In the new year, I vow to eat more of these:
Okay, maybe not the salmon (not a fan), but everything else for sure. This should be one New Year's resolution I can keep.
Wishing you all a happy, healthy, and prosperous New Year.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Road Trip: On and Off the I-95 Beaten Path
By G.A. Peck
I have fond memories of my first official road trip, and have since loved the means of travel—getting behind the wheel with a destination in mind, but no real agenda for getting there. How relaxing and spontaneous it is to let the miles unfold behind your tires and stop and go, out of whim or necessity.
My first road trip. I was five, maybe six. Young, little, tiny. Somehow my parents managed to scrape together the finances to fund a trip to Disney, and we decided to span the distance between Maryland and Florida in our VW Bug. I remember the trip was long, and by the time we began to see the signs advertising South of the Border (http://www.roadsideamerica.com/story/2211) , we welcomed the small distraction of reading them. I pleaded with my parents to stop there, if only briefly.
My friend Butch reminded me of one of the slogans: “I never sausage a place!” Well, I just had to see this place!
And when we finally arrived, I was enthralled by the flashing signs and the big tower in the shape of a giant Mexican man in a sombrero. There were several buildings then—some where fireworks were sold (we bought sparklers, I think); a restaurant; souvenir shops, and so forth. I had ordered a Sloppy Joe and a Coke at the restaurant, and then my parents shelled out the cash for a tiny American flag on a stick, and a fur-covered sheriff’s vest with a badge, which I wore the rest of the way to Orlando.
In hindsight, I was probably just a tad too young to appreciate Disney World, and have difficulty remembering it all now. But I do recall a few highlights:
The Dumbo Ride: http://disneyworld.disney.go.com/parks/magic-kingdom/attractions/dumbo-the-flying-elephant/
The spinning and churning teacups, which made me dizzy and queasy and reluctant to get on another ride after that. http://disneyworld.disney.go.com/parks/magic-kingdom/attractions/mad-tea-party/
The Hall of Presidents, which I found oddly spooky, though I don’t think it was meant to be. http://disneyworld.disney.go.com/parks/magic-kingdom/attractions/hall-of-presidents/
It’s a Small World. I loved all the animatronic dolls in motion, but by the end, I was plain sick and tired of that song. To this day, I can’t listen to more than two choruses of it without wanting to pop my eardrums. http://disneyworld.disney.go.com/parks/magic-kingdom/attractions/its-a-small-world/
And 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea. By far my favorite “ride” of the day. We boarded the submarine. I loved how tiny the space was, and how we all had to pile in it like sardines and jockey for spots at the portholes. I really believed we were moving, plunging into great depths, and when the giant squid grabbed hold of our vessel and rocked it, I screamed and held on tight. I never wanted it to end. There is a GREAT, full-length video of the actual ride here: http://www.20kride.com/
Once Disney had run its course through us, we piled back into the VW and headed north on I-95. The mood in the car was light, despite the long journey we had before us. And I entertained my parents by donning all of the junk we’d bought along the way and posing for my mother’s camera.
We may have been in Georgia when we first saw the billboard advertising the “Land of Oz,” an amusement park in homage to the classic film. My eyes must have lit up. I may have said, “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy,” and pointed at it to make sure he saw it, too. Kids do annoying things like that, and I was no exception.
I suppose it was because the mood was light and none of us were very excited about the prospect of the long drive ahead—or maybe we just grew hungry, and my parents saw this attraction as an opportunity to feed; or maybe it was because my folks knew how special that movie was to me—but they decided to follow the signs, which led us deep into North Carolina’s rural areas in search of this illusive Land of Oz.
And when I say “deep,” I mean it. We drove for hours out of the way, through largely undeveloped areas, up and down hills, through forests of trees. My father nervously joked about the prospect of getting lost and made references to Deliverance. Our stomachs growled. On the trip down, we’d shared a box of Yankee Doodles. They were long gone.
I could tell my parents’ patience was wearing thin, and I was so excited by the prospect of extending our trip-o-fun that I panicked at the thought they might finally conclude that it was a lost cause and do a U-turn. It had not been their intention to drive hours out of their way. It had been meant as a quick stop-off. We needed to get home, after all.
I closed my eyes and concentrated on those images from the billboards and signs that led us to this place of nothingness. We were so alone; it did feel like “us against the wilds of North Carolina” on that drive. I’d read what I could about the “Land of Oz” from those billboards passing us by at 55+ miles per hour. The pictures were what drew me in most of all. I imagined it a magical place, where I could immerse myself into the Wizard of Oz screenplay, to become a character (Dorothy, of course). I daydreamed about some Hollywood type spotting me in the throngs of park visitors and tell me that I should play the role in the modern-day remake of the film. I hoped this imaginary man would not ask me to audition on the spot.
On those signs had been depictions of what the park promised: live-actor character shows, rides and a real-life hot-air balloon you could go up in!
We finally found the place. My parents were thoroughly annoyed by then, and walked a few steps behind them, my chin to my chest, contrite for having talked them into this little aside from our trip. My folks paid the admission price—probably reluctantly by then—and we walked inside. It wasn’t a big piece of property—at least it didn’t seem like it to me then, having the recent Disney experience for comparison.
We were hungry, but we searched for a spot to eat to no avail. We may have gotten some of those sippee drinks in plastic containers shaped like fruit. And so we all grew a little crankier.
We walked the path—naturally parts of it paved in yellow brick. I remember there being a lot of trees, walking through the forest, and wishing that they’d really played it up and decorated it all scary and dark like the one Dorothy had to endure in her journey. But it didn’t scare me. That was probably the first realization I had that this place wasn’t going to be what I expected.
Admittedly, my memory is spotty, at best. I don’t remember eating, or taking in one of the shows, or even any of the amusement rides. As we walked, I hoped, at the very least, to bump into a Dorothy character (or that Hollywood movie agent looking to cast the next child star) in the worst way. But there were just other tourists like us milling about, and not very many of them.
My mood completely deflated when I discovered that the park did not, in fact, have a real-life hot-air balloon, and there would be no soaring above the tree line for me. Instead, what had been depicted as such on the billboard, was actually a ski-lift-type of transport device, that moved people from one end of the park to the other, allowing them to glide along the paths, over the heads of the tourists below, and take in all the sights for the high vantage point. On that day, the little carriages in the shapes of hot-air balloons sat still. It was broken.
I feared that my parents’ moods would take a turn for the worst. I could tell they felt it had been a bust, a total waste of time, coming to this place, and delaying our arrival at home. I certainly felt that way.
But as we headed back the way we came, toward the highway, one by one each of us would say what we disliked most about the little excursion—the lack of sustenance, the broken rides, the long walk on already weary feet, and on and on we prattled and laughed. We were united in our animosity about the experience, so in the end, the little oddball trek into the wilds of North Carolina brought us just a smidgen closer together as a family that day.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Herring Under a Fur Coat
by Tatyana Meshcheryakova
I would like to continue the “Russian holiday salad swimming in mayo” streak by bringing up another Soviet fave, selyodka pod shuboj, translated literally as “herring under a fur coat.” Also called simply “dressed herring,” this recipe’s shining star is pickled herring under the layers of boiled vegetables and dressed with mayonnaise. It has to be salted pickled herring -- no sweet wine sauces please.
Here’s my mom’s recipe. Unlike some other Russian staples this dish doesn’t vary as much, so you probably won’t find a version of it calling for capers and pears (I did see a version with salmon instead of herring, but the traditional recipe calls for herring and herring only).
Selyodka Pod Shuboj
Ingredients
A tin of pickled salted herring. Mom insisted on “horoshaya,” or the “good” selyodka. So yes, high quality is the ticket. If you, like me, live where no Russian food is sold whatever the Whole Foods has to offer might do, as long as it’s salty, not sweet
1 yellow onion
2 boiled potatoes
Olive or corn oil (a tablespoon or so)
3 whole boiled beets
3 boiled carrots
1 boiled egg
Half a cup of grated cheese of your choice
Mayo (enough to coat the top of the whole dish)
Preparation
Cut the herring into small pieces (remove as many bones as possible). Spread on a large dish.
Cut the yellow onion into thin half-circles, spread on top of the herring.
Boil the potatoes in their skins (Don’t overboil; they need to stay firm), carrots, beets -- if you’re using fresh beets -- and the egg. Peel the egg, potatoes, beets and carrots. Cut the potatoes, beets and carrots into small cubes.
Put the potatoes on top of the onion and the herring.
Sprinkle olive or corn oil on top. Then put the beets on top of the potatoes, and the carrots next.
Spread a reasonable amount of mayonnaise on top (enough to cover the dish).
Grate the cheese and the egg. Put the egg on top of the mayo, and finally sprinkle the grated cheese on top. Let the dish stand unrefrigerated and “settle” for a couple of hours before serving.
Mom Tips:
1. If the herring is too salty, soak it before using for two hours in milk or black tea.
2. To keep the potatoes firm please don’t boil them for too long. You can also add a teaspoon of lemon juice in the boiling water with the potatoes.
3. Mom is OK with using canned beets.
4. You can sprinkle about half a cup of chopped green onions on top of the mayo, before you add the egg and the cheese.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Mom, Meat, and Mayo: The Beloved Soviet Salad
by Tatyana Meshcheryakova
Growing up in Kiev, Ukraine, in the 80s, I ate a lot of dairy. Milk, eggs, kefir -- other kinds of cultured milk -- were cheap and widely available. Sometimes we’d have to stand in line for butter but I remember it being at least accessible. Same story with the mayonnaise. It was usually available to the unwashed masses, but if you stumbled upon it in the store you stood in line no matter how long it took, and bought more than one jar. The main reason for hoarding the mayo, at least in my family, was that, come any holiday, we’d make no less than a barrel of salat Olivier. A gigantic bowl of this salad would then grace the holiday spread, to be cheerfully consumed throughout the hours-long dinner by all. If we were lucky, there would be enough left over for a few days.
I imagine that to a many sophisticated American palate a salad containing boiled potatoes, carrots and canned peas would appear pedestrian at best. Also, if you don’t like mayonnaise you probably stopped reading already. I do admit that I am biased, and perhaps my misty-eyed devotion to this salad is due more to my personal nostalgic notions than to its culinary merit. Still, even after being exposed to many cultures and cuisines all over the U.S. and abroad, I love, love, love salat Olivier.
In fact, I made a barrel to call my own the day after Thanksgiving using the leftover turkey (and setting aside a meatless batch for my vegetarian boyfriend). I ate it for breakfast, lunch, dinner, and late at night while watching the “Law & Order” reruns. When it was gone (too soon) I have lamented yet again the lack of the Russian-food delis where I live. For instance, in the Northeast Philadelphia, where my parents live, you can get Olivier in any Russian-speaking deli, made that very morning in the ambitiously sized batches. Here in New Orleans, if I want some, I better start chopping.
Salat Olivier’s posh beginnings date back to the 19th century. Like any story of a deserving subject, this one is full of intrigue and ideally deserves more space. Before the revolution of 1917, salat Olivier, the legend goes, contained a more refined list of ingredients. Concocted by a Frenchman named Lucien Olivier, who owned a popular restaurant called Hermitage in Moscow, the salad’s recipe was a secret but was said to have boasted crawfish tails, truffles, caviar, pheasant, veal tongue, capers, aspic, and other expensive and difficult to obtain ingredients that varied seasonally. The recipe for the salad’s Provençal-type dressing was also jealously guarded by its author.
The salad’s secret recipe was eventually stolen by a devious Russian chef who had worked for Olivier, Ivan Ivanov. Eventually Mr. Ivanov had branched out and started serving his own version at another restaurant, Moskva (Moscow), presenting the salad as Stolichnyj (“The Capital”). Later, popularized versions of the salad had surfaced all over, sometimes called Kupecheskij (“The Merchant”), or, simply, salat a la Russe (“The Russian salad”). In the all-encompassing cookbook, Kulinariya (published in 1955), that I have inherited from my grandmother, the salad still goes by Stolichnyj, and calls for bird meat.
