This could be a story about how when we went to Portugal we ate terrific piri piri chicken. Except it’s not. Lisbon in late June is not for the faint-hearted. It’s searingly hot, the kind of heat where the pavement seems to warp from the beating beams of glare. The air is soupish and the only place you want to be is in the water, or the shade doing nothing more energetic than chasing stray drips off an ice cream. I’m sure if we looked properly we might have found the quarter of chicken, charred and blistered with peppers, oregano, citrus and acids that we hoped for. Except we didn’t. On our final day we resorted to eating salt cod with a side dish of mild disappointment. It wasn’t until we returned home to London that I realised we didn’t need to be in Portugal to have the chicken we dreamed of. All we needed were some spices, some patience – and a strong pair of scissors.