tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1288384813639453262024-03-16T02:15:27.440-07:00SMASH AND SNIFFtwo cousins, two continents: culture, cuisine and kidsJiffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14183963095380555569noreply@blogger.comBlogger197125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-128838481363945326.post-26699827548716879392013-06-07T05:20:00.001-07:002013-06-07T15:27:04.987-07:00SMASHANDSNIFF Take Berlin!<style>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Coveting Legos in Alexanderplatz.</td></tr>
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100 meters. It can be challenging for a heavily padded, helmeted, 300-pound linebacker to move a ball that far. It must be excruciatingly difficult for an amputee to even think about walking that distance during the initial stages of rehabilitation. To an insect, it’s like crossing continents. And to two women with three 5/almost 5 year-olds and two toddlers its all of these things: challenging, excruciatingly difficult and just really, really far. <br />
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100 meters was the distance from our apartment, which we rented through airbnb, to the subway, our gateway to the rest of Berlin. But these 100 meters felt a little bit like hiking through a minefield in the Alps while simultaneously commanding two opposing armies comprised entirely of deaf and blind soldiers. There were constant fights over who got to push the button on the elevator! Who gets to put the money in the machine! Who gets to pull the ticket out of the machine! Who gets to validate the ticket! There was a constant race to be first – first to finish my pizza! First to get to the door and therefore earn the right to hold it open! First to finish peeing! First to wake up! There was the incessant measuring for fairness – he got more ice cream than I did! She got to hold the ipad last time! He got to go down the slide twice and I only did it once! <br />
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At one point when we had completely HAD it with the fighting, Ash and I declared NO ONE could push the button. It was the ADULTS TURN! And then before she could do it, I pushed her out of the way and ran for the button only to have her try to trip me so of course I had to put her in a headlock and when she bit me the whole thing dissolved into a slapping match that left us both black and blue and bleeding.* <br />
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I mean, where do the kids get this shit? <br />
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We made it to our spacious, minimal-decoration-=-less-to-break, apartment after our 100 meter journey that involved one poop in the park, one run-in with a drunk, a few narrowly avoided collisions on the bike path, one near foot amputation via street car, one very dumb illegal street crossing (adults take the blame for this one. Ok – I take the blame for this one.), one ten-minute pause to ogle a large billboard with cows walking by a nuclear reactor-size tub of chocolate ice cream, 15 minutes to pick dandelions growing next to the drunks and the poop, one adult-kid confrontation over whether or not they could go to the park RIGHT NOW before dropping off the heavy bags the moms were carrying, one five-minute break to stop and admire the “Starlight Express” poster in which every kid picked out their favorite costume and all declared that the girl on the top of the cake-like structure was the “chief of the poisonous ones” and was definitely the biggest badass. We picked up the keys from the owner, trudged up three flights of stairs and just – arrived. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is where my mom says, "What kind of crackhouse playground are you taking my grandchildren to anyway?"</td></tr>
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After the promised trip to the playground, we attempted to go to Friedrichshain to find the “spielwagon” that a friend of mine told me about – a large truck that drives around to different playgrounds, scheduled on different days, and unloads games and an obstacle course. My incompetence with Google Maps meant that we made a full ring around the intersection at Frankfurter Tor on the gorgeous Karl-Marx-Allee. When I finally got my bearings, the kids discovered … jugglers. And that was as far as we got. Spielwagon be damned, these guys had the kids mesmerized. I need to find some jugglers to move in with us. <br />