In Soviet times, such delights as capers, pheasant and truffles became unattainable by the common citizens, and salat Olivier was down(graded) but certainly not out. Peasanted-up by potatoes, canned peas, cucumbers, carrots, mayo, whatever meat was at hand (kolbasa, or “sausage” that closely resembled bologna, was the cheapest option, I remember), the salad had enjoyed a long life of a respected holiday staple. I do not remember a single New Year’s Eve without it.
Nowadays, if you search the Web you’ll find many varied versions of salat Olivier. Some claim to be more traditional -- closer to Lucien Olivier’s original; some call for Dijon mustard, apples and other crazy stuff; yet other recipes stick to the devolved, “classic Soviet” version. In better restaurants in Russia, some adventurous chefs update the salad with such high-end ingredients as marinated gourmet mushrooms, truffle mayo, champignons, crab, and, inexplicably, pineapple. The Eastern European cookbook I have at home, penned by a bunch of non-Eastern Europeans, offers a version that calls for juniper berries, “two young grouse or partridges,” and yes, Dijon mustard. The effort, lavishly photographed on a bed of lettuce, looks, though appetizing, like nothing I grew up with.
I’ll leave you with my mom’s recipe, which does not contain onions or dill, but other than that sticks to the Sovetskij variant (the “Soviet version”) pretty closely:
Ingredients
5 potatoes
4 eggs
3 carrots
1 pickle
3 cucumbers
1 can of green peas
1 pound of boiled meat (chicken, turkey, bologna)
Mayo to taste
Pepper to taste
Salt to taste (optional)
Preparation
Boil the unpeeled potatoes, peeled carrots, and eggs. Cool.
Peel the potatoes. Finely chop potatoes, carrots, eggs, cucumbers, pickle, and meat. Mix the ingredients in a bowl.
Add the drained peas.
Dress with the amount of mayonnaise that seems reasonable to you.
Add pepper to taste.
Refrigerate for 1/2 hour before serving.
Mom Tips:
1. To prevent the salad from becoming runny gently wipe excess moisture from the ingredients (peas and cucumbers in particular) with a paper towel.
2. It’s OK to vary the number or pickles and cucumbers, just keep the pickle-to-cucumber ratio 1:3.
3. Don’t overboil the carrots and the potatoes -- they should be hard, not mushy.
4. Mom swears pepper alone would suffice (I do add salt in mine).
1. To prevent the salad from becoming runny gently wipe excess moisture from the ingredients (peas and cucumbers in particular) with a paper towel.
2. It’s OK to vary the number or pickles and cucumbers, just keep the pickle-to-cucumber ratio 1:3.
3. Don’t overboil the carrots and the potatoes -- they should be hard, not mushy.
4. Mom swears pepper alone would suffice (I do add salt in mine).
Related Links:
Salat Olivier is important enough to get its own Wikipedia entry:
This 12/3/09 article in the online edition of the newspaper Vedomosti talks about how Russian chefs update the classic “Soviet salads” with the gourmet ingredients (in Russian):
http://friday.vedomosti.ru/article.shtml?2009/02/27/14451
On the origin of salat Olivier (in Russian):
http://www.eda-server.ru/blog/wordpress/?p=97
http://www.kuking.net/10_1012.htm
Monday, December 7, 2009
Apple Cake
by Carolina Sanchez Shay
This is kind of a family recipe. It's very popular with friends; everyone seems to love it. My brothers ADORE it, and when I take it to the Thanksgiving party/dinner, I make two--one for the party, and the other for breakfast the next morning.
My Dad got the recipe from an ex-girlfriend. He then taught my Mom how to make it, and the rest is history.
Cake Ingredients:
1 1/2 cups all purpose flour
75 grams butter
6 tablespoons sugar
1 cup milk
1 egg
1 1/2 teaspoons baking powder
3 medium Granny Smith apples
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 lemon (will use the juice and the peel)
Topping Ingredients:
1/2 cup sugar
3 teaspoons cinnamon
Preparation
Mix all the dry ingredients (sugar, flour, baking powder).
Melt the butter,and when it cools a bit, mix with previously stirred egg & milk.
Slowly incorporate the butter/egg/milk mixture into bowl with dry ingredients. It should be a batter of smooth consistency.
Add the vanilla extract and grated peel of the lemon. Mix.
Place batter in a pre-greased (butter/flour), rectangular baking pan. It doesn't have to be too deep as the cake is not thick.
Peel apples and slice thin, so you end up with half-moon shapes. For speed, I use a mandolin.
Squeeze the juice of the lemon on the apple slices so they don't turn brown. This adds more flavor to the cake, too.
Arrange the apple slices on top of batter. Make sure you cover all the batter, but don't press down; just overlap the slices.
Coat the apples with the cinnamon/sugar mixture, and then 'strategically' place very small dollops of butter over the top.
Preheat oven to 350, and bake for 30 min. To check for doneness, I insert a knife, and if it comes out clean, then cake is done!
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Giant Squid and Cobblestone: The Gustatory Glimpse at Lisboa
by Tatyana Meshcheryakova
Last October, I have found myself accompanying my boyfriend on a five-day business trip to Lisboa (Lisbon), Portugal. While traversing the cobblestoned hills of Bairro Alto, the 16th century “Upper Quarter” region of central Lisboa, we happily played tourists, which included sitting down at the many quaint outdoor restaurants to eat -- at every opportunity.
Portuguese cuisine is a magnificent blend of flavors that reflects the many cultural influences -- Moorish, Brazilian, Mediterranean -- and Portugal’s status as a sea-faring nation. The locals use a variety of spices (saffron, chili peppers, vanilla, and cinnamon), a generous amount of garlic and “good” olive oil, and eat lots of seafood. Even the obvious tourist traps served a mean grilled squid (with tentacles the size of my arm), and delicious renditions of the typical Portuguese dish of the dried salted cod, bacalhau. The sardines were also pervasive and equally flavorful. All the fish swam in a garlicky olive oil and was accompanied by roasted or boiled potatoes, onions, olives, and a few kinds of veggies on the side (the latter varied), or a small garden salad.
Everywhere we ate, before we ordered, we were served tasty sourdough bread along with a tapas-like variety of plates of the local cheeses (made with goat and sheep milk), olives, patés, and prosciutto. Their quality depended on the restaurant’s, ranging from heavenly (made from scratch and looking fresh) to skippable (a dried up hunk of mystery cheese or an individually packaged sardine paté you could get as part of the continental breakfast in a second-rate hotel). Either way, eating those is optional, and you only pay for what you eat (you’re charged per item or slice, not including the bread).
While there are numerous ways to eat cod in Portugal, from every imaginable type of stew to fresh, grilled with a variety of spices, I would definitely recommend trying the bacalhau. It goes down easy with the many local wines, which Portugal has many of, and which deserve a separate article. I’ve sampled several red Dão table wines, some white Bucelas, and the Vinho Verde (“green wine”), and have found all of them exciting. Even the one-euro variety of the table red was drinkable (even if barely so).
Then, of course, there is Vinho do Porto, or port, for which Portugal is famous for, and which we drank after dinner or as an aperitif. If you are like me and don’t know much about this fortified wine from the Douro River Valley, you might want to try the lesser known variety than its red counterpart, Porto Branco, or white port. It’s lighter in alcohol content, chockfull of complex, fruity flavors, and is delicious, chilled as an aperitif. In my ignorance, stemming from only trying the sweet red port wines I’ve found in America, I’ve pigeionholed port into a dessert wine category. After trying some tawny and white varieties I’ve realized that I couldn’t have been more wrong.
Speaking of fortified wines, Vinho de Madeira (think sherry) also comes in many varieties, ranging from dry to super sweet, and could also be enjoyed as both dessert wine and an aperitif. You could also try a popular local liqueur called Ginjinha (or Ginja). It is made from infused ginja berries (sour cherry), and is usually served in a shot glass (it was too sweet for my taste though).
Well, when in Lisboa… dine when and where the locals do, which meant starting dinner around 10 pm on most nights, and asking the locals for recommendations. One of the best ones came unsolicited from a cab driver who drove us to Bairro Alto one night, the Cervejaria Trindade on Rua Nova da Trindade. Cervejaria Trindade is a gorgeously tiled tavern with a loud, cheerful ambiance you’d expect of a beer hall, and a lovely courtyard. It’s the oldest operating cervejaria in Portugal (since 1836), built on the foundation of the 13th-century Convento dos Frades Tinos, which was destroyed by the infamously devastating earthquake in 1755. The restaurant’s specialties include steak and Amêijoas à Trindade (clams). We got there on the early side, while the place was slowly filling. By the time we were leaving, around 10pm, the line was snaking out the door.
I’ll leave you with a few observations on dining in Lisboa:
Last October, I have found myself accompanying my boyfriend on a five-day business trip to Lisboa (Lisbon), Portugal. While traversing the cobblestoned hills of Bairro Alto, the 16th century “Upper Quarter” region of central Lisboa, we happily played tourists, which included sitting down at the many quaint outdoor restaurants to eat -- at every opportunity.
Portuguese cuisine is a magnificent blend of flavors that reflects the many cultural influences -- Moorish, Brazilian, Mediterranean -- and Portugal’s status as a sea-faring nation. The locals use a variety of spices (saffron, chili peppers, vanilla, and cinnamon), a generous amount of garlic and “good” olive oil, and eat lots of seafood. Even the obvious tourist traps served a mean grilled squid (with tentacles the size of my arm), and delicious renditions of the typical Portuguese dish of the dried salted cod, bacalhau. The sardines were also pervasive and equally flavorful. All the fish swam in a garlicky olive oil and was accompanied by roasted or boiled potatoes, onions, olives, and a few kinds of veggies on the side (the latter varied), or a small garden salad.
Everywhere we ate, before we ordered, we were served tasty sourdough bread along with a tapas-like variety of plates of the local cheeses (made with goat and sheep milk), olives, patés, and prosciutto. Their quality depended on the restaurant’s, ranging from heavenly (made from scratch and looking fresh) to skippable (a dried up hunk of mystery cheese or an individually packaged sardine paté you could get as part of the continental breakfast in a second-rate hotel). Either way, eating those is optional, and you only pay for what you eat (you’re charged per item or slice, not including the bread).
While there are numerous ways to eat cod in Portugal, from every imaginable type of stew to fresh, grilled with a variety of spices, I would definitely recommend trying the bacalhau. It goes down easy with the many local wines, which Portugal has many of, and which deserve a separate article. I’ve sampled several red Dão table wines, some white Bucelas, and the Vinho Verde (“green wine”), and have found all of them exciting. Even the one-euro variety of the table red was drinkable (even if barely so).
Then, of course, there is Vinho do Porto, or port, for which Portugal is famous for, and which we drank after dinner or as an aperitif. If you are like me and don’t know much about this fortified wine from the Douro River Valley, you might want to try the lesser known variety than its red counterpart, Porto Branco, or white port. It’s lighter in alcohol content, chockfull of complex, fruity flavors, and is delicious, chilled as an aperitif. In my ignorance, stemming from only trying the sweet red port wines I’ve found in America, I’ve pigeionholed port into a dessert wine category. After trying some tawny and white varieties I’ve realized that I couldn’t have been more wrong.
Speaking of fortified wines, Vinho de Madeira (think sherry) also comes in many varieties, ranging from dry to super sweet, and could also be enjoyed as both dessert wine and an aperitif. You could also try a popular local liqueur called Ginjinha (or Ginja). It is made from infused ginja berries (sour cherry), and is usually served in a shot glass (it was too sweet for my taste though).
Well, when in Lisboa… dine when and where the locals do, which meant starting dinner around 10 pm on most nights, and asking the locals for recommendations. One of the best ones came unsolicited from a cab driver who drove us to Bairro Alto one night, the Cervejaria Trindade on Rua Nova da Trindade. Cervejaria Trindade is a gorgeously tiled tavern with a loud, cheerful ambiance you’d expect of a beer hall, and a lovely courtyard. It’s the oldest operating cervejaria in Portugal (since 1836), built on the foundation of the 13th-century Convento dos Frades Tinos, which was destroyed by the infamously devastating earthquake in 1755. The restaurant’s specialties include steak and Amêijoas à Trindade (clams). We got there on the early side, while the place was slowly filling. By the time we were leaving, around 10pm, the line was snaking out the door.
