, sweet and tangy with a slight fishiness which edged the tongue, a bit like the experience of lip balm.
A couple of plates came and went without much to say for themselves. An orange and courgette dish that was fine and little else, and a cheese selection that was, well, a selection of cheeses.
Dessert was a strawberry sorbet with a mint crumb, sharp and cold, perfect on a hot day. Then the baba ao rum, sponge soaked in a boozy syrup with marinated figs. Pure comfort, like there was a little old granny in the basement cooking up these delights.
So, was it worth the stairs? Every single one. Ciclo has quietly landed in my top ten restaurants ever, a place that takes whatever the farm sends it, and wastes none of it. And it was a touch of grace, watching the chef so bubbly and enthusiastic about his cheffing. Smiling, cracking jokes, singing away, it all felt like a home-cooked meal.