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The next day we had an agenda: an early start, a ride on the double decker bus to see a bit more of the city in a way that the kids would find entertaining, lunch in Mitte, a playdate with Luisa and Hugo and end up at the Street Food Market Hall in Kreuzberg. <br />
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The early start was the first casualty of the day. Thwarted by a snack and pee break that last two hours – BEFORE getting on the subway. The double decker bus was a hit for the first 20 minutes. Then they got restless. We got off around Zoo Station/Kudamm just minutes before Linnea’s head started to rotate and Henry alienated us from not only the entire front of the bus but the driver, who bellowed into the mic, “SOMEONE MAKE THOSE KIDS SIT DOWN – NOW!!!” That was our cue to get off.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Lebanese Balloon Twister - available for hire.</td></tr>
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Spilled currywurst, the Lebanese balloon-twister and a two-story fountain later, we abandoned our ambitious agenda and headed for a playground. That night the kids were asleep by 7:30 and Ash and I headed out – God bless my friend’s daughter, Chiara. In Friedrichshein – staying close by in case the babysitter called in a panic – what we thought was live music was a public viewing of Heidi Klum’s Germany’s Next Top Model grand finale and we grabbed a drink at the bar, packed with girls who made me feel old and gay boys, as I explained to Ash who the favorite was, who was the girl who always cried, who was the one Heidi picked up in a chicken coop and who was the one who everyone just generally disliked. It was the most culture Ash would experience in Berlin. I am a fine, fine tour guide. <br />
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The next day, we scrapped our museum plans and took the 12:30 train back to Hamburg. And to think I had originally thought we would then take a train from Berlin to Prague (4.5 hours) and then another local (3 hours) on to Cesky Krumlov in southern Bohemia. I can chalk that idea up to temporary insanity. Or a bottle of wine. More than likely the latter. <br />
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And the moral of this blog post is: travel with your kids, y’all. If you are visiting a city, try to balance cultural events and historic tours with playgrounds, trampolines, ice cream and jugglers. It’s not easy. And you definitely won’t see or do all of the things on your list. But it is worth it. Absolutely… At least that’s what they tell me.<br />
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*The adult fight did not actually happen. I know, I know, it is totally plausible. But Ash and I are beacons of maturity, pillars of restraint. <br />
<br />Jiffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14183963095380555569noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-128838481363945326.post-11820685194017685572013-03-06T04:12:00.000-08:002013-03-06T15:02:06.512-08:00Cooking for Gianni<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gianni is not impressed... </td></tr>
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I have seen the way he eats. He’s reduced his wife to tears in front of guests with a scolding when the risotto was not al dente. He has pushed plates away after a single bite, causing a bit of a scene. But he can be just as dramatic when the food is done right. He practically bear-hugged a chef for producing a pitch perfect roast beef, cooked just long enough to not be raw, short enough to still be slightly bloody. Whether he loves it or hates it, he is an enthusiastic eater who is not short on opinions nor shy about expressing them. <br />
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Born at the start of World War II near Venice, Gianni was the first of three children born to a homemaker who tended to the children and a surgeon who tended to wounded soldiers on the front lines. With her husband away for two year stretches at a time and no guarantee that he would return, Gianni’s mother did the best she could with the rations she received, watering down soups to make them last longer and filling hungry bellies with stale bread. In fact, young Gianni was so accustomed to “pane vecchio” – or “old bread” that he never knew that bread was supposed to be soft and chewy. To this day, he will pass over freshly baked ciabatta for a hard, crumbling slice of three day-old <i>pane vecchio</i>. <br />
