Author: zora

Summer pics

Still haven’t dealt with sea urchins, but in the meantime, Fotaq has our photos from Lyon and Mytilene.

The Lyon series unfortunately does not show the three-foot-tall gag pepper mill we endured for one dinner, nor the pounds and pounds of pain au chocolat consumed (nor, for that matter, Estela’s catchy song entitled “Pain au Chocolat”). Oh, and for the record, that’s not my kid.

The Mytilene series starts with photos from the cafeineon (coffe house) in Megalochori, a little mountain village with delicious spring water. We wouldn’t have really noticed the water, except that it was all the sisters who ran the cafeineon could talk about, in between slipping us plates of sausages, french fries, salad, and some very intense cheese. So afterward, we did walk over to the springs, and they were lovely and refreshing, and I wish I had some of that water right now.

As for the lunch, we were afraid to thoroughly clean our plates, lest they come dish us up more. See, we hadn’t ordered any of it, and we knew there’d be a struggle over the bill when we left–and not the way you think. Because of course they’d insist we shouldn’t pay them anything, and we’d say that’s ridiculous, and then Peter would buy the guys at the table some ouzo, and sneak in a few euros extra, and the ladies would say OK, fine, and we’d still go away with tears in our eyes that these total strangers were willing to spot us lunch.

So, there were a few snippets of cheese and ends of bread on one plate, and the one woman comes over to clean up, and she sees this. And she gets a napkin and ties all the cheese and bread bits up in a little bundle, and presses it into my hand. Aw. They even do takeout.

And I won’t link directly to this, but for the curious: photos of our wedding in Eressos, also on Fotaq. Nowhere near the hijinks of last year’s baptism, in part because the priest’s ne’er-do-well sons weren’t there, doing silly dances in their swimsuits. Word on the street was that they were grounded for setting their friend on fire. It’s hard to be the priest’s sons, I guess.

Tasty Link: The Ethicurean

I, too, am a little disappointed that when I say “tasty link,” I’m not talking about sausage. But the savvy Ethicurean makes me feel a little better. They have a cute picture of a pig in a bib. They have a clever acronym for eating responsibly. And they have good newsy bits about eating responsibly (this, so far, seems to be their major usefulness).

It also again makes me envious of all those lucky foodie people cavorting out in San Francisco, where not a day goes by that something delicious isn’t coming into perfect ripeness. Of course eating locally is much lovelier when you don’t have to subsist on turnips for half the year.

Some pics from Greece: overordering vs. portion panic

Still not the lovely sea urchin ones (have to get those off Peter’s computer), but over on Fotaq, there’s a little indication of what we did all day, every day. (And if you squint at the background, you can kind of get an idea of what a nice place it is.)

The back story to all these goofy pictures is this: Around Day 4 of our sojourn in Skala Eressou, Peter’s dad started getting a little concerned about how much we were eating, and, specifically, how much we were ordering at dinner every night. In the grand scheme of things, half a grilled fish going uneaten is no great crime, but I could certainly empathize with Charlie as Peter would flag down the waiter for the fourth time and say, “Aaaaand we’ll have a plate of the…” (but in Greek).

When there are 17 people around a big long table, and everyone’s saying, “How ’bout some lamb chops? Some macaronia? More tzatziki!” it can get out of hand pretty easily, and it did always fill me with an abstract anxiety. People, we need a PLAN, I felt like saying, but by then it was already too late, and the random ordering had begun. In truth, we rarely ended up with way too much food, but there was a certain haphazardness to the meals that maybe could’ve been averted.

Part of the problem is that you never realize, until you’re in the middle of it, the flaw of ordering a variety of dishes to match the number of people at the table. Because then the dishes come, and really, there’s never going to be enough taramosalata on that plate to feed 20 people, and you realize this just as the taramosalata has started around the table in precisely the opposite direction from you. So, you give it up for lost and keep your eye on the next thing the waiter’s setting down.

