Marcelo Rebelo de Sousa usually takes a seat at the back counter. Mário Soares always preferred the one closest to the entrance. The former mayor of Lisbon, Krus Abecassis, often ended his nights here, holding informal meetings with his chief of staff during the 1980s, when he governed the city. It was thanks to him that the snack bar’s closing time was extended to 3:30 a.m. When he directed O Independente, after locking in a bombshell headline, Paulo Portas would sometimes come to Galeto for a final supper.
From politicians, lawyers, journalists, and artists (and now, increasingly, tourists) to sex workers, pimps, dealers, bohemians, and night owls of every sort, generations of Lisboetas have begun—or ended—their nights in this Avenida da República snack bar, whose longevity feels timeless, though it only turned 59 on July 29.
Where else in Lisbon can you still get chicken soup with giblets, a prego, a Bife à Galeto, or even ox tongue with mashed potatoes at three in the morning? Not to mention the famous Combinados, the brioche hamburgers, the steak tartare, or the mythical banana split? (The menu is long and entirely available until closing time, with prices rising slightly after 10 p.m.) We dare say—nowhere else.
The traditional restaurant was recently listed among the 101 Top Restaurants in Lisbon by ImmigrantFoodie.
And now, it may soon gain recognition as a site of national cultural heritage, following an announcement published in the Diário da República.
The night ends at 3:30 a.m.—or perhaps begins again at 7:30, when Galeto reopens and the day starts for those less devoted to nocturnal living. During the four hours it closes, the work doesn’t stop. After the staff’s late-night meal comes the cleaning and the preparations for another day. Every day of the year—except May 1st, a concession to the revolution that endures.
A breath of fresh air
It all began on July 29, 1966—three days after Portugal’s defeat to England in the World Cup semi-finals at Wembley, and a week before the inauguration of the 25 de Abril Bridge. Galeto opened its doors at No. 14 Avenida da República, next to the elite Colombo pastry shop and across from the venerable Versailles café, a long-standing haunt of Lisbon’s well-heeled bourgeoisie who once populated the city’s Avenida Novas.
“A luxury restaurant has opened on Avenida da República. The establishment includes a snack bar with capacity for 125 people,” reported Diário de Lisboa on July 31, 1966, praising the new venue’s “ultra-modern lines” on “one of the city’s busiest arteries,” and calling it “a remarkable contribution to the country’s tourism development.” The paper gushed over its “beautiful facilities,” “extremely competent staff,” and a cost “of around ten thousand escudos”—twice the price of the building itself.
That’s according to Francisco Oliveira, Galeto’s current owner, who heard it from his father, António Oliveira—one of six founding partners, all Portuguese emigrants returning from Brazil, determined to bring modernity back to Lisbon.
Francisco, now nearly 70, was 13 when the restaurant opened and attended the launch party. “I’m in one of the photographs—I’ll show you,” he says. He took over in 2016 but prefers to stay behind the scenes.
“The six partners, including my father, were ambitious,” he recalls. “It was a breath of fresh air for Lisbon at the time, with an enormous impact on the city’s life.”
His father, from Água Longa near Santo Tirso, had lost his father at 11, started working in construction to support his mother and sister, and emigrated to Brazil at 24, already married with three children. Life smiled on him there—moving from transport into restaurants with fellow Portuguese expatriates.
“They built a small restaurant network in Rio de Janeiro, which went well, and decided to expand back home,” Francisco says. And home, of course, meant Lisbon—the rest of the country was “just landscape.”
From Brazil, they brought the name Galeto—after a popular Italian-style grilled young chicken—and the ambition to introduce modern cosmopolitan dining to conservative Lisbon. They turned the emerging European-style snack bar into a place of luxury, evident in the décor by architects Vítor Palla and Joaquim Bento D’Almeida—designs still intact today—and in the streamlined, assembly-line-style service that remains unchanged since opening day.
