Travel writing never feels like work to me. And when you acquire the research skills that go with the job, it boosts your enjoyment of a place tremendously. In fact, research often leads me to local places where few tourists go—and I think that’s much more fun.

Take the last AWAI travel writer’s workshop I taught at. One after-hour’s hangout was a gay rodeo bar in Denver. I wasn’t alone—four adventurous attendees (male and female) came too. But they probably wouldn’t have known about its hidden-from-view terrace if not for my research—and my reprobate habits.

I mean that habit. Although I realize smoking is a contentious issue, some of us refuse to give up. But standing outside on a wintry night isn’t appealing. So…fast-track back to my recent Lisbon trip.

It’s 9.40 p.m. and I’m about to ring the doorbell of what appears to be a private house in the Bairro Alto neighborhood. So the host understands I’m not some tourist who’ll make trouble, I light up.

This is a restaurant with a difference: one where you can’t just wander in. Seeing the permanently closed door, you’d probably walk past Snob (178 Rua do Seculo). There’s nothing snobby about it, but the door remains shut to those not in the know.

I found it through Internet sleuthery. After discovering most downtown Lisbon restaurants are now smoke-free, I obtained a list of locations onde os fumadores sao benvindos. (Rough translation: lepers welcome.)

The name Bairro Alto means “upper neighborhood,” and Lisboites aren’t kidding. Its perpendicular streets have much in common with a step-exercise workout designed by a sadist. The easy access route is with Elevador da Gloria. Since 1885, this tram-like funicular has creaked up the hill from downtown’s Praca Restauradores. Tickets are 1.40 euro ($2).

You’re deposited into an atmospheric maze of lamp lit alleys patrolled by slinky cats and fly-posting students. There are dozens of poky bars and clubs that will later erupt with blues, jazz, and fado—Portugal’s homegrown brand of musical melancholy that sings of loss, exile, and sadness.

Back on Rua do Seculo, an elderly man opens the door and ushers us into his back parlor. The reason why the door is locked is that he wants to personally welcome guests. Our host doesn’t speak much English, and my Portuguese amounts to about 20 words, but no matter. Like the bottle of red Tejo wine, my steak is fabulous. When the bill arrives, it’s 29.50 euro ($42) for two of us.

It’s busy for a weekday winter night with every table occupied. (Each has an over-sized ashtray.) People are still ringing the doorbell at 11.00 p.m. In one corner, there’s a group of argumentative, cigar-puffing fellows surrounded by numerous bottles of vinho. It’s supposedly a journalists’ hangout—exactly my kind of place.

So is Catacumbas, a jazz and blues bar hidden down a skinny Bairro Alto alley called Travessa da Agua da Flor. Blues bands on Tuesday nights; red wine 2 euro ($2.80) a glass; a clientele dressed in head-to-toe black. And don’t worry about the smoke—we’re all in the back room. But it’s not for early-to-beds. Live music doesn’t start until almost midnight.

Editor’s note: If you want the inside track on where Steenie is going next, you can follow her on Facebook and Twitter. Be warned—these are uncensored!