And just like that, your dinner is ruined, because you’re having to strategize at the dinner table like the last-born in a Mormon family. “Portion panic,” as I believe Jessika dubbed it, sets in, and before you know it you’re hoarding and reaching, and sneaking the last bites of things, and slipping french fries under your plate for later (actually, I just thought of that now, but it’s kind of a good idea) and so on.

So, anyway, Charlie I guess saw this happening–plus the occasional unfinished fish–and tried to do something about it. But of course that backfired, because if you lean over to Peter and say, “Hey, don’t overorder,” of course Peter’s just going to roll his eyes and keep doing what he’s doing. It’s too late.

The overordering thing reached fever pitch the day of our wedding. After our super-express 40-minute speed-read ceremony, we all traipsed down the hill to the little meze joint we’d talked into opening in the afternoon just to feed us a little snicky-snack and a little ouzo.

But you can’t very well tell a Greek restaurateur, “We’ll be coming from a wedding,” and expect him to undercater, or even sensibly cater. And he didn’t grossly over-cater, but there was an almost comically endless stream of little plates arriving at the table–to the point where Charlie started saying, “Stop! Phot, make him stop!” And he did, briefly, stop the flow of skordalia, beets, deep-fried meatballs, super-funky bastirma, sausage bits, cold white beans, succulent little zucchini wedges…but then we realized, WHY would you want to go and do an idiotic thing like that? (It helped that we’d been drinking the raki, briefly mistaken for water by my mother, for a little bit.)

Yes, there was some tragic food waste that afternoon. You can’t save the soul of every little meatball–you just have to focus on the ones you have been able to help.

So, then, after Charlie went home, Peter and Andrew briefly tried to heed his cautionary words. And that’s how we got these photos.

Well said, Robert Reid: why be a guidebook writer?

Intrepid Lonely Planet writer Robert Reid has a great statement about the perils and pleasures of guidebook writing on his website (you’re looking for the page title ‘This Is Work’). Also check out his great “Moustache Blog” about his travels in Russia.

His thoughts on the influence of guidebook authors dovetails nicely with the current post on Killing Batteries, though Leif phrases it as “The sickening power of the guidebook author”.

Maybe it’s because these guys have both worked in super-sketchy Eastern Europe, or that they write for the company with the strongest name recognition in the budget-travel world, but I think they have more sickening power than I do. The words “Rough Guides” have never inspired any Mexican tourism professionals to fall to their knees and grovel, alas (although I have been told how beautiful I am on several occasions, which is quite nice). And the words “Moon Handbooks” have actually led to a door being slammed in my face and double-locked in Albuquerque, but I think that says a lot more about Albuquerque than it does about the publisher.

Aside from that little interlude, though, I have been treated with respect, but not outright fawning–and really, that’s ideal. Equally important, I’ve been given all kinds of weird gossip, advice and guidance–some of it spurious, but mostly useful and occasionally titillating.

See, most people can’t help themselves from revealing their little travel tips. In Taos, I happened upon a drunk man pondering the recent death of a friend on a dangerous curve over the river. He was in a very philosophical mood for a bit, but he turned practical when I happened to mention the work I was doing: “Hey, there’s a great secret waterfall up the road from Arroyo Seco…” he began, and he went on to give me precise mileage and landmarks. I didn’t have time to check it out, though, so his secret hangout spot with his old high-school buddy has not been revealed in the pages of Moon Santa Fe, Taos & Albuquerque.

And that’s why I do this job: I absolutely must give advice if someone asks. If I had found this guy’s secret waterfall, and it was super-cool, I would’ve had to tell the world. People always wonder how I walk that line: Do I “spoil” a place by revealing that I like it? I bet I have all kinds of little secret spots I never share with anyone…

Oh, gimme a break–of course I tell. That’s my job, and I’m such a know-it-all expert that it gratifies me no end to think I’m giving my readers the scoop.

How did I get to be like this? In grade school, of course, I was always the “I-know-I-know-I-know” kid with my hand in the air, but then I quit that in mid school when I realized people would like me better if I kept my mouth shut. I suppressed my answer urge for years, and then, just after college, I was given a fateful opportunity in Amsterdam: I was hired as the cafe operator/sandwich maker/welcome party at now-venerable Boom Chicago. At the time, Boom was in its second year, and it was supposedly part of my job to wrangle unsuspecting hungry tourists in to see the show. I was terrible at this. Sales is not my game. Part of the luring, though, was through my being friendly and giving tourist advice.