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But Gianni wouldn’t always have to settle for stale bread. The war ended, his father returned, and a period of prosperity followed. He was the favorite eldest son and was spoiled by his mother’s adoration heaped upon him at the table. Her roasted meats, fragrant risottos and homemade pastas were stuff of legend. And her legendary repetoire was the direct result of her husband Antonio’s legendary appetite. He would famously eat an entire meal at home before going for dinner with friends because his voracious appetite would otherwise embarrass his wife. While I fancied myself a decent home cook who could turn out a creamy risotto, a few enviable tomato sauces (thank you Marcella Hazan) and a perfectly balanced <i>capresse</i>, I would not dream of attempting to make any of these dishes for my very particular, very well-fed, Italian father-in-law. <br />
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But I have made Boeuf Bourguignon – a day in advance – in my Le Creuset, over store bought egg-spätzle noodles. He ate it slowly and did not ask for seconds. A whole baked fish – too dry. I made a creamy mushroom soup from Food 52 that Ingo and I love – again, no second helping. “You shouldn’t eat too many mushrooms in the evening – they are hard to digest,” he said. Last weekend when he came to pick up the twins to take them to the Baltic sea, I made a roasted red pepper and tomato soup that is on regular rotation at our house. He cleaned his bowl relatively quickly – although the bowl was shallow so I only considered it a partial success when he asked for more. <br />
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But the next day as I was packing up the kids things for the trip, I cut up the Rice Krispie treats I had made the day before, slicing them into squares and putting them in a Zip Lock bag for the drive. I had already given the twins two each and had to shoo them away repeatedly as they snuck back into the kitchen trolling for more. “<i>Cos’e</i>?” asked Gianni as he held up on of the squares suspiciously. Rice Krispie Treats, I answered. An American childhood favorite. My mom always made them for road trips and picnics, I added. He eyed the motley cube with measured distain, then suddenly and uncharacteristically threw caution to the wind and bit in. <br />
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He chewed. And chewed and chewed. I reached for the hand broom and swept a pile of crumbs the kids had left behind. As I turned back to Gianni, I saw him reach for another. Mm, he said. Mmmmm. He ate three Krispie Treats in rapid succession and then turned to me, pointed at the pan, and straight-faced said, “<i>Molto buoni, questi</i>. We’ll bring these with us.” He walked out of the kitchen and left me standing there with my mouth open. <br />
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The organic cuts of marbled beef, the farmers market wild mushrooms, the toasted hazelnuts and shaved aged parmesan, the homemade cheesecakes… the research and calculation, the practice and the planning, the fuss over the presentation, the nervous anticipation, and after all that, after the blood, sweat and tears… he fawns over a mixture of melted butter, a bag of marshmallows and Rice f*cking Krispies. <br />
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I should have remembered the <i>pane vecchio</i>: when it comes to this sophisticated palate, it’s best to keep it simple. <br />
<br />Jiffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14183963095380555569noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-128838481363945326.post-58503629980242972732012-07-02T00:39:00.000-07:002012-07-02T00:39:00.142-07:00Squeeze Bacon<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH6mCGGEragx3Hg-J3Y7mIsHctdx2l2PcK40Wat4JYB_wcrD68Qrg4d2ytx8JR8whHpvTg3GA0xdAD6fEs-lnPU_0RZNf-viT8f-E3PBab_0j6VZgUoCETi1zcIrwGHKg1bLz9-X9Wl64/s1600/bacon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH6mCGGEragx3Hg-J3Y7mIsHctdx2l2PcK40Wat4JYB_wcrD68Qrg4d2ytx8JR8whHpvTg3GA0xdAD6fEs-lnPU_0RZNf-viT8f-E3PBab_0j6VZgUoCETi1zcIrwGHKg1bLz9-X9Wl64/s400/bacon.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