I’ll leave you with a few observations on dining in Lisboa:
For lunch, head to the city’s central district, the Cidade Baixa (“Lower City”). Its main street, Rua Augusta, is happening during the day but is eerily deserted at night.
So, for dinner and to sample the nightlife, Bairro Alto is your best bet. It’s brimming with life starting around 9 pm, and really gets hopping between midnight and 3 am. Some joints were too young for me -- think Dutch girls meet German boys and head to Bourbon Street -- but behind virtually every door there is a bar or a restaurant, so I guarantee that you’ll find what you like.
Dinnertime is after 8 pm (10 pm is better). If you can, sit outside and people-watch over the course of a few hours and a couple of bottles of wine. Lingering is highly tolerated if not encouraged. You can always walk it off later by braving the steep cobblestoned hills!
Many restaurants don’t serve wine by glass, but you can buy a half bottle (“split”) if the 750-ml bottle is too much to handle (wasn’t a problem for me).
Many local restaurants feature live fado music, popular in Portugal. We preferred to listen from our seats outside though -- the mournfully dramatic singing accompanied by the guitar could get a bit too intense if it’s happening right by your table.
You can pick and choose what you like from the cheese, olive and meat plates you’ll get brought to your table along with bread before you order. You will be charged per item and per slice (bread is included in the price of the meal).
Although many typical Portuguese dishes seem to be swimming in olive oil, it’s high quality, so eat it! A lot of fish is grilled and is served with plenty of fresh vegetables. I haven’t encountered anything deep-fried once, which made me miss New Orleans, where I live.
Similarly, I haven’t encountered a single obese person during my short trip to Lisboa and Sintra (not counting the tourists), which, again, made me miss New Orleans.
What I have seen was plenty of late-night, extensive dining accompanied by enthusiastic drinking, similar to New Orleans. Needless to say, this was my kind of scene, and I can’t wait for an opportunity to sit down to some giant squid and a bottle of Vinho Verde somewhere in Lisboa again.
Recommended Restaurant (in Bairro Alto, Lisboa):
Cervejaria TrindadeRua Nova da Trindade, No. 20 C1200 -303 Lisboa, PortugalPhone: (351) 213 423 506http://www.cervejariatrindade.pt/
About the author: Tatyana Meshcheryakova is a Russian-born journalist and editor who had been living in Philadelphia and New Orleans for 19 years. She makes voodoo dolls and is one of the founding members of Krewe of ‘tit Rex, a Mardi Gras miniature parade. She can be reached at tatyanameshch@yahoo.com.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Fall Foods
Here, in the Philadelphia suburbs, the leaves have already turned and have fallen, littering the ground in glorious shades of chocolate and maroons and yellows. Winter is well on its way.
I personally don't have any problem with the idea of fall and winter. Unlike others who seem to grow quite depressed during these months, I relish in the crisp, cold weather. I prefer sweaters to halter tops. I like it when my bones are chilled; it makes me more alert. Heat just makes me sweat and swell, which I welcome only if there's sand between my toes and an umbrella drink in hand.
What I do find off-putting about the changing of the seasons is the inherent transition in the foods we eat. Lighter meals during the heat; more hearty morsels during the cold. I do a lot of cooking at home. Dining out for us has become a rare and special treat since I've become passionate about putting my awesome kitchen to good use.
I am meticulous about planning out the groceries, the menu for the week. We try to buy as much as we can--especially fresh produce--at the Asian market in Lansdale. For the rest, Giant gets our hard-earned cash. Between the two, I've been able to build a stocked pantry that allows me to get creative. I've blown through cookbooks, flipping through recipes at night while I'm unwinding before bed, and Post-It noting the ones I'd like to try based on the three very diverse pallettes we have here at home.
And I have found that it's a fairly smooth machine I've created. Organization makes it easy to breeze through the grocery stores. I never have to panic at dinner time. I know as I start the day what's on tap, and a ballpark of when I should start the prep. But there are moments--during these seasonal changes--when the process suffers from fits and stalls, as we transition from those light summertime meals (salads and delicate pastas and seafood) to heartier alternatives.
I lean toward southern comfort foods--things I've got no business eating at my age and with my better-than-average understanding of what constitutes "eating healthy." I make thick homemade soups and chilis; pot roasts and sauerbraten; pork roasts with German side dishes. But it's not all about the proteins. I love fall root vegetables and greens and make vats worth of mashed potatoes (something we all can't get enough of, it seems). I've mastered healthier versions of classics like chicken piccata, pasta with meat sauce, meatloaf and so forth. I try not to use ground beef or veal whenever I can avoid it. I need not go into veal; we all know the horrors. But not nearly enough people in this country know that the beef industry contributes greatly to our climate AND, as my well-traveled brother-in-law is in the habit of pointing out, is so toxic that it's illegal to sell U.S.-raised beef in other countries. I'm assuming this is true, but I have not personally investigated its accuracy.
And in the winter, I bake. Highly unusual for me to do so in the summer months. There are muffins and breads and sweet rolls and biscuits.
The oddity of this--these changes in diet as the seasons wax and wane--is that I typically lose weight in the cold months, and put it on in the hot ones. Isn't it supposed to be the other way around?
Friday, October 16, 2009
The Land of Pink Sands
By G.A. Peck
It’s true what they say about Bermuda’s beaches: On a bright Atlantic day, the grains glisten and glow in soft shades of pastel pinks and salmon. The pink beaches and crystal-clear turquoise waters provide much of the color scheme for the island. From an airplane above it, or a sailing vessel off its shores, pastel homes and resorts dot the island, a respectable distance between them.
I was introduced to Bermuda many years ago, when my parents generously treated me to a family vacation during a spring break from college. I fell in love with the island—its natural beauty and its beautiful people. I remember it well, the day we left to fly back home, sitting in a window seat on the plane, watching Bermuda recede in the distance. I cried a little, and vowed to visit again. I made good on that promise, and have since spent a good bit of time in Bermuda, including choosing it for my wedding in 2001.
When I chat with friends, family or colleagues about vacation spots they’re considering, I often recommend Bermuda. But the truth is, it’s probably not the best destination for everyone, depending on the type of vacation one craves.
I’ve traveled a good bit, and have found Bermuda to be one of those unique places where I instantly feel comfortable and welcomed and surprisingly relaxed—like we’re a good fit, me and that island.
Location, location
Practically a puddle jump from the eastern seaboard States, getting to Bermuda from any international airport on this coast takes less than two hours. The island sits due east, 890 miles off the coast of North Carolina. Though I’ve never taken one myself, there are also a bounty of cruises to Bermuda, for most major East-Coast seaports.
The island itself is modest—just 21 miles from end to end. Surrounded by coral reefs, it’s protected from the harsh Atlantic. The water that immediately surrounds it is bath-water warm much of the year, and crystal clear, making for a perfect destination for snorkel and dive enthusiasts.
Bermuda’s public beaches are free, accessible and impeccably clean. Most days they unencumbered by the masses, allowing the feeling of being on a private beach. There are no boardwalks or amusements, no planes flying overhead with advertising banners, and only occasionally will you encounter a resident who has set up shop to sell food or local wares along the paths leading to the water. Most of the resort beaches are private, only accessible to hotel guests. Be sure to check out Horseshoe Bay, Warwick Long Bay, and Church Bay (where my husband surprised me by getting down on one knee and proposing following a fabulous day of snorkeling here), and Jobson’s Cove, one of the most serene, picturesque beach destinations I’ve discovered.
Culture and economy
Bermudians are a proper, somewhat conservative people. They are friendly and sincere mostly, even toward tourists who they see as a vital and welcome economic driver. In Bermuda, you’ll find yourself comfortable with approaching a stranger on the street to ask a question—any old question at all—and it’s easy to find yourself engaged in interesting conversation with the locals. They are very polite and particularly accommodating—just good stand-up people, by and large. But the rules of conduct for visitors are strict. Obey the laws, which sort of goes without saying.
- Don’t try to bring drugs into the country—as members of Ashford & Simpson’s band found during a customs’ search (we’d been on the same flight, and witnessed this all go down).
- Do not pollute. It’s an incredibly clean country, and they’d like to keep it that way.
Be sparing with water. “Water, water everywhere, and not a drop drink,” I think the saying goes. Water conservation is one of the reasons behind Bermuda’s distinctive architecture, incidentally—the roofs designed to capture rain water. - Dress appropriately. For men, Bermuda shorts with jacket, dress shirt, knee-high socks and loafers are commonplace—for business men and dressier occasions. Slacks—for men and women—is preferred over jeans. Shorts and t-shirts are acceptable—also for both genders—when some outdoor activity calls for more casual and functional clothing. Bermudians frown upon the practice of wearing bathing suits outside of the beach or pool-side context. And bathing suits should err on the side of modesty; thongs or banana hammocks are not acceptable (and may even be contrary to law, if memory serves). If nude sunbathing is your preference, I doubt you’ll find Bermuda a haven. Nor will you find Bermuda to offer much in the way of nightlife—which is the primary reason why it may not be the vacation of choice for all. While there are a few hoppin’ bars along the port of Hamilton, the crowds there tend to be young and sort of remind me of any cheesy, sticky-floored beach bar on an East-Coast boardwalk. And most establishments shut down fairly early compared to our standards.
And finally, Bermuda is expensive. Not just to vacation there, but to live there. It doesn’t manufacture and export much, and you feel the cost of all their importation labors in what you pay at the debit-card machine. Nothing is cheaper in Bermuda.
Climate
Bermuda’s weather is fairly predictable. There are rainy months, especially during hurricane season. Yes, the island is susceptible to the alphabetically named forces of nature, but it’s a rare event. In the summer months, it’s hot—really hot—but the evenings usually bring some breezy relief. And it can get fairly cold there in the winter. Think Carolina-coastline cold. My favorite time of the year to visit is during the early spring. The temperature of air and sea is just right.
Accommodations
I have yet to find anyone who has had an unpleasant experience at any of Bermuda’s resorts—most of which offer lovely accommodations, convenient access to the beach, first-class dining experiences, and courteous, friendly staff. There doesn’t seem to be a “bad choice” on the island when it comes to hotels that range from very small to very large. I am happy to recommend a few where I’ve stayed and thoroughly enjoyed myself:
Pink Beach Club, Tucker’s Town: http://www.pinkbeach.com/
I discovered the Pink Beach Club while searching for an intimate setting—and knowledgeable staff—for my destination wedding in 2001. It was that staff—our in-house wedding coordinator, in particular—who sold me on the lovely but pricey resort.
Though we had envisioned a beach ceremony, the thought of wind and sand wasn’t very practical, so we opted to hold it in the gardens, and stood beneath a Bermuda moongate—said to ensure good luck.
I believe most of the rooms—large, airy spaces, suite-like—are beach front. Breakfast and lunch is offered pool-side or in the main dining room, and consists of standard American-style breakfast fare and pub grub. But in the evenings, the main dining room is rightfully packed with guests decked out in their Sunday bests; the more well-to-do women break out the jewels for the nightly experience, a multi-coursed gastronomic adventure.
During our 10-day honeymoon stay here, we became friendly with—and fanatical about—the resident sommelier, Thierry, who not only guided us through our wine selection every evening, but would reappear at the end of our meal, toting open flame and an I-dare-ya attitude, as he offered to flambé something for us. Dinner and a show, to boot!
We had Thierry light lots of things on fire—dark bing cherries soaked in a dark, rich liqueur. We lit up a Bananas Foster one evening. By the end of our trip, we’d run out of ideas for our flambé chef, and just asked him to torch our liqueur-brimming coffee drinks, still much to our amusement. It never got old.
We enjoyed mornings at the Pink Beach most of all. Groggy-eyed, we’d sit out on our balcony and marvel at the sunrise and brilliantly color parrot fish that lollygagged on the thin surf just below us.
Pompano Beach Club: http://www.pompanobeachclub.com/
I’ve personally stayed here once, and have known others who have enjoyed their time here, as well. The accommodations (at least during the time of my stays) were a little more rustic—more classically “beachy”—than, say, the Pink Beach Club, but it’s comfortable and clean, and has a beach inlet that serves as the gateway to great snorkeling. A rugged cliff-like shore line surrounds the beach, providing sanctuary for colorful sea-faring creatures. At low tide, it’s easy to see the pristine bottom of the ocean floor as you swim out the coral reef, where even more spectacular snorkeling awaits. It was here where I once swam through an entire school of baby barracuda. They are kind of scary up close and personal like that.
