Journey through Brazil

If you want to understand Bahia, start with the food. In Salvador, every bite tells a story—a story of survival, of cultural fusion, of resistance and joy. You don’t just eat in Salvador de Bahia. You listen. You learn. You feel.
This vibrant city on Brazil’s northeastern coast was once the country’s first capital and the primary port for the transatlantic slave trade. Millions of Africans were brought to Bahia from West Africa, and with them came their knowledge, their gods, their music—and their recipes. Over centuries, this forced diaspora gave birth to a uniquely rich culinary identity. Afro-Brazilian traditions blended with Portuguese colonial influences and Indigenous ingredients, creating a cuisine as complex and beautiful as the people who call Bahia home.
On my first afternoon in Salvador, I found myself in Rio Vermelho, drawn by the scent of palm oil frying under the hot sun. A Baiana in flowing white lace stood behind a street cart, molding and frying rounds of dough with practiced grace. She handed me my first acarajé—a crispy, golden fritter made from mashed black-eyed peas, split open and filled with vatapá (a creamy paste of bread, shrimp, peanuts, and coconut milk), fresh salad, and dried shrimp.
It was hot—fiery even—but perfectly balanced. The richness of the vatapá, the salty shrimp, and the crunch of the shell all sang together. As I coughed through the first bite, the Baiana grinned and handed me a cool Guaraná. No words were needed. I was hooked.
Later, in a cozy family-run spot tucked into the backstreets of Santo Antônio, I tasted moqueca de peixe. It’s more than a fish stew—it’s a dish that encapsulates Bahia’s soul. Coconut milk, lime, tomatoes, cilantro, onions, and dendê oil (a bright, earthy red palm oil brought from Africa) come together in a slow simmer. The fish was tender, the broth rich and aromatic, served bubbling in a traditional clay pot alongside rice, farofa, and pirão (a thick, comforting porridge made from manioc flour and fish broth).
I learned that moqueca, like so many Bahian dishes, is often cooked and shared communally, especially during religious festivals and family gatherings. Food in Bahia is deeply spiritual, often linked to Candomblé, an Afro-Brazilian religion where offerings to the orixás (deities) are made with love and intention.
Salvador’s street food scene is alive and delicious. Vendors sell cocadas (chewy coconut sweets), grilled cheese skewers dusted with oregano, and pé-de-moleque (a Brazilian-style peanut brittle). I tried abará, acarajé’s softer cousin, steamed in banana leaves and rich with the same West African heritage.
Food isn’t just nourishment here—it’s resistance. During slavery, enslaved women sold street food to buy their freedom. Today, that legacy continues in every Baiana in white, standing proudly behind her cart, preserving recipes passed down through generations.
On my last day, I visited the Mercado Modelo, a bustling market near the harbor, where smells of spice and grilled meats mixed with the scent of the sea. I picked up small jars of dendê oil and bottles of homemade hot sauce. They were tokens, yes—but also symbols of something deeper. Of a culture that endures, thrives, and feeds the soul.
In Bahia, food is history, resistance, ritual, and love. You don’t just taste it—you experience it. And once you’ve shared a meal in Salvador, you carry a piece of its rhythm and warmth with you, long after the last bite.