My friend Warren recently emailed me this photo with this subject heading, "Saw this and thought of you." And I thought, I must be doing something right if delicious pork products rendered unrecognizable by a squeeze tube in order that they may be carried in one's purse to be enjoyed whenever, wherever remind people of me. Now I just need to get my hands on one of these squeezable beauties. That and a can of Cheez Wiz.Jiffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14183963095380555569noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-128838481363945326.post-8166215380164507552012-06-30T23:45:00.001-07:002012-06-30T23:45:18.213-07:00Mystery Meat<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Any guesses as to what this is and where I had the distinct pleasure of eating it not once, not twice but THREE times in ONE day?Jiffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14183963095380555569noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-128838481363945326.post-24499730650949764262012-05-10T05:52:00.000-07:002012-05-10T05:52:24.645-07:00Copenhagen: Smørrebrød<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsu5d3I4ZSXKX4N43mimR8mUYqx4mQ8SHFDA6iFiR6gfwSmJ-_4tyG0au34f7ITpFu-_hhJh8R85KjH3pkUFLYptwL7PZWg1pWPSfLSFXnNSSmqYyNRwWFhL4DZ9mICzfzdYPMDcElO-A/s1600/IMG_1214.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsu5d3I4ZSXKX4N43mimR8mUYqx4mQ8SHFDA6iFiR6gfwSmJ-_4tyG0au34f7ITpFu-_hhJh8R85KjH3pkUFLYptwL7PZWg1pWPSfLSFXnNSSmqYyNRwWFhL4DZ9mICzfzdYPMDcElO-A/s320/IMG_1214.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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I don't know about you but there are a few things that I will make for myself when I am home alone - and no one is watching. Things I would never make for a guest. Or even make for Ingo. I can't even call them meals - they are thrown together in no time, unsophisticated yet satisfying and somewhat guilty pleasures. Something like packaged ramen noodles dressed up with a healthy dousing of soy sauce or maybe that sweet and sour chicken sauce; basmati rice with maggi cube; a bowl of stove popped popcorn - thickly coated in melted butter and too much salt for most people's taste; spaghetti with nothing but truffle oil and salt. <br />
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They mostly require simple assembly and they often involve combining a small but specific number of little pieces. And that is why they remind me just a little bit of Smørrebrød - Danish open-faced sandwiches. The concept is simple: a single piece of bread topped with a couple of fresh harmonious ingredients like cheese and tomato, or salmon and onion. Something you might throw together if your were home alone for dinner.<br />
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But the Smørrebrød we had at <a href="http://www.aamanns.dk/" target="_blank">Aamanns Kolonial Delikatesse</a> in Copenhagen were definitely NOT your home alone variety. Behold: <br />
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In the "Jersey Beef" category: Tartare of jersey beef with egg-emulsion, tarragon, pickles, caper, onion and crispy potatoes. The combination of these simple but fresh, complimentary ingredients made this slice of bread a meal. Well, ok, maybe half a meal. Deconstructed tartar on a slice of dark bread with chips! All of those little pickled items, raw beef and tarragon swirling around in one bite! So delicious! </div>
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There were several breads with fish, like "fried fish filets with green remoulade with tarragon and a lemon wedge" and "organic egg with fresh peeled shrimps, dill mayo, black pepper and cress". Decisions, decisions! </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOuzSkeUAGYg40dyv1kGl5U3DyjgNwNYW0vrHsm0ZYl0Z0Vqtrl_HjNJutrmvi8qGGD6q-d0XFaP5ty1zAh9tAotCTG44MN3-Mv7qmllj-NCge71jjtqlDG-rVfcDm4ebKOXwsaf5HTB0/s1600/IMG_1211.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOuzSkeUAGYg40dyv1kGl5U3DyjgNwNYW0vrHsm0ZYl0Z0Vqtrl_HjNJutrmvi8qGGD6q-d0XFaP5ty1zAh9tAotCTG44MN3-Mv7qmllj-NCge71jjtqlDG-rVfcDm4ebKOXwsaf5HTB0/s320/IMG_1211.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Or this, one of the fresh fish from Hanstholm and Iceland, a "sugarsalted salmon with