I’d been in Amsterdam for exactly two days when someone asked me if the Rijksmuseum was worth a visit or not. “Of course, but avoid the crowds by checking out the dollhouse section!” I must’ve read that in some other guidebook…or God was speaking through me. So, this happened on a daily basis, with me blithely giving advice about a city that I’d only just arrived in. I’d like to publicly apologize to all those people I directed toward the bike route in Amsterdam Noord by saying the path was really well marked. It wasn’t, I discovered when I finally went up there about a month into my stay. And those people may very well have wanted to come back to see the Boom Chicago show, but were probably just too damn lost to make it. So, a public apology to the Boom executives as well, although it’s kind of their fault for hiring me. But don’t worry–by the time I actually wrote a guidebook to Amsterdam, I really had visited everything and looked for bike-path signs.

Incidentally, one of the people I ended up being very friendly to that summer was a broke and exhausted writer for the Let’s Go guide to Europe. He publicly revealed this fact early in our conversation (“I’m writing for Let’s Go, and it totally sucks, and I’m totally broke and exhausted!” was kind of how it went). Then sales mode was quite easy: many free beers and lots of advice later, the author was already penning a draft review of Boom. The final writeup was several lines longer than the description of the Eiffel Tower. I never did check to see what he said about the bike route in Amsterdam Noord, but I always think of that guy when I’m tempted to gripe about my job to strangers while I’m on the road.

Looking back, I see it’s lucky I ended up in this job. Otherwise I’d be one of those annoying people who give you wrong directions, just because they don’t want to say they don’t know.

Kroket Watch 2006

There I was in Amsterdam, and I have to admit, I failed to eat a Love Kroket, even though I was personally alerted to a sales point by Chef Thorwald Voss himself.

But, um, the weather was cold. Which is not really a good excuse in Amsterdam, but there it is. Also, the sales point’s location did not look reachable by boat, which is also a lame excuse, since it’s perfectly reachable by bike or metro.

But in case anyone else has an opportunity to seek out the ultimate kroket: “Thor’s liefde: Croquette d’Amour” is on the menu at the absolutely great-looking ‘beach’ lounge Together, on the Gaasperplas. Apparently the sand was brought directly from Saint-Tropez?

And, ouch, note that the price has gone up to 7.50 euros. But I’d still pay that, for a little bite of kroket passion.

(Next up: the sea urchins! I promise.)

Back to France: the andouillette and me

Working my way backward through meals eaten, I’ll mention our sojourn in France first. After stuffing ourselves with amazingly good raspberries and peaches, as well as cheese fondue, in Geneva, we departed for Lyon with our college friend Chris and her family.

Seeing how our first visit to France on this trip was accidental, yet still yielded tasty food at the buffet of the stranded-air-travelers hotel, and this time we were visiting the real gastronomic heart of France on purpose, I had high hopes. The trip was also on short notice, so I quickly culled restaurant recommendations and names of local must-try dishes from reputable Internet sources like eGullet, as well as from the slimmest of French acquaintances.

The first night we headed out to the nearest recommendation to our hotel, La Machonnerie. It was August 1, so that very morning, apparently, the Vacation Rapture had happened. Vieux Lyon was empty, and so was the restaurant, except for an older couple with their dog.

When I expressed interest in trying the most traditional items, the friendly chef/host began to sell me in French, and I gave up trying to translate, and just put my faith in him. Chris leaned over and murmured, “That’s brains, you know.” What the heck–I’ve got nothing against brains, and if I’m going to eat them, I may as well eat them in France, right? I nodded and smiled at the chef.

As we neared the main course, anticipation–and jokes–were mounting at the table. Juan had gotten the hard sell on the tablier de sapeur, some special preparation of tripe. Fellow eaters who’d ordered based on what sounded good, rather than Lyon reputation, got their duck breasts and sausages and lentils. Juan’s plate arrived, looking like an innocuous bit of, essentially, tripe schnitzel. Finally my dish came, last, with great fanfare, ladled like a big cauliflower out of a cast iron pot of steaming broth. A beady-eyed crawdad sat next to it, egging me on with its little claws.

