These days it seems there are two categories of travelers: those utterly infatuated with Lisbon, and those who haven’t been yet, who wonder why the first group won’t shut up about it.

If you have been, you know the reasons — the food, the architecture, the music, the climate, the nightlife, the culture, the still-low prices, the sultry and relaxed Mediterranean-yet-not-Mediterranean vibe.

It wasn’t always thus. From the 1970s through the early 2010s, Lisbon was an awkward Continental outlier: in Europe, sure, but not quite of it. When I first visited in 1991, the city was a faded old diorama — enchantingly beautiful, but a museum piece all the same. On the clocks, Portugal was an hour behind the rest of Europe; on the ground, it felt like 30 years. The moribund economy didn’t help. At its nadir, youth unemployment hit nearly 40 percent, and educated Portuguese were moving abroad faster than those arriving to replace them — a brain drain that has taken a generation to reverse.

Isolation and neglect, it turns out, are a reliable formula for innovation and rebirth. Those unruly lanes and crumbling facades were fertile ground for young creatives, entrepreneurs, and other urban pioneers who, in recent years, have claimed Lisbon’s tumbledown beauty as their own. A good many are from here, but many more come from elsewhere in Europe, Africa, the Caribbean, South Asia, Brazil.

Some are architects, let loose to redraw Lisbon’s skyline and cityscape. Some are chefs, drawn by cheap rents and inspired by the lusty flavors of Portugal’s former colonies as much as by modernist European cuisine. There are DJs, designers, activists, artists, and, yes, growing numbers of expats, lured by the promise of golden visas. They gather in the clubs and galleries and tascas of Bairro Alto and Alvalade until late into the night, united by a common cause: to make the most of Lisbon’s moment, and their own.

Why wouldn’t they? Warm, welcoming, and without a dull corner, the city is as easy to explore as it is impossible to navigate. Those epic hills are hell on the knees but heaven for the senses; one can get properly drunk off the scent of jasmine and orange blossoms, the clanging of church and trolley bells, the explosion of violet jacarandas in spring. It’s also an exceptionally good value. A knockout four-course tasting at Boi Cavalo costs less than a half-decent breakfast in London. Indeed, Lisbon’s highlights are often found low to the ground: Peer into a dingy fluorescent-lit barbershop and you’ll glimpse the most gorgeous azulejo tiles you’ve ever seen. I’ve returned to Lisbon four times in eight years, and am about to head back yet again, because like most insufferable romantics — like you, perhaps — I can’t get enough of the place.

So whether you’re here for your first visit or your 10th, Further has your back, with this locally sourced guide to Lisbon’s bright spots. Needless to say, we don’t cover everything — we cover the best things, the singular experiences you’ll find only here. Isn’t that, after all, what you came for?
—P.J.L.

Further’s well-traveled friends and contributors share their favorites

Shopping in Lisbon is both a preview of future design trends and a glimpse into a colorful artisanal past: hand-stitched leather gloves, colorfully labeled sardine cans, regally styled porcelain. Credit Catarina Portas with helping spur the craze for such heritage “Made in Portugal” goods. As a young reporter, she became enamored with vintage products sold in traditional shops with their original packaging. Portas envisioned a market for these near-forgotten brands in rapidly globalizing Portugal. In 2007 she opened the first A Vida Portuguesa boutique in a former perfume factory in Chiado, stocking its worn wooden shelves with a trove of classic and contemporary Portuguese products, each with museum-like descriptions of its provenance. There were exquisitely scented soaps from Claus Porto; powerfully minty Couto toothpaste; cozy wool sweaters from local label La Paz; ceramic swallows cast in molds made in 1891. The rest is history. Her latest venture, Depozito, focuses on products by contemporary artisans (and a fabulous collection of early-20th-century Portuguese travel and advertising posters) in a former foundry in Intendente. Portas spoke with Further about her motivations, the city she loves, and the indelible legacy of the handmade.