Pompano, too, boasts a formal dining room and exceptional food, and a small bar for pre- and post-dinner libations and live entertainment. I don’t know if he’s still tending bar there, but if he is, tell Mervyn I said, “Hello!” He makes the best cocktails and pours the best beer on the island, I’m convinced.
Elbow Beach Club: http://www.mandarinoriental.com/bermuda/
This resort is the first place I bedded down in Bermuda. Back then, the hotel was sort of tired and antiquated, in the old-school beach style, a la Hotel del Coronado of San Diego fame. Since then, it’s undergone a profound makeover, and I understand it’s first-class all the way, very decadent.
Speaking of renovated properties … Michael Douglas’ family’s estate, the Ariel Sands—where Michael, Catherine and clan live part of the year—is getting a facelift. It’s on my list of potential places to stay the next time I find myself Bermuda-bound. Keep track of the renovations and reopening here: http://www.arielsands.com/
And though I haven’t personally stayed at the Sonesta (now called the Wyndham Spa & Resort, I believe), I understand it’s quite decent. Though nestled in a gorgeous section of the South Shore, it always seem too crowded and stereotypically “high-rise beach hotel” to me. Even for those not residing there, the Sonesta welcomes visitors to its outdoor lunch hot spot, and some of the access to the islands water sports—like scuba diving—can be found on this property. http://www.bermuda4u.com/Hotels/wyndham.html
For a more quaint experience, consider renting a private home or cottage, or opt for one of the island’s more intimate B&Bs.
Getting Around
Because the country is so contained, it’s easy to get around, and unlike other Carribean-island destination, it’s not only safe—but preferable—that you leave the confines of a resort and explore the country in total.
There are no rental cars in Bermuda. Unless you’re a citizen, you have no license to drive here. You can, however, rent a scooter and get around seamlessly and inexpensively. This has always been my transportation preference.
There are also plenty of taxis (note: very expensive) and pretty efficient public bus routes.
I should also caution against the scooters if you’re not comfortable on two wheels. Traffic, though sparse, moves quickly, and local commuters and commercial vehicles expect you to keep pace.
By the way, they drive on the left in Bermuda, and it’s unwise to travel the sometimes treacherous, tight roads if you’re not up for the adventure. And most definitely do not attempt to scooter around after cocktails. It is not only foolish—in that you’re likely to kill yourself or someone else—but also is very much frowned upon and prosecuted by local officials.
Food & Beverage
It’s hard for me to categorize Bermudian cuisine. Definitely internationally inspired, fresh fish and seafood are abundant. British, French and Carribean flavors and ingredients are commonplace on most menus.
Though the island boasts some great brunch/lunch and casual-dining joints, foodies will most likely prefer a resort’s meal plan, which usually includes breakfast and dinner. And by “dinner,” I mean six or more courses of amazing, interesting, inspired dishes, finished off with hand-crafted desserts. You’re expected to dress for dinner in Bermuda, by the way—jacket and tie is preferred for the gentlemen.
Some of the resorts offer meal plans that allow you to visit other cooperative resorts and dine there. I recommend you take advantage of this, of the varying chefs and magnificent views.
If there’s a national dish, I imagine it would be “Bermuda Fish Chowder,” a spicy, rich-with-sherry concoction you should try at least once. Epicurious offers this recipe for Bermuda Fish Chowder:
http://www.epicurious.com/recipes/food/views/Bermuda-Fish-Chowder-104011
Japan has its sake; France its champagne. Mexico is known for tequila. For Bermuda, it’s Gosling’s Black Seal Rum (http://www.goslingsrum.com/), Rum Swizzles (http://www.drinksmixer.com/drink1198.html) and Yellowbirds (http://www.drinksmixer.com/cat/3235/).
No trip to Bermuda is complete without an afternoon of al fresco dining and a steady supply of swizzles at The Swizzle Inn (http://www.swizzleinn.com/). Its unofficial motto: “Swizzle Inn, swagger out” is apropos.
Things to do
If just kicking back and relaxing on a beach isn’t your thing, and you prefer more adventuresome pastimes, have no fear. Scattered about the island, you’ll find a slew of water sports—everything from snorkeling, snuba, scuba and helmet dives to parasailing, kayaking, charter fishing, and glass-bottom boat and sightseeing cruises.
If, like me, your delicate skin can only take so much sea and sand in a week, there’s plenty of other things to see and do in Bermuda!
Need a brisk workout following a night-o-swizzles? Scooter or bus to the Gibbs Hill Lighthouse and climb all 117-feet worth of stairs for one of the best vantage points on the island. http://www.bermuda4u.com/Attractions/bermuda_attractions_gibbs_hill_lighthouse.html
Play golf: http://www.bermuda-online.org/golf.htm
Check out the Bermuda Aquarium, Museum & Zoo: http://www.bamz.org/
Take in some art at the Bermuda National Gallery: http://www.bermudanationalgallery.com/
Stroll the beach on horseback: http://www.bermudatourism.com/181.aspx
Stop and smell the roses at the Bermuda Botantical Gardens: http://www.bermuda4u.com/Attractions/bermuda_attractions_bermuda_botanical_gardens.html
Shop: There are plenty of shops within a few blocks’ radius of Hamilton proper. It’s an odd blend of cheeky tourist traps hocking Bermuda souveniers, old family-business clothiers and importers of British goods on one block, retail chains on the next. There are fast food joints there now, which I hadn’t recalled being there within two decades past. Some local artists have set up shop down the alley ways off the beaten path. And considering Hamilton is a port town and capital, it’s hustling and bustling with the 9-to-5ers who keep the business of Bermuda running. Better shopping, in my opinion, can be found in St. George. http://www.bermuda-online.org/seetown.htm
Several times, I’ve ventured to the furthest tip of the island to visit the Royal Naval Dockyard, which has a super-cool Maritime Museum, watched over by a statue of Neptune. Here, too, you’ll find Dolphin Quest, which I have only observed, because it’s often knee-deep in tourists who want a chance to pet a dolphin. You don’t really get to “swim” with them as the advertisements imply, by the way. And I recall it to be somewhat cost prohibitive. But the dockyard and the maritime museum are well worth the trek and price of admission. http://www.bermudatourism.com/216.aspx
And don’t miss the sort-of kitschy Devil’s Hole Aquarium: http://www.devilshole.bm/ I’ve been there once, on a day when few other tourists were there. We had fun watching the turtles glide about, and were told we were very lucky, indeed, because “Henry is out!” the attendant informed us. Henry is the aquarium’s shy, resident moray eel. To this day, my husband uses the phrase “Look, Henry is out,” to describe less innocent sightings.
And if you’re visiting during a holiday, be sure to ask the locals about how they’re celebrated. For example, Bermuda Day—in May—is marked by a grand parade through the streets of Hamilton. The elaborate costumes, music and skits make it a must-see spectacle. http://www.bermuda-online.org/pubhols.htm
Never gets old
It was during one evening venture to Hamilton that I’ve always thought really exemplified the generosity and spirit of its residents. My husband and I were celebrating our final night in country, following 10 perfect days there. We’d done our share of relaxing and wanted to hit the town following another awesome meal at the resort. We took a taxi into town, and it deposited us right on the main drag. We went into what I’m guessing was Bermuda’s most populated bar and had a few beverages while listening to an endless loop of bad dance music and reggae.
There, we met a young guy—whose name escapes me now, so we’ll call him “Reggie.” We got to talking, learned a little about Reggie’s story, about growing up in Bermuda. He asked us questions about life back in the States. When last call came too fast, he invited us to what he called a “private” after-hours club. Let me just say, in another island scenario, I probably would see red flags, remember horror movies where people are abducted and sold into human trafficking rings by throwing caution to the wind in this way. In Bermuda, it’s different. And Reggie seemed sincere and trustworthy. We followed him through the streets, deeper and deeper into the real Hamilton, the areas where most tourists never see, where people really work and grow up and lead their lives. He took us to a little hole-in-the-wall place, and couldn’t help but notice that we had fairer skin than all the other Bermudian patrons.
We got an unmistakably icy reception at first. Customers looked upon us skeptically, as we bellied up to the bar. Reggie disappeared to the loo, and I began to wonder how well-liked he was among the patrons. This was no “Cheers,” and our Reggie was no “Norm.” Men and women sort of snarled at Reggie or shook their heads in protest as he passed by their tables.
The bartender, a large man, ignored us as long as he could, and finally took our drink orders and began to slowly mix them for us.
Suddenly, we heard a voice from across the bar—the voice of an angel it seemed to me in that awkward moment—calling out our names. I turned and recognized the friendly face of Carol, a server from our resort’s restaurant. We’d made small talk with her while she placed bagels or sandwiches before us. She had a great sense of humor and was a lot less stuffy than some of the other staff.
Carol called us over and greeted us with bear hugs. Instantly, the fog lifted, and we were not only welcomed by those around us, we were celebrated. Carol knew everyone there, and introduced us around. We talked about her family and Philadelphia, and gossiped about some of the patrons that she’d point out and giggle about. She had an infectious laugh and had us laughing and drinking more that night than we’d planned to.
It was Carol who introduced me to Frangelica, and who swore that the amber nectar is hangover proof. And Carol who let us pile into car in the wee hours of the morning, and took us to another already-closed bar, where the owner treated us to cocktails on the house and free reign of the sound system. Carol stuck to Cokes. I stuck with Frangelica.
It was near dawn, I think, when we were back on the street and sans taxi to take us back to our hotel. Carol, a good sport, took pity on us and drove us back to the dock where the cruise ships pull in, where we caught one. It was a long, fun night—one of those travel experiences when you get a good feel for the people, the culture, and make a friend or two. When we said goodbye, we promised to meet again, “for shopping in Philadelphia,” Carol suggested.
That pretty much sums up why I love the country, adore its people, marvel at its geology. It’s an expensive alternative to other similar Carribean islands, but I always feel that you get what you pay for, and for me, I’ve always found it to offer a smart return on my investment.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Oktoberfest in Philadelphia
By G.A. Peck
“You’re not German, are you,” the man to my right asked. This former priest, I was convinced, was sort of hoping—given my fair skin and red hair—that I was one of his own kind, Irish.
I had to laugh, for I’d always assumed that with the first name “Gretchen”—not to mention my maiden name, “Burchardt,” which of course he couldn’t possibly have known—was sort of a dead giveaway. It’s legend among my family that had I been born male, I would have been saddled with the name “Otto,” after my paternal grandfather. Certainly, it would have been a hard name to carry as a child—an Otto among a sea of Michaels and Johns and Andrews.
For many years of my youth, I secretly thanked my lucky stars that I was born a girl. Today, however, with years of maturity under my belt, I might well have appreciated the namesake, for I miss my grandfather.
I adored my “Pop-Pop,” and wish he hadn’t died so early in my life. He—with his omnipresent glass of iced tea in hand, his booming voice and hearty though infrequent laughter, and the scented shroud of black-cherry pipe tobacco—doted on me like none of his own children. He spoiled me rotten with small gifts of lollipops and shiny quarters drawn from the depths of his pockets. Once, he bought me a new pair of shoes when I complained that the ones I was wearing were too small and hurt my feet. He was that kind of grandfather, kind and observant. It was my Pop-Pop who regaled me with stories of ....Germany....—how the mountains soared endlessly, how the air seemed so much cleaner there, how jovial its people are. It was a romantic description of the country, I realize now. But then, Germany seemed like a magical place to me, and I dreamed of visiting it and possibly living there one day.
When I learned in school about Germany’s horrific past under Hitler’s rule, I was ashamed of being German. I wished I could change my name, and I felt the stares of others when we studied WWII in history class. Some teased me about my heritage and accused my ancestors of grave actions. Some teased me for how I looked—not classically pretty; rather, classically German, with a long, narrow face and slightly upturned nose. I told my grandfather about their teasing, and despite his usually stoic demeanor, he wrapped me in his arms and said, “They may not think you’re beautiful, but what do they know? In Germany, you’d be considered one of the most beautiful girls. You’d be treated like a princess.” And his kind words—true or not—sustained me when the kids were cruel.