I was grossly full from my previous course of fried pig foot (the fat goes great on bread!). But I dug into my dish, surprised by the texture, and slightly puzzled by the crayfish broth, which didn’t seem like the most logical companion for veal brains. I managed to eat about half of my weird white orb, and then sat back, sweating, while everyone else chowed down on succulent duck breast, sausages, and incredibly savory lentils.

The next day, when we were in Les Halles, which had also experienced the Vacation Rapture, the one food shop that was open was selling shrink-wrapped quenelles, which is what I’d had the night before. They looked nothing like brains, and in fact seemed to contain some sort of seafood. And then right next to it was a big tub of the local specialty cervelles de canut, which is some cheese thing that I knew meant, literally, “silk-weaver’s brains.”

Oh. Duh. Cervelles. Quenelles. I’d spent a whole dinner thinking I was eating some exotic bit of animal, and really I was just hacking away at a giant fish dumpling.

So the next night, we go to another neighborhood joint. I’d read somewhere that Chez Bobosse was a reputable local producer of a Lyonnaise specialty called andouillette, so when I saw that on the menu, the choice was clear. Some kind of artisanal sausage would be just the antidote for my brain/not-brain experience from the night before.

Again, my plate arrives last. It’s a sizzling cast-iron gratin dish, about one-quarter occupied by a stubby little sausage-like form bathed in a mustard sauce. And it smells exactly like the Metro station we just walked past to get to the restaurant. Which is to say: like pee.

I can’t remember the last time I was simply unable to eat something. Out of politeness and general optimism, I will try whatever is placed in front of me. And I gamely tried my andouillette, despite its toxic smell. Even swathed in huge lashings of mustard sauce, it tasted like pee–or what I would imagine pee to taste like.

And it was a rather odd sausage: its filling was not ground up, but more just long shreds of things loosely gathered together in a casing that was quite stretchy and gummy. It was a uniform grayish color. Even after I managed to choke down about half of it, its evil smell continued to waft up, and I had to gulp my wine to counteract it. I walked home feeling exceptionally nasty.

The next day I stuck to recognizable pastries and sandwiches, and the day after that, I looked andouillette up online. Turns out it’s all pig intestine: chitlins wrapped up in more chitlins.

I just had no idea the French could do me so wrong. I know the French eat a lot of odd parts of animals, and I respect that. But I just assumed they know what they’re doing, and actually make those odd parts delicious.

In fact, though, I now see that even French cuisine includes things that fall under the category of “acquired taste.” All those people on eGullet who were gushing about andouillette must either have been fed the stuff from birth, or are really just huge Francophile posers who lord their tolerance of obscure foods over those with allegedly more pedestrian tastes. What I can’t understand is why I would ever cultivate a taste for something that makes me think of a subway tunnel on a hot day.

I was just about to compare these hook-line-and-sinker Franco-freaks to those people who speak rapturously about how phenomenal sea urchin is. But then I remembered I had some really amazing sea urchins in Greece–and that’s a separate story.

American Nutella: the awful truth

Skipping over the gastronomic adventures of the past couple weeks, I’ll get right to the terrible bit of information I just discovered.

We got into Amsterdam day before last. Yesterday morning Karine popped out to the grocery store to pick up some breakfast provisions, including a small jar of Nutella. When I saw the Nutella, I sighed. “Delicious,” I thought, “but all that nasty hydrogenation!” I felt a bit wistful for the days before I knew how horrible hydrogenated fat was, before I could graphically envision every Jif sandwich I’ve ever eaten, all still stuck there on the walls of my arteries.

Later, when I was savoring my Nutella on a day-old baguette (what? you thought I wouldn’t actually eat it?), I looked at the ingredients: sugar, peanut oil, hazelnuts, cocoa, skim milk powder, whey powder, soya lecithin, unspecified “aroma.” No word, in Dutch or French, remotely resembling “hydrogenated.”

