The moon's out early.

We arrived in Portugal on Saturday and, having spent the majority of our first day by the pool, decided to hunt out a good meal on Sunday evening. In the hotel guide, there was a list of different recommended restaurants - one that caught our eye was 'Chicken George' which was a fifteen minute walk away and served "simple chicken dishes". So we set off walking and a whole fifty minutes later arrived at a sign that pointed to the restaurant. 'Chicken George' ended up being someone's house, the occupants of which were having a really loud domestic. I was all ready to just walk back to the hotel for a toasty or whatever was on offer but my boyfriend persuaded me to go in. We were taken through what was essentially a living room and out into a sort of tiled courtyard complete with strange stone slabs (similar to something I'd expect to see in a morgue) and hard wooden benches. There was just one other couple sitting awkwardly in a corner, obviously English also. Without showing us a menu, our waitress asked us if we wanted chicken and, bemusedly, we agreed. The chicken was ok. Very greasy and bony but it sort of did the job. While we ate two cats did their business next to our table - which sort of summed up the experience. After refusing dessert ("we have Magnum or Solero") we walked past what can only be described as a shed in which a very old and very sweaty man was frying chicken on an open stove. I assume this was George. I took this photo from our balcony when we got back to our apartment before rolling into bed with a stomach ache.