“I worked as a journalist for two decades, and during that time I saw that traditional Portuguese products — some having been an integral part of our daily routine for generations — were vanishing. I decided to delve deeper by researching the origins and provenance of such products, and the history of the factories and artisans that produced them. Meanwhile, I was also considering how we could introduce them to a younger generation. We had to ask hard questions: Are these items truly high-quality? If so, why do we tend to favor foreign-made products over nearly identical ones made in Portugal? And how does this impact our local communities? Our belief — which became our motto — was that ‘objects can tell extraordinary stories about people.’ So we gathered as many stories as we could, from all over Portugal.”

“Knowing a product’s backstory can change how you see it. We had the opportunity to work with Confiança, a soap factory in Braga that’s operated since 1894. When we visited, they still had collections of old packaging paper dating back to the 1920s, written in French — because at that time soap was considered a luxury product, and luxury was associated with Paris. But the soap was sold in Portugal! In fact the design had changed several times. During the monarchy, Confiança soaps were emblazoned with the king’s crest; after the 1910 uprising, this was replaced by symbols of the revolution. It’s fascinating — you can trace 130 years of Portuguese history through the packaging of a humble bar of soap.”

“It’s true that many of our artisans now use computers for certain tasks, while relying on handcrafting techniques for others. Even with advancements in AI technology, it’s often necessary to use manual processes alongside automated ones. You learn the importance of balance. When one side becomes too dominant, the other needs to step up and maintain equilibrium.”
—M.A.

At the end of my street in downtown Lisbon, a small bar opens only on Fridays and Saturdays. The owner, a Portuguese of Cape Verdean descent, has a handmade clothing and jewelry store on a nearby block, and felt the neighborhood lacked an informal meeting place, where neighbors might come to gather over a drink or two and listen to live music. So he opened one himself.

On a recent night, I barely managed to get a seat. The room was jammed. In the corner of the bar a Greek man strummed plaintive tunes on an old guitar. Two Scottish friends got up to sing and play harmonica, then an American woman sang a folk song. A wizened Portuguese man, encouraged by a few glasses of brandy, tried his hand at a fado. Finally the bar’s owner performed some enchanting Cape Verdean mornas. Most of the performers had met for the first time that night.

Lisbon is like this. It has always been like this. A point of passage, unexpected encounters, the crossing of cultures.

It was like this in the 15th and 16th centuries, when Terreiro do Paço was filled with the aroma of imported cloves, cassia, nutmeg, and ginger. It was like this in the 1930s and ‘40s, when European Jews fleeing the war waited in the cafés of Rossio for the opportunity to sail to America. It was like this in the 1970s, when thousands of Portuguese returned — and many more newcomers arrived — from the former colonies in Africa. And it’s like this today, as Lisbon’s crooked streets fill increasingly with travelers, more and more of them Americans; with wealthy Brazilians who bought houses here; with not-so-wealthy Brazilians who, with unparalleled friendliness, wait on the tables of terrace cafés; and with French expats who moved to Lisbon to open art galleries or clothing boutiques or bakeries.

Cosmopolitan, no doubt. But if the bar at the end of my street seems a paragon of diversity, there remains a clear barrier between the Lisbon of expatriates and the Lisbon of the Portuguese. Sometimes these parallel circuits intersect, but more often they keep separate — not for lack of will, but due to a natural mismatch. The verve and ambition of young foreigners set loose in a new city contrasts with the traditional reticence and caution of the Portuguese.

Food remains an obvious meeting point. Lisbon embraces far-flung cuisines with gusto, from Korean to Armenian (the latest trend). Natural-wine bars are proliferating, such as Viagem das Horas, in Arroios, started by a Portuguese of African origin.

While Chiado and other central neighborhoods rapidly gentrify, as rents outpace local incomes, longtime residents look for other areas to eat, play, and live — a phenomenon taking hold in other European capitals as well. The upside is that, across the city, aging and overlooked neighborhoods are beginning to rejuvenate. Slowly, we’ve rediscovered places like Graça and Benfica and, above all, good old classic Alvalade, which in the 1960s was modern, then stopped being so, and now is filled with all manner of interesting projects: art galleries such as Vera Cortês and Appleton; restaurants like Adega Solar Minhoto and Sem Nome and Isco.