I was thinking about this when the former priest was asking me about my heritage. We were sitting at a long table among many long rows of tables, beneath a circus-like tent, listening to an oompah band and hoisting plastic cups brimming with Warsteiner beer.
This was the second time I’d attended the Cannstatter Volksfest Oktoberfest (http://www.cvvphilly.com/fest.html). Two years before, my husband and I had spent a day there at the recommendation of one of his colleagues. This year, we went with a larger contingent—that co-worker’s family (a blend of Irish and German, mirroring my own) and some friends who ventured all the way from central Jersey to spend the day with us.
It was a perfect almost-fall-like day—sunny and crisp for a Labor Day weekend. We drank and dance and ate and laughed under the big tent, surrounded by other families who made it an annual event—a festival attended by thousands but with the cozy ambience of a neighborhood block party. I felt comfortable there, for lack of a better adjective.
A big fan of people watching, I was in my element. Upon paying my $6 entry fee, I was greeted by Philadelphia District Attorney Lynne Abraham, who handed me a pamphlet that declared this year to be the 137th festival of its kind. We strolled and passed by an assortment of vendors selling German mementos like beer steins and lederhosen and wreathes made of silk flowers and ribbons. Later, after a few beers, my husband bought me one of those wreathes for $10—in pink and white to match the t-shirt I’d chosen for the day.
There seemed to be a much bigger crowd this year, perhaps due to the impeccable weather. Many of the attendees were older folks. Occasionally I’d pass by someone speaking German, and I secretly cursed myself for not having studied the language more seriously. It was nice to see some younger people, too—the next generation committed to keeping the tradition alive. My husband’s co-worker told us of how he’d been coming to the Volksfest all his life, practically, and that one of his favorite family photographs was one of his mother at the festival, many years before, holding him as a baby in her arms.
We stood in fast-moving lines for tickets to buy beer and food—hearty platters of bratwurst and smoked pork chops, German potato salad, sauerkraut and funnel cakes. “We are not a thin people, us Germans,” I joked with my friend as we discussed the food and the girth of some of those around us.
Later, my husband and I took to the dance floor for the requisite “chicken dance,” and some polka lite. The band leader led chants in German, and the crowd erupted in cheers and applause.
When we were good and buzzed from the free-flowing pitchers, we went to one of the stands, equipped with a roulette wheel of sorts. For a quarter each, he chose a few numbers and after a few spins walked away with his prize, a white paper bag filled with German lunchmeats. How classically German to crowd around and jostle for a chance at winning meat.
Toward the end of the day, the crowd gathered at a building crafted to look like a windmill, and enjoyed the annual Altweibermühle, “The True Fountain of Youth.” Dressed as bakers, elderly German men would miraculously turn an old woman (really, just a girl dressed in an ugly Halloween mask and wig) into a beautiful maiden by churning them up in the mill and spitting them out the shoot. One by one, the “old ladies” were tossed in, only to exit down the metal slide in their new St. Pauli Girl-esque form.
We capped off the day with shots of Apple Korn, a sweet liqueur that went down smooth as cider. The men among us bravely sampled shots of Schwartzhog, a dark syrupy concoction that I sniffed and then decided to pass on. The next day, my husband would wish that he’d taken a pass on the beverage, too.
There were amusement rides for the children, and everyone took time to marvel at the crafted tower made entirely out of harvested fall vegetables.
The hours passed easily and quickly, and I grew a bit melancholy when it was all said and done, when I was sober and driving my not-so-sober husband home. I reflected back on the day—the spectacle of it all, what great friends we have, and how despite the common theme of alcohol, there were no drunken idiots, no bar-like brawls. Just smiles and laughter and memories being made.
I thought how much my grandfather would have enjoyed it so, and I hoped somehow that he was watching over me, happy to see me so proud of where we came from, of the good-natured, fun-loving people we are.
“You’re not German, are you,” the man to my right asked. This former priest, I was convinced, was sort of hoping—given my fair skin and red hair—that I was one of his own kind, Irish.
I had to laugh, for I’d always assumed that with the first name “Gretchen”—not to mention my maiden name, “Burchardt,” which of course he couldn’t possibly have known—was sort of a dead giveaway. It’s legend among my family that had I been born male, I would have been saddled with the name “Otto,” after my paternal grandfather. Certainly, it would have been a hard name to carry as a child—an Otto among a sea of Michaels and Johns and Andrews.
For many years of my youth, I secretly thanked my lucky stars that I was born a girl. Today, however, with years of maturity under my belt, I might well have appreciated the namesake, for I miss my grandfather.
I adored my “Pop-Pop,” and wish he hadn’t died so early in my life. He—with his omnipresent glass of iced tea in hand, his booming voice and hearty though infrequent laughter, and the scented shroud of black-cherry pipe tobacco—doted on me like none of his own children. He spoiled me rotten with small gifts of lollipops and shiny quarters drawn from the depths of his pockets. Once, he bought me a new pair of shoes when I complained that the ones I was wearing were too small and hurt my feet. He was that kind of grandfather, kind and observant. It was my Pop-Pop who regaled me with stories of ....Germany....—how the mountains soared endlessly, how the air seemed so much cleaner there, how jovial its people are. It was a romantic description of the country, I realize now. But then, Germany seemed like a magical place to me, and I dreamed of visiting it and possibly living there one day.
When I learned in school about Germany’s horrific past under Hitler’s rule, I was ashamed of being German. I wished I could change my name, and I felt the stares of others when we studied WWII in history class. Some teased me about my heritage and accused my ancestors of grave actions. Some teased me for how I looked—not classically pretty; rather, classically German, with a long, narrow face and slightly upturned nose. I told my grandfather about their teasing, and despite his usually stoic demeanor, he wrapped me in his arms and said, “They may not think you’re beautiful, but what do they know? In Germany, you’d be considered one of the most beautiful girls. You’d be treated like a princess.” And his kind words—true or not—sustained me when the kids were cruel.
I was thinking about this when the former priest was asking me about my heritage. We were sitting at a long table among many long rows of tables, beneath a circus-like tent, listening to an oompah band and hoisting plastic cups brimming with Warsteiner beer.
This was the second time I’d attended the Cannstatter Volksfest Oktoberfest (http://www.cvvphilly.com/fest.html). Two years before, my husband and I had spent a day there at the recommendation of one of his colleagues. This year, we went with a larger contingent—that co-worker’s family (a blend of Irish and German, mirroring my own) and some friends who ventured all the way from central Jersey to spend the day with us.
It was a perfect almost-fall-like day—sunny and crisp for a Labor Day weekend. We drank and dance and ate and laughed under the big tent, surrounded by other families who made it an annual event—a festival attended by thousands but with the cozy ambience of a neighborhood block party. I felt comfortable there, for lack of a better adjective.
A big fan of people watching, I was in my element. Upon paying my $6 entry fee, I was greeted by Philadelphia District Attorney Lynne Abraham, who handed me a pamphlet that declared this year to be the 137th festival of its kind. We strolled and passed by an assortment of vendors selling German mementos like beer steins and lederhosen and wreathes made of silk flowers and ribbons. Later, after a few beers, my husband bought me one of those wreathes for $10—in pink and white to match the t-shirt I’d chosen for the day.
There seemed to be a much bigger crowd this year, perhaps due to the impeccable weather. Many of the attendees were older folks. Occasionally I’d pass by someone speaking German, and I secretly cursed myself for not having studied the language more seriously. It was nice to see some younger people, too—the next generation committed to keeping the tradition alive. My husband’s co-worker told us of how he’d been coming to the Volksfest all his life, practically, and that one of his favorite family photographs was one of his mother at the festival, many years before, holding him as a baby in her arms.
We stood in fast-moving lines for tickets to buy beer and food—hearty platters of bratwurst and smoked pork chops, German potato salad, sauerkraut and funnel cakes. “We are not a thin people, us Germans,” I joked with my friend as we discussed the food and the girth of some of those around us.
Later, my husband and I took to the dance floor for the requisite “chicken dance,” and some polka lite. The band leader led chants in German, and the crowd erupted in cheers and applause.
When we were good and buzzed from the free-flowing pitchers, we went to one of the stands, equipped with a roulette wheel of sorts. For a quarter each, he chose a few numbers and after a few spins walked away with his prize, a white paper bag filled with German lunchmeats. How classically German to crowd around and jostle for a chance at winning meat.
Toward the end of the day, the crowd gathered at a building crafted to look like a windmill, and enjoyed the annual Altweibermühle, “The True Fountain of Youth.” Dressed as bakers, elderly German men would miraculously turn an old woman (really, just a girl dressed in an ugly Halloween mask and wig) into a beautiful maiden by churning them up in the mill and spitting them out the shoot. One by one, the “old ladies” were tossed in, only to exit down the metal slide in their new St. Pauli Girl-esque form.
We capped off the day with shots of Apple Korn, a sweet liqueur that went down smooth as cider. The men among us bravely sampled shots of Schwartzhog, a dark syrupy concoction that I sniffed and then decided to pass on. The next day, my husband would wish that he’d taken a pass on the beverage, too.
There were amusement rides for the children, and everyone took time to marvel at the crafted tower made entirely out of harvested fall vegetables.
The hours passed easily and quickly, and I grew a bit melancholy when it was all said and done, when I was sober and driving my not-so-sober husband home. I reflected back on the day—the spectacle of it all, what great friends we have, and how despite the common theme of alcohol, there were no drunken idiots, no bar-like brawls. Just smiles and laughter and memories being made.
I thought how much my grandfather would have enjoyed it so, and I hoped somehow that he was watching over me, happy to see me so proud of where we came from, of the good-natured, fun-loving people we are.
Tomato Ketchup
by Allison Eckel
Our vegetable garden's mid-harvest tomato yield was huge, so I decided to get adventurous and try to make ketchup from scratch. My first resource was my trusted Joy of Cooking (by Irma S. Rombauer, Marion Rombauer Becker, and Ethan Becker). I have the 1997 edition, gifted to me by my mother-in-law, who discovered early in my life with her son that my skill in the kitchen was greatly lacking.
On page 69, I found a recipe for Tomato Ketchup, which includes an enticing description of the history of this condiment, as well as a disclaimer that it is historically more savory than its modern commercial counterpart. "OK, whatever," I think. "Let's make ketchup!"
The first ingredient is, of course, tomatoes, peeled and chopped. Fourteen pounds of tomatoes! Luckily, the variety we grew this year is large, knobby, ugly, and heavy, but 14 pounds is still a heck of a lot of tomatoes.The recipe offers no explanation of how to peel a tomato without it ending up in a gory mess, so I asked my cousin. He makes his own salsa. He recommended blanching, which is a process of boiling a vegetable for just a few seconds, then halting that heat with a cold-water bath.
From his explanation, each tomato was to be boiled, cooled, and peeled--in that order.So I arranged my stove-side work area with a pot of boiling water, a pot of icy water, a large pasta bowl to hold the peeled tomatoes, and a stock pot for the diced bits--all ringing a cutting board.
Was I supposed to dispose of the seeds and watery innards? I didn't know, because that's also not covered in the recipe. So I did for some, and got lazy with others. Before too long, I also added makeshift paper-towel dams along the edge of the countertop to stop tomato water from dripping onto my floor from the cutting board.
Two hours later, the tomatoes were ready and in the pot, along with eight sliced onions, and two diced red bell peppers. And I only cut one finger!
With the pot on to simmer, Step One was complete.
After dinner, the contents of the pot were soft, so it was on to Step Two. We broke out our new copy of The Sound of Music, popped some corn, and settled into our places: kids and Daddy in the family room, and Mom at the stove with her many pots and her new food mill. This way, I would have a good soundtrack for my labor.
For this step, I was to take the contents from the pot from chunky to smooth and watery, by pushing it through the food mill or a fine sieve. In the beginning, the food mill worked like a charm, and before long I had a ketchup-like watery liquid. But the parts that would not go through easily--most of the onion slices, actually--made for tough work. By the time the Nazis were chasing those adorable von Trapp kids through the streets of ....Salzburg...., I had about three cups of limp onion slices that just would not cooperate. And since it was after ..9:00 p.m..., I was losing steam and dedication, so those last bits of veg went into my compost bucket.