About the same time, Karine said, “A friend of mine says European Nutella is better than the American version, but I can’t remember why.”

A flurry of Internet research ensued, and lo, American Nutella contains:

Sugar, Peanut Oil, Hazelnuts, Cocoa, Skim Milk, Reduced Minerals, Whey, Partially Hydrogenated Peanut Oil, Soy Lecithin; An Emulsifier, Vanillin; An Artificial Flavor.

So–what?! Americans are so squeamish that any possibility of visible liquid oil needs to be eradicated? Americans stock their bunkers at Sam’s Club, and require their Nutella have a shelf life of 10 years? Americans only have one mental category for bread-spread, so everything must behave exactly like Jif? Either one of these things, or the American food industry is actively trying to kill its customers, which is untenable from a business standpoint.

Now I feel it’s my duty to eat as much Euro Nutella as possible before I return to the US next Wednesday. Excuse me–it’s breakfast time.

Air Chance

Peter and I are in Greece. Finally. When I booked our tix on Air France, I blithely made the “Air Chance” joke, completely forgetting that I had gotten screwed by them before. Instead, all I remembered was really good coffee, wine and buttery biscuits.

But then I had plenty of time to recall my previous mishap, after a couple of hours into our “flight.” I use the quotes because in fact, around 9:30pm, we had not gone anywhere, not even pulled away from the gate at JFK. Due to alleged “congestion” and then a thunderstorm, we didn’t leave for another four hours, which more than doubled our time in our plane seat. Luckily, we had been given earplugs and eye shades (I carry them anyway, but it was a nice gesture), and we had back-of-seat movies. And there was none of that tedious turbulence one gets when one actually travels through the air. And the wine was OK. Also, the captain was almost comically dismayed every time he came on the PA, and would always heave a huge sigh after saying, “Je suis tres desole, mais….”

So we got to Paris, eventually, and AF had the decency to put us up in a hotel and give us meal vouchers. And being stuck in Paris is not the worst thing that could happen. Peter and I had great ambitions about zipping into the city for dinner, and sent a text message to Tamara asking for advice, but when she hadn’t replied, it was about time for the free hotel dinner, so we thought we’d at least check it out.

Three plates of terrine, camembert, shrimp, sea snails, white anchovies, curried pickled veggies, rare slabs of beef and artichoke hearts later, we guessed we weren’t really up to another dinner. As Peter said, “If we were in the States, our room would be bigger and our dinner would be a hell of a lot crappier.” He also said he’d be perfectly happy to eat cheese, surrender and act like a monkey, or something along those lines.

After accidentally gorging ourselves, Peter and I zipped into the city and had a few drinks at a bar recommended by our friend Rod, via text message from Amsterdam. Savvy. Peter and I sat in the grotto-y basement of Chez Georges marveling at how people (just pairs of people, in fact) were ordering whole bottles of wine in a bar. I didn’t realize until I saw it that nobody does this in the US. Is there some law against it?

And then the next day, Air France once again managed to brainwash me, just by feeding me well. As I ate my cold roast beef, vinegar-y lentils, and ratatouille, and swabbed fluffy white cheese on my bread, all my rage over the previous day’s flight just evaporated. And I wasn’t even drinking wine this time.

Everyone who cares about food seems to have had a revelatory experience in France, but it’s usually out in the countryside, at the market, or along the coast fishing oysters out of the water or some bucolic crap like that. I’m here to tell you that French food is remarkable even at the level of cheap-hotel-by-the-airport-buffet. I mean, I could easily come back and plan a Sunday night dinner inspired by what I ate at the Hotel Campanile in Roissy–which sounds glamorous but isn’t at all. Comparing it to the States, it really makes me want to cry. How have we set the bar for food so damn low?

Adorable Astoria; plus, my birthday

I’m usually pretty impervious to cute. Puppies–enh. Babies–hate ’em. But I stopped by Mimi’s Closet, a new boutique up by Ditmars and I was totally bowled over by its adorableness. I know these kinds of places, where the plucky owner sits in an easy chair sewing the very things that are for sale on the racks, are a dime a dozen in Nolita and Brooklyn. But they’re novel here in Astoria, where acid-wash denim is still in style.

Anyway, said plucky owner is a lovely Japanese woman, and her clothes are cute and functional, and she says she can also take your measurements and tailor her designs to fit. And she’s got a nice selection of locally made jewelry as well. Prices are not outrageous.

Despite my regular freelance employment at In Style, I am so not a fashion plate, so I can understand if you don’t trust my judgment on this recommendation. But with Mimi in the neighborhood, I might just be a clotheshound yet…

Foolishly, though, I forgot to wear my fetching new lace-trimmed, gathered-bodice tank top to Sunday Night Dinner (Now on Saturday!) last night, which was not officially my birthday dinner, but turned out to be quite a nice celebration nonetheless. So I’m wearing the shirt now (cool–the straps are elastic, so they don’t fall down!) while reminiscing about the army of beer-can chickens that crowded the grill, the slurpy-spicy boiled peanuts and the buttery braised vidalias, as well as the super-garlicky caesar salad, which was even better when pared down to just croutons and dressing. But man, that chicken was good. I ate about four wings, and then a big morsel of breast meat–Dapper was lookin’ out for me.

And even though I get lazier with every dinner, and barely move from the first seat I happen to plop down in, my heart is still so full when I look down the long line of haphazard tables and chairs. Everyone’s chatting and eating and drinking and smoking, all under the golden glow of the anti-bug lights, and it looks like some Italian film. (Here’s a photo, from the ribs event, two weeks ago.) I wish I had a time-lapse video of the seats filling up and then emptying over the course of the night.

I stayed till the wee hours, which is why I can’t write so well today. Words escape me. But trust me, it was a very tasty time.

The world feels my pain

Finally, through that esteemed mouthpiece that is The New York Times, the world knows that it does often suck to be a guidebook author:

While the phrase “travel writing” may invoke thoughts of steamer trunks, trains, Isak Dinesen and Graham Greene, or at the very least, well-financed junkets to spas in Rangoon for some glossy magazine or other, writing budget travel guides is most decidedly yeoman’s work. Most who do it quickly learn the one hard and fast rule of the trade: travel-guide writing is no vacation.

So goes “A Job with Travel but No Vacation,” in this Sunday’s Style section. I am absolutely overjoyed, because I believe this is the very first time some aspect of my life has been featured in the Styles section. (Oh, except for Joel and Deb’s wedding last year.)

They didn’t quote me, but then I didn’t get jumped in Caracas while in service to Lonely Planet, which is the anecdote that leads the story. Though I do happen to know this guy, and he is truly living the life 24/7. I, on the other hand, only occasionally rally myself from the sofa to go somewhere relatively crime-free.

Aside from showing me pictures of people I know, and notfying me about their being victims of muggings in South America, the story also tipped me off to a quality blog, Killing Batteries, which is seriously hilarious kvetching about the nightmare that is writing LP’s guide to Romania and Moldova.

One slightly alarming thing I noted in the story, however, is that I already seem to be pushing the industry’s upper limit, age-wise. I turn 34 this weekend, and I suspect my pluck and vigor are diminishing rapidly. In fact, my deterioration probably accelerated exponentially this past year, what with all the marrying, and the house-buying, and the lying in the hospital bed with a life-threatening illness.

And I have to admit, I am not jumping for joy at the prospect of writing the books I have to write this year. When I’m lying in bed at night, trying to arrange my travel schedule in my head, I think I would just rather stay home and chip the paint off the tiles in the new kitchen.

But then when the hell else will I manage to go to Chiapas and drive every back road and talk to strangers and poke my nose in all kinds of strange churches and hotels? Yes, writing guidebooks pays crap and allows for virtually no creative outlet (I wouldn’t be bothering with this blog if it did), but it is an amazing way to see the world…or be forced to see the world. And for someone like me, who is terribly lazy and not particularly outgoing, it’s a job I dread. But once I’m finally up and doing it, I am extremely grateful for having been made to do it.