The grilled chicken didn’t exactly win over Lisbon’s elite clientele, but the name stuck. “Otherwise, the layout has been the same for 59 years,” Francisco says. “Downstairs, the restaurant had 78 seats and silver cutlery to match the ‘luxury’ plaque on the door, but it naturally became more democratic over time.”
The efficient labyrinth
The pandemic hit Galeto hard, forcing the downstairs dining room to open only for events or large bookings, though it remains fully equipped. Still, the space retains its warm glow—walls in soft black and gold, polished wooden counters forming a maze where only the willing get lost, guided by waiters who act like Ariadne’s thread, leading diners to safe harbor. Even the salt, pepper, sauce bottles, and counter-mounted menus remain arranged with ritual precision.
Everything—from layout to function—was designed by Palla and D’Almeida. They are as much a part of Galeto’s identity as the staff themselves. The restaurant employs around 130 people today, though it once had 150, all part of a machine fine-tuned for efficiency.
“With the layout we have, the counter chefs and waiters never need to leave their stations—plates, cutlery, bread, everything’s within reach. Food arrives by lift, dirty dishes go down, clean ones come up—it’s perfectly designed,” explains Filipe Ferreira, Galeto’s operations manager for the past nine months.
“Staffing is our biggest challenge,” Francisco admits. “With these hours and this scale, every position requires three people to cover all shifts. It’s a complex operation.” Like his father—who worked here daily until his death at 78—Francisco feels the weight of responsibility: “More than a hundred families depend on this business.”
That “extremely competent staff,” praised by Diário de Lisboa in 1966, is still a hallmark. Some employees have been here for 40 years. “We have a lady who came from the old Monte Carlo café when it closed in the 1990s. She’s still here. And Mr. Mário has been with us for four decades. People wait just to sit at his counter,” says Francisco.
Who is Mário, the one everyone seeks?
That Mário is Mário Jorge Gonçalves, 55, head waiter, lifelong Sporting fan, born in Lisbon’s São Mamede, raised in Calçada de Santana, and practically raised at Galeto too. His father was a cook here. “Mum used to give me 25 escudos for the tram so I could meet Dad after work,” he recalls. Sometimes he’d stop at Colombo for a pastry and juice—before it became Portugal’s first McDonald’s in 1991.
“When McDonald’s opened in Lisbon, the real story wasn’t that it opened—it was that it opened next to Galeto,” Mário laughs. Nine years earlier, in 1982, aged 15, after a summer of football and music, he’d joined Galeto as a busboy. “I had school hours, lunch break, and earned twelve escudos—my first salary.” He’s now doubled his father’s tenure.
He works nights—8 p.m. to 3:30 a.m. “Winter’s fine, but in summer I feel robbed—by the time I go to bed, it’s daylight. Still, the show must go on—as Tony Carreira says (it’s Tony Carreira, right?).”
Talkative and sharp, Mário’s chatter is as much a Galeto fixture as the cutlery. Regulars often wait for seats at his counter. Between orders, he riffs on politics, sports, or whatever’s in the news. “I don’t like the world passing me by. I talk to clients, especially the familiar ones. On election nights, it’s funny to see the faces of the losers and winners—you can see it in their eyes: it’s our turn now!”
He’s seen generations come and go—customers who once came as children now bring their own. “Some swear they’ve been coming here for 50 years—even before we’d hit 40!”
Mário’s stories are endless. He remembers when the red public phone stood where the cigarette machine is now—always busy until mobiles arrived. He recalls the display cases—now filled with photos of Galeto’s 50th anniversary—that once hosted paid advertising with waiting lists.
He remembers Krus Abecassis arriving close to closing time, ordering croquettes—then a rarity. It was that same mayor who secured Galeto’s late-night hours, confirmed both by Mário and Francisco Oliveira. “Back then, many cafés closed at two, but thanks to Krus Abecassis, who always came late, we extended to 3:30. There was huge demand—Galeto became the nightspot,” says Francisco.
“It was the meeting point,” Mário adds. “People came here before or after the movies at Monumental or Quarteto. Bullfighting nights at Campo Pequeno meant a full house too—just like concerts or football celebrations at Marquês de Pombal today.”