Note to self: Next time, consider finely dicing the onion and red pepper instead of slicing; the smaller, the better from the get-go, I think.
To the pot I added light brown sugar and dry mustard, then moved on to Step Three. Step Three was easy, and I found myself back at the stove to simmer, this time with a cheesecloth bundle of exotic-smelling spices. The concoction smelled more like mulled wine than anything one would pair with french fries. This second simmer allowed me time to help put the kids to bed, which was fortunate, because my three-year-old decided to put an extra struggle, since I had to shoo her out of the kitchen for most of the day. By the time I came down, the "reduction by half" was nearly complete.
Step Four was a breeze: Add cider vinegar and salt and red pepper flakes to taste; simmer another 10 minutes, and stir. Since I don't know how to can, I was to then let it cool before refrigerating. So my work complete, I removed the pot from the heat to cool, and finally sat my bottom down to relax and watch a little TV, and since it was after 11:00 p.m., I feel asleep on the couch. The ketchup finally made it into the fridge at ..5:30 a.m..., when I awoke and realized where I was.
At lunch, my husband and I tried the finished product. It tasted very vinegary. My first thought was of those extra veggies I discarded when I gave up on the food mill. Or, maybe I should have left all of the seeds and tomato guts in. Regardless, we added a white sugar, which is not in the recipe. The final, final product became a savory sauce with a consistency almost like cocktail sauce, but with a deeper brown-red color. It was really yummy on a burger and went nicely with a tuna steak we grilled for dinner.
After all that, I conclude that this is not a suitable replacement for the corn-syrup-laden ketchup my kids crave, but it is a nice condiment for turning pub food into more refined cuisine. And the cooks behind the Joy of Cooking would have me simply appreciate the process, since their title page quotes Shakespeare: "Joy's soul lies in the doing." Fine, but my soul craves a squeezable bottle of ketchup.
Our vegetable garden's mid-harvest tomato yield was huge, so I decided to get adventurous and try to make ketchup from scratch. My first resource was my trusted Joy of Cooking (by Irma S. Rombauer, Marion Rombauer Becker, and Ethan Becker). I have the 1997 edition, gifted to me by my mother-in-law, who discovered early in my life with her son that my skill in the kitchen was greatly lacking.
On page 69, I found a recipe for Tomato Ketchup, which includes an enticing description of the history of this condiment, as well as a disclaimer that it is historically more savory than its modern commercial counterpart. "OK, whatever," I think. "Let's make ketchup!"
The first ingredient is, of course, tomatoes, peeled and chopped. Fourteen pounds of tomatoes! Luckily, the variety we grew this year is large, knobby, ugly, and heavy, but 14 pounds is still a heck of a lot of tomatoes.The recipe offers no explanation of how to peel a tomato without it ending up in a gory mess, so I asked my cousin. He makes his own salsa. He recommended blanching, which is a process of boiling a vegetable for just a few seconds, then halting that heat with a cold-water bath.
From his explanation, each tomato was to be boiled, cooled, and peeled--in that order.So I arranged my stove-side work area with a pot of boiling water, a pot of icy water, a large pasta bowl to hold the peeled tomatoes, and a stock pot for the diced bits--all ringing a cutting board.
Was I supposed to dispose of the seeds and watery innards? I didn't know, because that's also not covered in the recipe. So I did for some, and got lazy with others. Before too long, I also added makeshift paper-towel dams along the edge of the countertop to stop tomato water from dripping onto my floor from the cutting board.
Two hours later, the tomatoes were ready and in the pot, along with eight sliced onions, and two diced red bell peppers. And I only cut one finger!
With the pot on to simmer, Step One was complete.
After dinner, the contents of the pot were soft, so it was on to Step Two. We broke out our new copy of The Sound of Music, popped some corn, and settled into our places: kids and Daddy in the family room, and Mom at the stove with her many pots and her new food mill. This way, I would have a good soundtrack for my labor.
For this step, I was to take the contents from the pot from chunky to smooth and watery, by pushing it through the food mill or a fine sieve. In the beginning, the food mill worked like a charm, and before long I had a ketchup-like watery liquid. But the parts that would not go through easily--most of the onion slices, actually--made for tough work. By the time the Nazis were chasing those adorable von Trapp kids through the streets of ....Salzburg...., I had about three cups of limp onion slices that just would not cooperate. And since it was after ..9:00 p.m..., I was losing steam and dedication, so those last bits of veg went into my compost bucket.
Note to self: Next time, consider finely dicing the onion and red pepper instead of slicing; the smaller, the better from the get-go, I think.
To the pot I added light brown sugar and dry mustard, then moved on to Step Three. Step Three was easy, and I found myself back at the stove to simmer, this time with a cheesecloth bundle of exotic-smelling spices. The concoction smelled more like mulled wine than anything one would pair with french fries. This second simmer allowed me time to help put the kids to bed, which was fortunate, because my three-year-old decided to put an extra struggle, since I had to shoo her out of the kitchen for most of the day. By the time I came down, the "reduction by half" was nearly complete.
Step Four was a breeze: Add cider vinegar and salt and red pepper flakes to taste; simmer another 10 minutes, and stir. Since I don't know how to can, I was to then let it cool before refrigerating. So my work complete, I removed the pot from the heat to cool, and finally sat my bottom down to relax and watch a little TV, and since it was after 11:00 p.m., I feel asleep on the couch. The ketchup finally made it into the fridge at ..5:30 a.m..., when I awoke and realized where I was.
At lunch, my husband and I tried the finished product. It tasted very vinegary. My first thought was of those extra veggies I discarded when I gave up on the food mill. Or, maybe I should have left all of the seeds and tomato guts in. Regardless, we added a white sugar, which is not in the recipe. The final, final product became a savory sauce with a consistency almost like cocktail sauce, but with a deeper brown-red color. It was really yummy on a burger and went nicely with a tuna steak we grilled for dinner.
After all that, I conclude that this is not a suitable replacement for the corn-syrup-laden ketchup my kids crave, but it is a nice condiment for turning pub food into more refined cuisine. And the cooks behind the Joy of Cooking would have me simply appreciate the process, since their title page quotes Shakespeare: "Joy's soul lies in the doing." Fine, but my soul craves a squeezable bottle of ketchup.
Lobster Cioppino
By G.A. Peck
I was craving seafood the other day, so I whipped up a little lobster cioppino and served it with a few thick slices of crusty-on-the-outside, soft-on-the-inside sourdough bread. Here’s how I made it:
Ingredients
One (1) good-sized lobster, 1lb or 1.5lbs. will do, preferably a female
Two (2) dozen fresh mussels
One (1) dozen fresh shrimp, medium to large in size
One (1) large sweet onion, diced
One (1) cup of white wine
One (1) 15-oz. can of tomato sauce
One (1) 7-oz. bottle of clam juice
One (1) large can of crushed tomatoes
Three (3) cloves of garlic, chopped
One (1) heaping tablespoon of red pepper flake
One (1) tablespoon of olive oil
Salt and pepper
Directions
Par-boil the lobster for approximately two minutes. Allow to cool. Remove roe (which may still be black or green; it will turn red when cooked) and set aside. Remove body, reserving the tail and claws. Pre-crack them with a butcher knife, to make them easier to eat when ready to serve.
Pre-heat large stock pot to medium-high, and add olive oil, enough to coat the bottom of the pot. Allow the oil to come up to temperature; it will begin to ripple. Add diced onions and sauté until slightly translucent. Add chopped garlic, red pepper flake and lobster roe. Cook for two minutes over medium-high heat; be careful not to burn the garlic.
Add about a cup of dry white wine, tomato sauce, clam juice, crushed tomatoes, and a pinch of salt and pepper. Simmer over medium-low heat for 30 minutes.
Rinse mussels, and clean, de-head (if needed) and de-vein the shrimp.
Add mussels, shrimp and lobster pieces to the pot. Cover and simmer for a few minutes—just long enough for the shrimp to cook thru and for the mussels to open up. Discard any mussels that do not open. Serve in a deep-dish bowl with hunks of sourdough bread to soak up all the yummy juice.
All Rights Reserved, Simply Sibarita 2009.
I was craving seafood the other day, so I whipped up a little lobster cioppino and served it with a few thick slices of crusty-on-the-outside, soft-on-the-inside sourdough bread. Here’s how I made it:
Ingredients
One (1) good-sized lobster, 1lb or 1.5lbs. will do, preferably a female
Two (2) dozen fresh mussels
One (1) dozen fresh shrimp, medium to large in size
One (1) large sweet onion, diced
One (1) cup of white wine
One (1) 15-oz. can of tomato sauce
One (1) 7-oz. bottle of clam juice
One (1) large can of crushed tomatoes
Three (3) cloves of garlic, chopped
One (1) heaping tablespoon of red pepper flake
One (1) tablespoon of olive oil
Salt and pepper
Directions
Par-boil the lobster for approximately two minutes. Allow to cool. Remove roe (which may still be black or green; it will turn red when cooked) and set aside. Remove body, reserving the tail and claws. Pre-crack them with a butcher knife, to make them easier to eat when ready to serve.
Pre-heat large stock pot to medium-high, and add olive oil, enough to coat the bottom of the pot. Allow the oil to come up to temperature; it will begin to ripple. Add diced onions and sauté until slightly translucent. Add chopped garlic, red pepper flake and lobster roe. Cook for two minutes over medium-high heat; be careful not to burn the garlic.
Add about a cup of dry white wine, tomato sauce, clam juice, crushed tomatoes, and a pinch of salt and pepper. Simmer over medium-low heat for 30 minutes.
Rinse mussels, and clean, de-head (if needed) and de-vein the shrimp.
Add mussels, shrimp and lobster pieces to the pot. Cover and simmer for a few minutes—just long enough for the shrimp to cook thru and for the mussels to open up. Discard any mussels that do not open. Serve in a deep-dish bowl with hunks of sourdough bread to soak up all the yummy juice.
All Rights Reserved, Simply Sibarita 2009.
Rocky Mountain High
By G.A. Peck
I hadn’t seen much of Colorado in all these years, just glimpses of the Rocky Mountains from 30,000 feet as I jetted cross country on the way to the Left Coast. There was one occasion when I was able to marvel at the engineering of Denver’s airport while on a brief layover on my way out West. I knew I’d like the State, but never had cause enough to visit until recently, when I spent nearly a week in Denver, Boulder, Erie, and everywhere in between.
A family member was relocating from San Francisco to Boulder County, and I offered to lend a hand in getting him settled into his new home. It was the perfect, welcome excuse to visit with him and to explore a part of the country I had yet to see.
A room with a view
I needed a hotel that was conveniently located—within driving distance of Denver and Boulder County, where I planned to spend most of my stay. A search on some of the discount travel sites produced an untold number of Marriott Courtyard-type establishments, but I craved something with a little more ambience, and ended up choosing the Hotel Boulderado, right in the thick of things downtown.
http://www.msplinks.com/MDFodHRwOi8vd3d3LmJvdWxkZXJhZG8uY29tLw==
The hotel is magnificent, rich in history, impeccably clean, and authentically decorated in its original Victorian style. For approximately $250/night, I landed in a standard room with a king-sized bed, which I was pleasantly surprised to find was more like a suite you’d find in an upscale hotel, complete with a sitting room, separate bedroom, walk-in closet, and large bathroom (with, for a change, plenty of water pressure in the shower). It reminded me a little of my stay in the old section of the Hotel Del Coronado in San Diego, only the Boulderado was much more roomy and less overrun by tourists. It, too, offered a range of amenities and services, including spa treatments. Every member of the staff I encountered was friendly, outgoing, eager to respond to any questions or request I had during my stay. This was, by far, the best hotel experience I may have ever had.
Food finds
I can’t profess to have enjoyed much of Boulder’s food during our stay, though I did feast on a great BBQ po boy on the rooftop deck of The Lazy Dog (http://www.msplinks.com/MDFodHRwOi8vYmxvZ3MubXlzcGFjZS5jb20vd3d3LnRoZWxhenlkb2cuY29t), and enjoyed a delicious breakfast crepe at Crepes a la Cart (http://www.msplinks.com/MDFodHRwOi8vd3d3LmJvdWxkZXJkb3dudG93bi5jb20vZ3VpZGUvZ28vMTAzOA==).
