Porto for The Food Pilgrims: a Friday-to-Monday weekend

The restored iron market: tripe, cheese from the Serra, salt cod stacked like planks; the fish counters close early, so come straight from the station.

Four glasses of the oldest house's colheitas with the chocolate they pair them to, at a counter across the river before dinner.

A tiled tasca where the daily board runs to roast kid and bacalhau à Brás, house wine in jugs and the bill under thirty.

The region's fish market at its Saturday peak, sardines and scabbard fish off the night's boats; the braziers on Rua Heróis de França light at noon.

A morning class in a Baixa townhouse: caldo verde, bacalhau and a pastel de nata you take full credit for at lunch.

Vasco Coelho Santos's sixteen-seat counter, a tasting menu of northern produce cooked in front of you; the serious dinner, booked a month out.

The fishing village across the river where the women grill the morning's catch on the quay; buy the sardines, pay for the charcoal.

The francesinha where it is done best: pressed bread, four meats, a fried egg and the beer-and-tomato sauce; the queue moves.

A narrow Ribeira tavern of tripas à moda do Porto and vinho verde from clay jugs, the dish the city is nicknamed for, done the honest way.

Breakfast where the market porters eat: a slice of pão de ló and a bica at the 1896 counter before the stalls across the road open.

The lodge tour ends in the tasting room with a twenty-year tawny and a view back at the city; book the first slot.

The pork-shoulder sandwich with Serra cheese eaten at the counter, the last thing to taste before the airport metro from Bolhão.