Galeto is “a world of its own,” he says—a sui generis case in Portuguese dining. “We serve 20 hours a day. I’m from before ‘brunch’ was a thing, and we already had brutal breakfasts.”
The Combinados—especially No. 8—and the hamburgers are staples. “I remember Mr. Francisco’s father fuming when McDonald’s opened, because our burgers were legendary.”
The show must go on
For Mário, Galeto should have public service status. “I’m joking—but honestly, what we do is a public service. You’re alone, not feeling great, need a hot soup—where else can you go at 3:30 a.m.? No one else stays open that late anymore.”
He’s seen men waiting here while their wives gave birth at Maternidade Alfredo da Costa, “before mobile phones existed.”
Each night ends with Mário walking home through Campo Mártires da Pátria around 4 a.m., stopping at the statue of Dr. Sousa Martins. “I’m a devotee—I always ask him to look after my mum.”
After the Revolution, Galeto changed too. “Before April 25th, women couldn’t come in alone at night, and men needed ties,” Mário says. “We even kept spare ties to lend.”
Then came the democratic boom. The 1980s were Galeto’s golden age, recalls Francisco Oliveira. “Lisbon opened up completely, and Galeto became a central hub for daytime business and nightlife alike.”
The new century brought challenges—metro works, economic crises, and finally COVID-19, which hit hardest at night-time venues like this. “When my sister took over in 2007, things were already tough from the metro works. Then came the crash—and she held it together heroically,” says Francisco. He took over in 2016, balancing it with his career in aeronautics.
“I used to criticize my father for being here from morning to night—now I do the same,” he admits.
He feared for the business again during Lisbon’s “Central Axis” redesign in 2017, led by Mayor Fernando Medina, which cut parking in half. “I thought it would kill us. But I was wrong—it revitalized the whole area.”
Today, the avenue thrives as a boulevard of hotels and restaurants, and Galeto is once again in full swing. “We’re working very well, day and night,” Francisco says.
Tourists now make up a growing share of clients. “Some arrive on late flights and find Galeto is the only place open—they come once out of necessity, then return every night,” notes Filipe Ferreira.
The breakfast service—around since the 1960s—also draws them in. Francisco has modernized the menu cautiously. “I removed the liver and ox tongue once, but had to bring them back. They’re not bestsellers, but they’re traditions. Even chef Avillez came in the other day—and what did he order? Liver.”
Other icons remain untouchable: the prego, the Bife à Galeto, and the house-made ice creams, crafted from recipes brought by an Italian specialist decades ago.
For Francisco, that’s what it’s all about: “Quality makes the difference—and stays in memory. Once, on a train from Paris, a Portuguese woman overheard me say I owned Galeto. She said, ‘You have the best prego in the world. Every time I go to Lisbon, I eat one.’”
Lisbon isn’t Galeto. But Galeto is Lisbon—a crossroads of counters where you can always take the same path, or discover new ones. For 59 years. Forever.
Catarina Pires
É jornalista e mãe do João e da Rita. Nasceu há 50 anos, no Chiado, no Hospital Ordem Terceira, e considera uma injustiça que os pais a tenham arrancado daquele que, tem a certeza, é o seu território, para a criarem em Paço de Arcos, terra que, a bem da verdade, adora, sobretudo por causa do rio a chegar ao mar mesmo à porta de casa. Aos 30, a injustiça foi temporariamente corrigida – viveu no Bairro Alto –, mas a vida – e os preços das casas – levaram-na de novo, desta vez para a outra margem. De Almada, sempre uma nesga de Lisboa, o vértice central (se é que tal coisa existe) do seu triângulo afetivo-geográfico.
O jornalismo que a Mensagem de Lisboa faz une comunidades,
conta histórias que ninguém conta e muda vidas.
Dantes pagava-se com publicidade,
mas isso agora é terreno das grandes plataformas.
Se gosta do que fazemos e acha que é importante,
se quer fazer parte desta comunidade cada vez maior,
apoie-nos com a sua contribuição: