Salada Russa à Portuguesa

Every Portuguese grandmother makes salada russa. Every single one. And if you ask her for the recipe, she'll wave her hand and say "um bocadinho disto, um bocadinho daquilo." A little of this, a little of that. No measurements. Just memory and instinct.

This isn't Russian food anymore, whatever it once was. This is ours now. It sits in every tasca display case, spooned onto plates beside fried fish and cold beer. It appears at birthday parties, at beach picnics packed in glass containers, at Christmas Eve dinner next to the bacalhau. It's the dish nobody thinks about until it's missing, and then everyone asks where it is.

Avó Leonor made hers with homemade mayonnaise, whisked by hand in her yellow ceramic bowl until her arm ached. She'd dice everything so small you could barely tell what was what. "Assim come-se melhor," she'd say. It eats better this way. The vegetables should melt together, not announce themselves separately.

The secret, if there is one, is restraint. Don't overdress it. The mayonnaise should bind, not drown. And for the love of all that's good, don't add things that don't belong. I've seen versions with ham, with tuna, with apple. That's not salada russa. That's something else. Separar as águas.