Late at night in Lisbon's ramshackle Alfama neighborhood, we crowd into a modest café. Black-and-white photos of fado singers from the '50s and murky album jackets decorate the walls. The waiter drops a plate of fish and a pitcher of cheap cask wine on my table and — like a Portuguese Ed Sullivan — proudly introduces tonight's star.
She struts in from the kitchen, blood-red lipstick, big hair, a tragic shawl over her black mournful dress — but the plunging neckline promises there's life after death. She strikes a pose before the mandolins... Read more
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