I had been warned by several of the locals that it was nearly impossible to get good, fresh seafood in Colorado. And that may very well be true. Rarely did I find any fish or shellfish on the menu, and the one time I did—at a Mexican restaurant, where I ordered ceviche—I found it, in fact, to be sub-par.
Shopping mecca
Downtown Boulder is replete with shopping opportunities, if you’re so inclined to stimulate the local economy. I enjoyed browsing a few of the shops, including a poster and print gallery that had a great selection of vintage maps, historic geographic prints of the area, and postcards. There was also no shortage of vintage and designer clothing boutiques, novelty stores, tea and holistic healing shops, and places hocking the works of local artists and craftsmen.
I spent some hard-earned cash here, http://www.msplinks.com/MDFodHRwOi8vd3d3LnNhdm9yeXNwaWNlc2hvcC5jb20v, and was a little surprised I was able to transport an assortment of spice bags back home to Philadelphia without so much as a raised eyebrow or a curious sniff from airport security.
The shopping district has been designed to best accommodate foot and non-motorized traffic. Courtyards run down the center of certain blocks, and in the evenings, local performance artists and musicians line the streets to entertain the meandering masses.
Sightseeing
I’d had high hopes to see more of the region, including trekking out to some of the wilder areas of the State, visiting a few hot springs and so forth. I’d like to ski, perhaps, at some of the nearby hotspots, and I’d love to take a drive out to Rancho Del Rio (http://www.msplinks.com/MDFodHRwOi8vd3d3LnJhbmNob2RlbHJpby5jb20v), a rafting, river-guide camp, where my brother-in-law lived for a stretch of time. It sits right on the Colorado River, and I understand it’s quite rugged and picturesque. Time did not permit during this trip, but these destinations will definitely be a part of my future visits.
At least three new local friends recommended a drive up to Rocky Mountain National Park (http://www.msplinks.com/MDFodHRwOi8vd3d3Lm5wcy5nb3Yvcm9tbw==), which I made on my final full day in Colorado. It was a breathtaking, humbling—and sometimes treacherous drive, courtesy of winding roads that occasionally overlooked rather steep, plunge-to-your-death cliffs, and the impromptu elk crossings that forced quick stops.
Decompression
Having traveled both domestically and internationally, I have found that there are a few places on the globe where I’m able to totally decompress and relax, letting all the burdens of home wash away. Boulder was one of those places for me. I adjusted to the higher altitude and slower lifestyle almost instantly. I can understand why a few locals told me: “I’m originally from back East, but I came here on vacation (or to go to college), and I never left.” There’s something about those mountains and the lovely people of the area that welcomes you, like the embrace of an old friend you’ve been searching for and, at last, have found.Have some stories to share about your own time in Colorado? Comment or email us!
I hadn’t seen much of Colorado in all these years, just glimpses of the Rocky Mountains from 30,000 feet as I jetted cross country on the way to the Left Coast. There was one occasion when I was able to marvel at the engineering of Denver’s airport while on a brief layover on my way out West. I knew I’d like the State, but never had cause enough to visit until recently, when I spent nearly a week in Denver, Boulder, Erie, and everywhere in between.
A family member was relocating from San Francisco to Boulder County, and I offered to lend a hand in getting him settled into his new home. It was the perfect, welcome excuse to visit with him and to explore a part of the country I had yet to see.
A room with a view
I needed a hotel that was conveniently located—within driving distance of Denver and Boulder County, where I planned to spend most of my stay. A search on some of the discount travel sites produced an untold number of Marriott Courtyard-type establishments, but I craved something with a little more ambience, and ended up choosing the Hotel Boulderado, right in the thick of things downtown.
http://www.msplinks.com/MDFodHRwOi8vd3d3LmJvdWxkZXJhZG8uY29tLw==
The hotel is magnificent, rich in history, impeccably clean, and authentically decorated in its original Victorian style. For approximately $250/night, I landed in a standard room with a king-sized bed, which I was pleasantly surprised to find was more like a suite you’d find in an upscale hotel, complete with a sitting room, separate bedroom, walk-in closet, and large bathroom (with, for a change, plenty of water pressure in the shower). It reminded me a little of my stay in the old section of the Hotel Del Coronado in San Diego, only the Boulderado was much more roomy and less overrun by tourists. It, too, offered a range of amenities and services, including spa treatments. Every member of the staff I encountered was friendly, outgoing, eager to respond to any questions or request I had during my stay. This was, by far, the best hotel experience I may have ever had.
Food finds
I can’t profess to have enjoyed much of Boulder’s food during our stay, though I did feast on a great BBQ po boy on the rooftop deck of The Lazy Dog (http://www.msplinks.com/MDFodHRwOi8vYmxvZ3MubXlzcGFjZS5jb20vd3d3LnRoZWxhenlkb2cuY29t), and enjoyed a delicious breakfast crepe at Crepes a la Cart (http://www.msplinks.com/MDFodHRwOi8vd3d3LmJvdWxkZXJkb3dudG93bi5jb20vZ3VpZGUvZ28vMTAzOA==).
I had been warned by several of the locals that it was nearly impossible to get good, fresh seafood in Colorado. And that may very well be true. Rarely did I find any fish or shellfish on the menu, and the one time I did—at a Mexican restaurant, where I ordered ceviche—I found it, in fact, to be sub-par.
Shopping mecca
Downtown Boulder is replete with shopping opportunities, if you’re so inclined to stimulate the local economy. I enjoyed browsing a few of the shops, including a poster and print gallery that had a great selection of vintage maps, historic geographic prints of the area, and postcards. There was also no shortage of vintage and designer clothing boutiques, novelty stores, tea and holistic healing shops, and places hocking the works of local artists and craftsmen.
I spent some hard-earned cash here, http://www.msplinks.com/MDFodHRwOi8vd3d3LnNhdm9yeXNwaWNlc2hvcC5jb20v, and was a little surprised I was able to transport an assortment of spice bags back home to Philadelphia without so much as a raised eyebrow or a curious sniff from airport security.
The shopping district has been designed to best accommodate foot and non-motorized traffic. Courtyards run down the center of certain blocks, and in the evenings, local performance artists and musicians line the streets to entertain the meandering masses.
Sightseeing
I’d had high hopes to see more of the region, including trekking out to some of the wilder areas of the State, visiting a few hot springs and so forth. I’d like to ski, perhaps, at some of the nearby hotspots, and I’d love to take a drive out to Rancho Del Rio (http://www.msplinks.com/MDFodHRwOi8vd3d3LnJhbmNob2RlbHJpby5jb20v), a rafting, river-guide camp, where my brother-in-law lived for a stretch of time. It sits right on the Colorado River, and I understand it’s quite rugged and picturesque. Time did not permit during this trip, but these destinations will definitely be a part of my future visits.
At least three new local friends recommended a drive up to Rocky Mountain National Park (http://www.msplinks.com/MDFodHRwOi8vd3d3Lm5wcy5nb3Yvcm9tbw==), which I made on my final full day in Colorado. It was a breathtaking, humbling—and sometimes treacherous drive, courtesy of winding roads that occasionally overlooked rather steep, plunge-to-your-death cliffs, and the impromptu elk crossings that forced quick stops.
Decompression
Having traveled both domestically and internationally, I have found that there are a few places on the globe where I’m able to totally decompress and relax, letting all the burdens of home wash away. Boulder was one of those places for me. I adjusted to the higher altitude and slower lifestyle almost instantly. I can understand why a few locals told me: “I’m originally from back East, but I came here on vacation (or to go to college), and I never left.” There’s something about those mountains and the lovely people of the area that welcomes you, like the embrace of an old friend you’ve been searching for and, at last, have found.Have some stories to share about your own time in Colorado? Comment or email us!
All Rights Reserved, Simply Sibarita, 2009.
Miso Soup with Clams
by G.A.Peck
One of my favorite places in town these days is Morimoto, one of two restaurants of the same name. The second is in Manhattan. I’ve been to the Philadelphia-based establishment a couple of times now, and have had exceptional meals each time. The last time was a treat for my husband, on a milestone birthday, when we splurged on a limo and champagne and indulged in the “chef’s choice” tasting menu with some friends. I have a video of that night somewhere, but I’m not sure it’s fit for public posting. We had a very good time, and even the Iron Chef himself stopped by our table to wish my star-struck husband a happy birthday.
He had a great birthday, thoroughly enjoyed himself, as he and I got a little tipsy between courses and secretly videotaped our friends, who spent the evening mostly arguing the merits of wearing slippers when walking the wood floors of their new house. (Sorry guys, when we said that we weren’t filming you, we were lying.)
Anyway, the tasting menu that night consisted of a whole assortment of exotic types of sushi and fish dishes, each one more delicious than the one before. But it was the first course that really stuck with me, and I’ve coveted the dish ever since. It was so simple. A miso soup, light and flavorful, with small clams. It was out of this world, and I always thought, “I bet that’s simple to make.”
So finally, several years later, I attempted to make my own. And, I’m sorry to say, Chef, but I think I may have outdone even your near-perfect product. Here’s how I made it, in less than an hour, and it was heaven in a steaming-hot bowl.
Ingredients
2 cups chicken stock
4 cups water
4 heaping tablespoons of miso (I used the organic red.)
One sheet of dried seaweed, cut in one-inch strands
A handful of Egyptian shallots (These grow in my garden, but you can substitute scallions, instead.)
2 dozen small clams, like littlenecks
1 package of tofu (There are “hard” and “soft” kinds; hard will hold up better in the soup as it cooks.)
A handful of mushrooms (Use your favorite kind; I used white straw mushrooms with the long stems and small button caps.)
A pinch of salt
Directions
Bring chicken stock and water up to a boil in a medium stock pot.
Add miso, one tablespoon at a time, and stir until it dissolves. Reduce heat to a simmer.
Add a pinch of salt, the seaweed strands, diced shallots (or scallions), mushrooms, and tofu, which I cut into small cubes. Allow soup to simmer while tending to clams, and add salt, as needed, to taste.
First, wash clams thoroughly with water and vegetable scrub brush. Steam over boiling water until they open. Discard any unopened clams.
Transfer opened clams, still in shell, to soup. Or, if you prefer, you can de-shell and put clam meat in the soup without the shells, but I find that the shells—since they’re clean—make excellent little vessels for slurping up this simple, amazing, and healthy soup.
Comfort Food: Venezuela Style (Part 2)
I wrote yesterday about my love for arepas, how discovering them while visiting relatives in Venezuela may very well represent the start of my interest in food. I make a batch myself, every so oftn. The ingredients vary, and I typically take an everything-but-the-kitchen-sink approach. I must confess, I don't often measure, either. Mostly, I toss and stir and blend in the flavors by sight and periodic tasting.
The arepa is not bound by any tradition or rules. The little cornmeal pocket can hold anything from seafood ceviches to roasted vegetables, from beef to chicken to lamb to pork. Think of the arepa as a vehicle deliciously intended to transport classic favorites and exotic delicacies from the plate to your mouth. Below, you’ll find the recipe I followed last night, and they turned out oh so good.
And following the recipe, don’t miss some great links, all about arepas!—G.A. Peck
-------------------------------------------
Braised Beef Arepas
Ingredients
2lb. beef roast (can be any cut you prefer, but a little fat running through it is preferable and makes it easier to shred)
1 tablespoon of vegetable oil
Salt (preferably kosher or sea salt)
Pepper (I use fresh-ground, multi-colored peppercorns)
2 cups of organic beef broth (can also substitute vegetable broth)
1 cup of dry red wine
1 large yellow onion
2 red bell peppers
2 yellow bell peppers
1 spicy pepper (I used a hot banana pepper)
1 32-oz. can of organic diced tomatoes
2 cups of Goya masarepa
3 cups warm water
A palm full of fresh cilantro, washed, dried and diced
1 15-oz. can of black beans (or make them from scratch, according to dried beans package instructions)
¼ cup of olive oil
Here’s how I make them:
I start with a large, deep fry pan. Heat the pan, and when hot, add the 1 tablespoon of vegetable oil. Give it a turn in the pan to coat.