cauliflowerpurée, pickled onions, endivesalad and crispy ryebreadwafer" as copied directly from the English translated menu.</div>
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Or the "Freerange Pork from Grambogard: Pigs breast served with prunes, honey and applevinegar served with lettuce, fresh plums compote and walnuts". MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM.</div>
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So simple in their complexity or complex in their simplicity. Yes, of course, Smørrebrød is Danish for "let's see what I have left over in the fridge and combine it all together on a single slice (for the carbohydrate-adverse) of dark bread!" It is the perfect home alone meal. Aaaaamazing Aamanns has definitely inspired me to see what kind of deliciousness I can come up with and fit on a slice of brød! </div>
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<br />Jiffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14183963095380555569noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-128838481363945326.post-81425324707484225152012-04-27T02:10:00.000-07:002012-04-27T02:10:30.698-07:00Copenhagen: The Danish Hot Dog<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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In northern Germany, there are a number of rivalries that define the region, polarize people and occasionally instigate all out wars of words. For example, the camp who insists currywurst comes from Berlin vs. those who believe it originated in Hamburg; the St. Pauli fans vs. the HSV fans; the born Hamburgers vs. the transplants; and those who insist Hamburg and all of northern Germany should still belong to Denmark (i.e. the Danish) vs. well, basically, Germans. It's a little dispute that the Fastaguchis love to jokingly (with the slightest hint of seriousness) get into, throwing historical jabs in favor of their respective countrymen, tallying battles and refusing to divvy the spoils. </div>
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But one thing the northern Germans will admit, at least Kai and Ingo, is that when they do cross that border from Germany into Denmark, just outside of Flensburg, the first thing they think about is not territorial integrity, but hot dogs. Yep, pink, probably mechanically separated pork scraps wrapped in intestinal casing. These boys will pull over at the first gas station or rest stop and pony up the Kröners for (the first many) Danish hot dogs. </div>
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So what gives, boys? You come from the land of sausage. Bratwursts of all shapes and sizes are available at every major sporting event, holiday market, street fair, etc. The entire Deutsch language constantly pays homage to its beloved pork products with sayings like, "<i>Das ist mir wurst", </i>meaning "I don't care" but literally, "This is sausage to me"; or "<i>Es ist sau kalt", </i>meaning, "It is realllllly f*cking cold" but literally, "It is pig cold (or hot or expensive, insert other adjective)"; there are many others that I am forgetting (what is the one about "schinken" or ham? - German speakers chime in!) but the point is, pork is ingrained in the German psychy.</div>
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Despite the omnipresence of the wurst in Germany, these boys beeline for this: a "foot-long" skinny hot dog, in a one size fits all bun (that's not nearly long enough to accommodate the dog), topped with ketchup, mustard, raw onions, pickles slices and (the kicker that distinguishes it from an American ballpark hot dog) crunchy fried onions. And I must admit, either because it reminds me of my childhood or because it's somewhat "exotic" compared to the typical German wurst, I too, am a fan. </div>
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We stopped at a little food truck downtown to kill a couple for lunch when the kids got whiny and tired. And they totally hit the spot. </div>
<br />Jiffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14183963095380555569noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-128838481363945326.post-36625198540350134202012-04-16T06:09:00.000-07:002012-04-16T06:09:13.498-07:00Copenhagen: Dinner at Mielcke & Hurtigkarl<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