Long-abandoned spaces are returning to life. In Marvila, the beautiful old wine warehouses of Abel Pereira da Fonseca have been reclaimed and restored by the 8 Marvila project, where an icon of Bairro Alto’s alternative culture, Galeria Zé dos Bois, has planted a flag, alongside several shops embracing the principles of recycling and reuse. Nearby, the indoor-outdoor gastropub Musa attracts a generation of diners uninterested in the Michelin contenders of Lisbon’s “noble” quarters. Further up the river, the food and cultural space Manja Marvila dedicates one night a month to exploring Lisbon’s African connections, both culinary and otherwise. Here, again, the smell of spices lingers in the air, mingling with the sound of Cape Verdean mornas and coladeiras. And that, too, is very good.

Twenty minutes by taxi or metro from central Lisbon, the resoundingly Portuguese enclave of Alvalade was the result of smart urban planning in the 1940s: a picturesque mix of low-rise residential buildings, human-scaled streets and quiet lanes, and ample green space. In the ensuing decades, Alvalade evolved more organically while retaining its quiet, easygoing charm — and today its lively shops, cafés, and restaurants make it one of the city’s top neighborhoods for exploring. Here, and in our Lisbon Google Map, are some of the highlights.
—M.A.

The sublime graphic design of Portuguese tinned fish labels is worth a whole coffee-table book — hell, a whole library of coffee-table books. We’ll leave it at this: Has any country mastered the art of packaging quite like the Portuguese? And might these masterworks be too beautiful to pry open and eat? The answer to both questions is No. Below, a few of our favorite tins. And once you’re done looking, you should absolutely eat them.
—P.J.L.

My all-time favorite Lisbon lunch place is actually across the river in Almada, at the far, far end of a looooong riverfront promenade. I’d say “run don’t walk,” but you should definitely walk, all the way from the Cacilhas ferry stop, nice and slow, past the crumbling warehouses (some just walls and no roof), resplendent graffiti murals, and rusted anchorages along the Tagus. Eventually you’ll see the marigold-checked tablecloths announcing your arrival at Ponto Final (meaning The End, which it is). If you’re lucky — or have booked ahead — you might nab a spot outside, where waves slap at the embankment and tables sit precariously close to the water’s edge.

You’ll need sardines, either grilled or in escabeche. Piripiri prawns. And the monkfish stew, arroz de tamboril, thick with rice and meaty chunks of fish and seasoned with chiles, garlic, and coriander. Some cod fritters. Maybe an octopus salad? The waiter will offer a €16 bottle of branco seco from José Maria da Fonseca. It’s not “good,” this wine, but it’s exactly right.

Peek into the dimly lit kitchen inside and you’ll see a trio of Mozambican, Cape Verdean, and Angolan ladies in head wraps stirring enormous, burbling stew pots over flame. Back outside, Almada kids play on the tiny adjacent beach. Have an espresso, a ginjinha or two. Take it easy. No one’s rushing. Linger until the sun slips behind the towering cliffs above, and when you’ve finally tired of those epic views, ask the staff for a taxi to take you back across the bridge into town. Later, at some point, you might actually get hungry for dinner.
—P.J.L.

Miguel Andrade is a Lisbon-based writer and photographer committed to sharing Portugal’s rich and diverse culinary heritage with the world. His writing has appeared in the New York Times, Bon Appétit, and Esquire.

Alexandra Prado Coelho was born and raised in Lisbon, traveled the world as a reporter for the foreign desk at Portugal’s daily Público, and now works for the same newspaper as a food writer. She is co-author of a book about the iconic Cervejaria Ramiro.

Peter J. Frank is Further’s Deputy Editor.

Peter Jon Lindberg is cofounder and Editor-in-Chief of Further.

Nilou Motamed is cofounder and Director of Inspiration for Further.

Adam Sachs, the former Editor-in-Chief of Saveur, is a three-time James Beard Foundation Award winner and the director of Silversea’s S.A.L.T. (Sea and Land Taste) program.