While the pan continues to heat, season the beef with salt and pepper. Add to pan and sear on medium-high heat until the meat is browned on both sides, sealing in the juices, but not cooking all the way through. When done, transfer roast to Nesco roaster (or slow cooker with a relatively high-heat setting). Set to 250-degrees, for a slow simmer. Add 1 cup of beef broth, 1 cup of red wine—in this case, I used a cabernet sauvignon from Argentina—and 1 teaspoon each of coriander, crushed hot red pepper, and 2 bay leafs. Allow to simmer and reduce for approximately one hour.
In the meantime …
Deglaze the pan used to sear the beef with 1 cup of beef broth. Scrape bottom of pan with wooden spoon or spatula until all the brownings are dislodged from the pan and incorporated into the liquid.
Add one diced yellow onion, 2 diced red bell peppers, 2 diced yellow bell peppers, and one diced hot banana pepper. Simmer veggies until they begin to soften. Add one 32-oz. can of organic diced tomatoes; season with salt and pepper; and simmer for approximately 30 minutes. The flavors will meld and the mixture will begin to condense and thicken a bit.
Transfer vegetable mixture—a homemade “sofrito” of sorts—to the roaster, covering the meat entirely. Cover and cook at 250-degrees for another hour.
While the roaster or slow cooker breaks down the meat, allowing it to be easily shredded, and the sofrito to stew it further, prepare the arepas.
My partner in crime tells me that Harina Pan is the best, authentic arepa brand, but I’m unable to find that locally. I use the Goya masarepa white cornmeal—and follow the instructions right on the bag—to create the arepas, first rolling the dough into the ball, then tossing it from palm to the other until I get the desired thickness (about a ½-inch) and circumference (at least three inches across).
Next, I brush the arepas with olive oil and cook at a very high heat on the griddle, flipping it from one side to the other when browned and crunchy on the exterior. The interior of the dough should remain a little soft. When done, allow to cool on a plate or baking rack. Using a fork or bread knife, carefully, open the arepas to form a pocket, into which the stew will be placed. If you’re pressed for time, I suggest just cutting the arepa in half and stacking it or serving open-faced, gourmet style.
Place a large tablespoon of the beef stew in or on the arepa, top with black beans and fresh cilantro and service.
Note: Time permitting, I may also fry up some plantain chips, which can be added for a little extra texture and crunch.
All Rights Reserved, Simply Sibarita, 2009
The arepa is not bound by any tradition or rules. The little cornmeal pocket can hold anything from seafood ceviches to roasted vegetables, from beef to chicken to lamb to pork. Think of the arepa as a vehicle deliciously intended to transport classic favorites and exotic delicacies from the plate to your mouth. Below, you’ll find the recipe I followed last night, and they turned out oh so good.
And following the recipe, don’t miss some great links, all about arepas!—G.A. Peck
-------------------------------------------
Braised Beef Arepas
Ingredients
2lb. beef roast (can be any cut you prefer, but a little fat running through it is preferable and makes it easier to shred)
1 tablespoon of vegetable oil
Salt (preferably kosher or sea salt)
Pepper (I use fresh-ground, multi-colored peppercorns)
2 cups of organic beef broth (can also substitute vegetable broth)
1 cup of dry red wine
1 large yellow onion
2 red bell peppers
2 yellow bell peppers
1 spicy pepper (I used a hot banana pepper)
1 32-oz. can of organic diced tomatoes
2 cups of Goya masarepa
3 cups warm water
A palm full of fresh cilantro, washed, dried and diced
1 15-oz. can of black beans (or make them from scratch, according to dried beans package instructions)
¼ cup of olive oil
Here’s how I make them:
I start with a large, deep fry pan. Heat the pan, and when hot, add the 1 tablespoon of vegetable oil. Give it a turn in the pan to coat.
While the pan continues to heat, season the beef with salt and pepper. Add to pan and sear on medium-high heat until the meat is browned on both sides, sealing in the juices, but not cooking all the way through. When done, transfer roast to Nesco roaster (or slow cooker with a relatively high-heat setting). Set to 250-degrees, for a slow simmer. Add 1 cup of beef broth, 1 cup of red wine—in this case, I used a cabernet sauvignon from Argentina—and 1 teaspoon each of coriander, crushed hot red pepper, and 2 bay leafs. Allow to simmer and reduce for approximately one hour.
In the meantime …
Deglaze the pan used to sear the beef with 1 cup of beef broth. Scrape bottom of pan with wooden spoon or spatula until all the brownings are dislodged from the pan and incorporated into the liquid.
Add one diced yellow onion, 2 diced red bell peppers, 2 diced yellow bell peppers, and one diced hot banana pepper. Simmer veggies until they begin to soften. Add one 32-oz. can of organic diced tomatoes; season with salt and pepper; and simmer for approximately 30 minutes. The flavors will meld and the mixture will begin to condense and thicken a bit.
Transfer vegetable mixture—a homemade “sofrito” of sorts—to the roaster, covering the meat entirely. Cover and cook at 250-degrees for another hour.
While the roaster or slow cooker breaks down the meat, allowing it to be easily shredded, and the sofrito to stew it further, prepare the arepas.
My partner in crime tells me that Harina Pan is the best, authentic arepa brand, but I’m unable to find that locally. I use the Goya masarepa white cornmeal—and follow the instructions right on the bag—to create the arepas, first rolling the dough into the ball, then tossing it from palm to the other until I get the desired thickness (about a ½-inch) and circumference (at least three inches across).
Next, I brush the arepas with olive oil and cook at a very high heat on the griddle, flipping it from one side to the other when browned and crunchy on the exterior. The interior of the dough should remain a little soft. When done, allow to cool on a plate or baking rack. Using a fork or bread knife, carefully, open the arepas to form a pocket, into which the stew will be placed. If you’re pressed for time, I suggest just cutting the arepa in half and stacking it or serving open-faced, gourmet style.
Place a large tablespoon of the beef stew in or on the arepa, top with black beans and fresh cilantro and service.
Note: Time permitting, I may also fry up some plantain chips, which can be added for a little extra texture and crunch.
All Rights Reserved, Simply Sibarita, 2009
Comfort Food: Venezuela Style
by G.A. PeckMy first plane ride was quite an adventure—from Baltimore to Miami, from Miami to Caracas, from Caracas to some unnamed village outside of Puerto Ordaz, Venezuela. While it may seem an odd vacation destination for a child—I had just completed the fifth grade at the time—I was really just along for the ride.
My aunt and uncle had taken up residence in Puerto Ordaz, when my uncle had been charged with overseeing plant operations for a major aluminum manufacturer there. They’d been living there for a year or so by the time the rest of my family on my mother’s side—mostly just hicks (I say this with affection) from the small town of Frederick, Maryland—came calling. Most of my family hadn’t been on an airplane, either, let alone to another country.
We had a grand reunion with my aunt and uncle, and the family enjoyed a two-week vacation there, dodging the heavy summer rain and taking day trips to open-air markets and remote villages buried deep in jungle, accessible only by boat, where we would exchange American products, like blue jeans for handmade alpaca rugs and balsa-wood sculptures. Surprisingly, my family took it all in stride, and tolerated the less-than-luxurious lifestyle. Of course, they were no strangers to poverty and struggle, so it makes sense now, looking back, to see that we had that in common with many of the locals we encountered.
We thought we were living the high life when we boarded the ferry and ventured out to Margarita Island or Puerta La Cruz, the “resort town,” which, then, consisted of a few small hotels on the beach, surrounded by hills upon hills of tin shacks. Separated by a single road, the poor from the rich.
When it came time for the vacation to end, my family—my cousins, grandmother, and my own mother and father—boarded the plane home without me. I opted to stay behind in Venezuela. I’d fallen in love with the country, and an older man named Jesus, and I simply didn’t want to go home. My aunt and uncle graciously accepted me into the fold, and I stayed, for exactly how long, I cannot remember—long enough to learn to love the rain, to get by with my basic language skills, and to begin to feel a part of my new family and new community.
While my uncle worked, my aunt and I would busy ourselves with housework and cooking. She was a master at making something out of nothing in the kitchen—like the time she made the most incredible spaghetti dinner out of a box of noodles, a can of tomato paste and a handful of spices. She made the most delicious concoction she called “Mayonnaise Cake” out of flour, mayo, baking powder and powdered cocoa.
She’d also take me into town, where we’d do our shopping at one mom-and-pop shop after the next. Once a week we’d go into town and do the grocery shopping, which I always relished because they had an American-style diner where I could order my favorite, a taste of home: a cheeseburger, French fries and chocolate milkshake, which I proudly ordered in native tongue.
I suppose I was homesick—though I didn’t really want to return to the States—for I craved things that reminded me of home.
I remember finding an English-copy of Helter Skelter at a local bookstore, and thinking how glorious those familiar words were, as I read it cover to cover, despite the fact that it was about some rather brutal murders. I favored those nights when my Uncle would receive a care package from home. One night, he got a bootleg Betamax copy of “10” with Dudley Moore, and my adopted parents allowed me to watch it with them—even the sex scenes! I thought Bo Derek was the loveliest woman ever to walk the sands. I wished my hair was long and blonde so I could have it braided into cornrows.
I got the occasional care package from home, too. One of my friends sent me a recording of Cheap Trick’s “The Dream Police,” and I fell in love with the guitarist from his picture on the sleeve. During the day, I chased the bugs and other critters from our home, which was always crawling with things that I was not prepared to cohabitate with. I’d feed fruit to the toucan who took up residence in our lush backyard. And I adopted a skinny mutt, who I named “Blackie,” because he was black, whom I’d found cowering in an abandoned home down the street. And I wrote secretive love letters to that man, Jesus, who worked with my Uncle and occasionally dropped by the house for dinner.
Eventually, I would trade that crush for another more plausible one, an English boy who lived in a British trailer park slated for aluminum-plant workers from the British Isles. His name was Steve (or Barry or James or something). He was perfectly geeky and I fell for him when he offered to share a bag of salt-and-vinegar crisps with me at a teen party one night. I wanted him to kiss me, but he didn’t until my final night in Venezuela.
I got used to having our car pulled over by local militant-looking police, who were flagrantly guilty of racial profiling. If you looked American, you were targeted. I couldn’t count the number of times my Uncle had been stopped while driving, forced to get out of his car and show his “papers,” at gunpoint. It was such a frequent occurrence that it became more a tedious annoyance than a fearful experience to me.
Initially, I wasn’t a fan of the food I had in Venezuela. It was different, so foreign to me. I dreaded when we ventured out for dinner somewhere, wondering what I’d be able to stomach. I was happy when my aunt and uncle would choose a local German restaurant—“German” in that one of the items on the menu was bratwurst—where I’d order a bowl of tomato soup, a small loaf of fresh-baked bread, and be happy as a clam that they didn’t force me to eat anything spicy.
In time, my palette adapted, and I became more adventuresome. I learned to tolerate, if not enjoy, the heat. One of my favorite “dishes” was the national fast food, the arepa. We’d buy them in town, from street vendors, mostly—these little corn-pocketed bits of heaven. Though the shell of the arepa is fairly standard, the insides ranged from beef stews (check out tomorrow’s blog for the recipe and photos) to breakfast-style egg mixtures. My personal favorite was an arepa with salty, country-like ham, onions and cheese. Our local guy who sold them from a cooler on the street would always save one for me, because he knew how I preferred them to the other more exotic creations, like the ones with tongue, tripe or seafood.
Eventually, my time in country came to an end. I’d overstayed my visa, and my aunt and uncle feared that I may run into some trouble getting out. Their predictions turned out to be true, for when my visa was examined at the local air strip—by some beefy, machine-gun-toting hard-asses—I almost wasn’t allowed to board the plane, bound for Caracas. My aunt whispered in my ear, “Start to cry. Cry like someone is killing you, okay?”
I didn’t know why she wanted me to, but I cried on cue, and eventually I was allowed to get on the plane—I assume because my aunt knew the guards would just want to shut up the screaming kid. I cried when we took off, wondering if I’d ever return, missing my aunt and uncle already. In Caracas, some nice flight attendant helped me change planes. She tucked me into my seat on the huge winged beast, and off I went to Miami, bound for home.
All Rights Reserved, Simply Sibarita 2009
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