Every pastelaria in Portugal has these in the display case. Right there next to the natas and the rissóis, sitting under the glass, waiting for someone to point and say "um folhado, faz favor." One folhado, please. Usually followed by "e uma bica." And an espresso.

This is the snack that sustained generations of Portuguese workers. Factory workers, fishermen, office clerks. A mid-morning bite between breakfast and lunch, something to hold you over, something with enough fat and smoke and salt to remind you that life has pleasures even on a Tuesday.

The genius is in the simplicity. Good chouriço does all the work. You're just wrapping it in pastry and applying heat. The fat from the sausage renders as it bakes, soaking into all those buttery layers, making the pastry around it richer than any pastry has a right to be. The outside shatters. The inside is smoky and soft.

At Mesa da Avó, we serve these at the start of the evening, while people are still arriving, still finding their seats. Something to eat standing up, napkin in hand, catching the flakes before they hit the floor. That's how folhados are meant to be eaten. Not sitting properly at a table. Standing in a pastelaria. Or leaning against a counter in a Portuguese kitchen, sneaking one before anyone else notices they're ready.