Rei da Poncha, Funchal, Madeira

How to enjoy Madeira's symbolic cocktail whilst dodging pigeons and tourists.

Away from the dark of the rambling, wood-beamed cellars and attics of the ancient wine lodges, a different kind of Madeirense tradition can be found in the bright side streets off Avenida do Mar. No dipsological study of Funchal is complete without comparing the two, so on a recent Thursday, a short walk led our tourists out of the darkness and towards the brightness of the street, the bar and the drinks. To find oneself outside Rei da Poncha at 4pm on a sun-dappled Thursday is to arrive at a crossroads – part literal across from the subtleties of CBDWEED and the bar’s own gift shop; part metaphorical. The stubby alley hosts a mix of plastic and plywood tables covered in peanut shells, and an international collection of visitors perch on squat wicker stools. Next door, a semi-shuttered Farmácia can’t decide whether it dispenses medicine or spirits. The shared tables in the alleyway bear both names. Pigeons flock to the nuts the second a table is vacated, and loitering tourists follow swiftly behind. A swipe of the wrist clears the table, but the pigeons remain, pecking at the cobblestones for peanut shards, brushing your ankles in their agitated excitement.

Two American tourists beckon a waiter. Traditionalists, perhaps, or simply unprepared for the full expression of capitalist choice their homeland has exported to the whole world, they’re visibly stunned by the cornucopia of flavours available. Briefly (and loudly) baffled, they ask the waiter to express a preference: “Mandarin” he shrugs. They comply. The regional serve in these parts is a healthy dose of rhum agricole – the local cane syrup firewater tempered with fresh lemon and orange juice, their peels and an imprecise measure of honey. Served up or over ice it is surprisingly mellow with notes of cheap fruit juice. For the committed, there is the Fisherman: “It’s the most sour and the strongest” our waiter assures us – a local cold and flu preventative, or the cure for a cold winter’s night at sea. Here on a warm summer afternoon, it is sour like flat Fanta Limón, with a kick that would take out a cold, even if you’d been catching scabbardfish all night. More tourists arrive, circle and swoop for tables. Much like the pigeons, although the latter don’t sit with backpacks still on and cameras around their necks. Turnover is quick. This is not a seating arrangement that encourages the long stay, and the Madeirense are nowhere to be seen. Each has their own preferred recipe, their own preferred bar. Or maybe it’s just that they leave the one with its own gift shop to the tourists. Inside, behind the counter, the caralhino is spun with contempt for the juice, the pitchers pirouette in the hands of the bartenders and the nuts just keep coming. Poncha all round. Any way you like it. The only contrarians were a tank-topped couple from Eastern Europe, nursing two white wines. Confused, but unmoved even as the peanut shards hit the cobbles and Chicagoans swooped to appropriate stools. (Rampa do Cidrão 147, Funchal, Madeira, @reidaponcha).