So, after we run out of the house into a warm, waiting cab, we slam the door, give the cabbie directions and cackle as he peels away at how very clever/cunning and crafty/fabulous we must be to be heading out to dinner alone while the boys are home with the babies.<br />
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<a href="http://www.mielcke-hurtigkarl.dk/" target="_blank">Mielcke & Hurtigkarl</a> is housed in a gorgeous little greenhouse on the lawn of one of the Danish royal gardens. There is one open dining room with floor to ceiling windows, floral decal on the walls and a cascading chandelier that sprinkles light in droplets from above. The setting is formal but intimate, chic in an old school kind of way.<br />
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Rather than try to describe these dishes, I thought I would write a little haiku for each one. In full disclosure, this meal happened nearly two months ago and I cannot tell you as much as I would like to about each of these amazing little plates. And honestly, after wine pairings with every course, I am not sure I could fully describe each of them even an hour after we left the restaurant. What I can tell you is this: Fen's friend Jakob Mielcke, head chef and owner, is creative, attentive, and inspired. And while the food and perfect pairings played a prominent roll in the overall enjoyment of the evening, it was also just really, really lovely to be catching up with a good friend over a great meal. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS6u5PGim7VZ3LJ7QA8VooG1qWVFCcGDSd_kPcYkAZtzLvRArs5NVNdzrkK9-FvdZ3u7GCq3YGTxePIrVJTbHxSKiB3xpT4FGSogRC8OuDoLsNzYXOwIsO08Nvl-L6365bVrBTXhzJ8wc/s1600/IMG_1046.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS6u5PGim7VZ3LJ7QA8VooG1qWVFCcGDSd_kPcYkAZtzLvRArs5NVNdzrkK9-FvdZ3u7GCq3YGTxePIrVJTbHxSKiB3xpT4FGSogRC8OuDoLsNzYXOwIsO08Nvl-L6365bVrBTXhzJ8wc/s320/IMG_1046.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">First plate from the chef </div><div style="text-align: center;">taste like a freshly mowed lawn </div><div style="text-align: center;">where unicorns play.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-rDW_Sr1ARkOd0fF0RyCKN7nNTk7rdpVPHj5UtZI5slXlsO7Vvq3C3_LOC7Pj_RfN8m_pIg66cOI5qUK_H7Epniw93pDGwtyqWvAtYcTscSnEwG6XjU6fqumXPMULLOJ3UHElSwbtKeU/s1600/IMG_1047.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-rDW_Sr1ARkOd0fF0RyCKN7nNTk7rdpVPHj5UtZI5slXlsO7Vvq3C3_LOC7Pj_RfN8m_pIg66cOI5qUK_H7Epniw93pDGwtyqWvAtYcTscSnEwG6XjU6fqumXPMULLOJ3UHElSwbtKeU/s320/IMG_1047.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Potato on sand </div><div style="text-align: center;">eat the chips if you want but</div><div> </div><div style="text-align: center;">they're decoration.</div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOIOy2X3vTK95xCCrMY2rUNK1s7n2ZGRjAqr2V7ZP6phHd5fVGYOvDEFhCR7FS4hJIVvy6LZUxVU1kDG_ARxPm-vAMNT5N462biHPIG8CoS966fUMs1lLa-uxvNwaZrJxvUi3I5mtU94w/s1600/IMG_1048.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOIOy2X3vTK95xCCrMY2rUNK1s7n2ZGRjAqr2V7ZP6phHd5fVGYOvDEFhCR7FS4hJIVvy6LZUxVU1kDG_ARxPm-vAMNT5N462biHPIG8CoS966fUMs1lLa-uxvNwaZrJxvUi3I5mtU94w/s320/IMG_1048.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">A shrimp with shrimp cream </div><div style="text-align: center;">sit atop a cracker made </div><div style="text-align: center;">of, surprise, more shrimp.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaPH_VTBuXPW-FBbeNNt9DLObh9k3Pp1ELv_eOE9WZstpsXblIPywzDj0QlfxnxiImdM7F19UQ6bAcKrZ-8nYYHAQBB_NSoSfRXygXnuqelIplBIi4VHTuXADFhhpwJZom_i0Mj1LkchI/s1600/IMG_1049.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaPH_VTBuXPW-FBbeNNt9DLObh9k3Pp1ELv_eOE9WZstpsXblIPywzDj0QlfxnxiImdM7F19UQ6bAcKrZ-8nYYHAQBB_NSoSfRXygXnuqelIplBIi4VHTuXADFhhpwJZom_i0Mj1LkchI/s320/IMG_1049.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">These small saffron eggs</div><div style="text-align: center;">cast a shadow on the plate,</div><div style="text-align: center;">looks like runny yolk.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghZQLWAi3ij5NTgcS2LLjDbSP0xfalfrGcHRuKEPSRiEarch_IV1_EQVnQboG9uaWtE3l7nk4pA3tCS4GuLgWqW4qwE1gLufDY7QYodDUs6XB-kDzmTqp6jZPtkAs_NPbesYgnYGeuXaE/s1600/IMG_1055.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghZQLWAi3ij5NTgcS2LLjDbSP0xfalfrGcHRuKEPSRiEarch_IV1_EQVnQboG9uaWtE3l7nk4pA3tCS4GuLgWqW4qwE1gLufDY7QYodDUs6XB-kDzmTqp6jZPtkAs_NPbesYgnYGeuXaE/s320/IMG_1055.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">The pebbles on sand</div><div style="text-align: center;">remind the chef of the coast;</div><div style="text-align: center;">these are potatoes. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXa57x6r2k0ZgX8fqjmcM5g7CTJcUr8YHA6c5ebuBdKyb5Vt8Pnk8prsS1jLabXLcIfE3SrS_hNqPyUTr5SnsZ81tGnLT5HLhI2YQOUsSsnhzEe0vnws2PapSBhuns_Byqz27SYIkrZ04/s1600/IMG_1058.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXa57x6r2k0ZgX8fqjmcM5g7CTJcUr8YHA6c5ebuBdKyb5Vt8Pnk8prsS1jLabXLcIfE3SrS_hNqPyUTr5SnsZ81tGnLT5HLhI2YQOUsSsnhzEe0vnws2PapSBhuns_Byqz27SYIkrZ04/s320/IMG_1058.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> Looks like deviled eggs;</div><div style="text-align: center;">No, foie gras with raspberry;</div><div style="text-align: center;">Fen and I swooned. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5COTaKtwe0pRp1mbHXxvw7RAm3pfjUGw7FhyphenhyphenSH32_TatADVWTT-i9CFxuKiCiuNcN3TYa2dgTKaE_RQbaKqd1qC8oiJo13cu0wQ27u1NXozH7aZS2y10CTSIJXMrMltyhVvICJu54ark/s1600/IMG_1059.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5COTaKtwe0pRp1mbHXxvw7RAm3pfjUGw7FhyphenhyphenSH32_TatADVWTT-i9CFxuKiCiuNcN3TYa2dgTKaE_RQbaKqd1qC8oiJo13cu0wQ27u1NXozH7aZS2y10CTSIJXMrMltyhVvICJu54ark/s320/IMG_1059.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Delicately rolled </div><div style="text-align: center;">leaves and ceps and greens in jus</div><div style="text-align: center;">of I forgot what.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOvy-ZQ5nUm1Ko7cvGqKptFrCUwiYeDgAE9ek3x5dXJJPjEhGKQkhS2sNXjsEaaCasXvyp3nk5zLE4kT2EANXxjUKffpaFVeHPA7S1HjrR1Uk6Ju6pvivpLPutA-nIcxZf8M3veUHiHs0/s1600/IMG_1064.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOvy-ZQ5nUm1Ko7cvGqKptFrCUwiYeDgAE9ek3x5dXJJPjEhGKQkhS2sNXjsEaaCasXvyp3nk5zLE4kT2EANXxjUKffpaFVeHPA7S1HjrR1Uk6Ju6pvivpLPutA-nIcxZf8M3veUHiHs0/s320/IMG_1064.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Roasted beet carpa-</div><div style="text-align: center;">cio looks a bit like roast beef </div><div style="text-align: center;">but it's not at all.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihNke4N8cFqaPXDaUck6afyJQZQEV4298OUQVZ89w-jlI3xeWjQWQebcfcwNeH1MdCZ2eyzX7a0pX_3jLpvEQCDHN7_QUI_6-Wd5PLtp5cR5p_QVkUHxOXXOv7X0ZyA5f82ZtZ5S6c890/s1600/IMG_1065.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihNke4N8cFqaPXDaUck6afyJQZQEV4298OUQVZ89w-jlI3xeWjQWQebcfcwNeH1MdCZ2eyzX7a0pX_3jLpvEQCDHN7_QUI_6-Wd5PLtp5cR5p_QVkUHxOXXOv7X0ZyA5f82ZtZ5S6c890/s320/IMG_1065.JPG" width="320" /> </a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Jerusalem art-</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">ichokes never tasted as</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">good as they did here.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDvF3y42NjxkememDccE30IA9bNCWWw3ftJEVlAjD8QXEWYCIlshQvAGKGEjobMZZ5I0qGtJwH8TnCMJKXLuDYJyvcOtEl_GZyr9iM5Olr5sLYwF5gdQua4U6MZoTY76BtuCUFBui7oW8/s1600/IMG_1070.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDvF3y42NjxkememDccE30IA9bNCWWw3ftJEVlAjD8QXEWYCIlshQvAGKGEjobMZZ5I0qGtJwH8TnCMJKXLuDYJyvcOtEl_GZyr9iM5Olr5sLYwF5gdQua4U6MZoTY76BtuCUFBui7oW8/s320/IMG_1070.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">If I enjoyed the </div><div style="text-align: center;">taste of lamb, I am sure I </div><div style="text-align: center;">would have liked this more. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6RGle0u6Adw7jsEFe8gyl_owMeWjzmhn-yceuVvkWasws3ssRgKXsLI9MJuV7mE8e3_ol_a42362dgMX-jXGkMvlrFHADB_neelEJ4XoKGlhaFXTK0GaNTl4cUTu2J0TaJ3LzYUXak3I/s1600/IMG_1077.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6RGle0u6Adw7jsEFe8gyl_owMeWjzmhn-yceuVvkWasws3ssRgKXsLI9MJuV7mE8e3_ol_a42362dgMX-jXGkMvlrFHADB_neelEJ4XoKGlhaFXTK0GaNTl4cUTu2J0TaJ3LzYUXak3I/s320/IMG_1077.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Smooth pumpkin ice cream</div><div style="text-align: center;">on thin ribbons of pumpkin</div><div style="text-align: center;">not too sweet, just right.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq2FR6wesiwTycr1NuIimGCimnfZ1Lc213skQDWgLFJaPqPy7XwWwQor2aCl7bGFm2I69QbuyeNs2rc3WimY1y6rL8Qu611-WfjM3GnrGfb_R9PjTxeNn7_I9pXfG33msTn9l1CQUOt3E/s1600/IMG_1078.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq2FR6wesiwTycr1NuIimGCimnfZ1Lc213skQDWgLFJaPqPy7XwWwQor2aCl7bGFm2I69QbuyeNs2rc3WimY1y6rL8Qu611-WfjM3GnrGfb_R9PjTxeNn7_I9pXfG33msTn9l1CQUOt3E/s320/IMG_1078.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">More drinks! Why not?! Beer</div><div style="text-align: center;">for dessert? Yes, of course! So </div><div style="text-align: center;">sweet, frothy and good. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwt-Kkc9hatzg726hMQukXKAKC_oojJCjr_qdPZLcP-NseNeVwhbl0qRTfHhD0kYbgS85VmnsXQD3wHY4OxDe-zrPxMyB7OT2fPN2NOG-zSZvp1wVv1y1sOaqD536x0koid0NBDs9vYXw/s1600/IMG_1080.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwt-Kkc9hatzg726hMQukXKAKC_oojJCjr_qdPZLcP-NseNeVwhbl0qRTfHhD0kYbgS85VmnsXQD3wHY4OxDe-zrPxMyB7OT2fPN2NOG-zSZvp1wVv1y1sOaqD536x0koid0NBDs9vYXw/s320/IMG_1080.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Sprinkled ferry dust</div><div style="text-align: center;">floated down from the ceiling</div><div style="text-align: center;">enchanted lighting.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglsIuDP9eTYZQyFgAfbsx6oQ5pQsD40skB_mSK0DPvYQ9_z1Dk8U_NTF551jXp-57ApLoeZZYlXXaz4ZEndW3Dl33hP3T7ZW-df0X46b_M0Elt4P0sLabiXrd0tOK1xHYQ2ohE0qGDiqA/s1600/IMG_1081.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglsIuDP9eTYZQyFgAfbsx6oQ5pQsD40skB_mSK0DPvYQ9_z1Dk8U_NTF551jXp-57ApLoeZZYlXXaz4ZEndW3Dl33hP3T7ZW-df0X46b_M0Elt4P0sLabiXrd0tOK1xHYQ2ohE0qGDiqA/s320/IMG_1081.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Experiencing </div><div style="text-align: center;">chocolate overload just</div><div style="text-align: center;">looking at this pic.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgurDIi7uldCAgRU-wDJvwVXxoAr-BzDpc2TXfvTqhsHvRAHRZ5SlRtMWlBd1cTKVq76CpfbHxR0eBMppY4WiC735209nnUVQOhARJ-_VrFvdlZn-eOZdYYnOmF-zEqEAidr92_kWQyrO4/s1600/IMG_1086.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgurDIi7uldCAgRU-wDJvwVXxoAr-BzDpc2TXfvTqhsHvRAHRZ5SlRtMWlBd1cTKVq76CpfbHxR0eBMppY4WiC735209nnUVQOhARJ-_VrFvdlZn-eOZdYYnOmF-zEqEAidr92_kWQyrO4/s320/IMG_1086.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Foam! Foam! Ginger foam! </div><div style="text-align: center;">Carry you away on a </div><div style="text-align: center;">cloud of bubbly schaum.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglnWyu6w3egef3OPOxJuWFNuSg6dJPSEcQDSCPSS8mDFsvP2Blh6Z35IzG0trmfuK-_Cfy6rEdgm3GR4gBfio8twzybgGvtIoo_WLNy676ZK02AethVmQnWO12zZHzMBA2sdVZc-y2ELI/s1600/IMG_1104.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglnWyu6w3egef3OPOxJuWFNuSg6dJPSEcQDSCPSS8mDFsvP2Blh6Z35IzG0trmfuK-_Cfy6rEdgm3GR4gBfio8twzybgGvtIoo_WLNy676ZK02AethVmQnWO12zZHzMBA2sdVZc-y2ELI/s320/IMG_1104.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Fen, the evening was</div><div style="text-align: center;">fantastic. The food whoa and </div><div style="text-align: center;">time with you priceless. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">xxx</div>Jiffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14183963095380555569noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-128838481363945326.post-9364971778156490822012-04-12T06:40:00.000-07:002012-04-12T06:40:25.276-07:00SmashandSniff Returns! And Copenhagen!<div style="text-align: justify;">OH MY, it's been a long time. Sorry SmashandSniff friends, family, fans - there has been quite a lull here on the blog. But not a lull in real life. The last six months, for me personally, have included the birth of my third child, a breast infection that required hospitalization, 50 Thanksgiving guests - 15 of whom flew in from Paris, Prague, Copenhagen, the Hague, New York, London and Dubai, lots of family time over the holidays - including crashing with Smash and family in Chicago!, step throat, pink eye, a staff infection (and that was just me!), the wedding of a dear friend out in Jackson Hole, an Easter road trip to southern France and a quick and tasty weekend with friends in Copenhagen. Pfhhew. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">We could blame our absence on what Germans call "<i>still dimens" </i>or "breastfeeding dementia", but instead, we'll just apologize for deserting you so abruptly and get back to it. Sooooo, that said, why not start here... </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzJPjtjSUYPYx2zGVX_6aFNSZQE0Pz0TpT7djzgedvMOyIVqccCOQuu6MsUnSrqYOvKxeF73fsZAye1xslaImoKD2dWL0XkYbWbRW-GxSYiKMiYnCSx8OQvjjhzbHjLlZILr86sFr8GJc/s1600/IMG_1121.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzJPjtjSUYPYx2zGVX_6aFNSZQE0Pz0TpT7djzgedvMOyIVqccCOQuu6MsUnSrqYOvKxeF73fsZAye1xslaImoKD2dWL0XkYbWbRW-GxSYiKMiYnCSx8OQvjjhzbHjLlZILr86sFr8GJc/s320/IMG_1121.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;"> <style>
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</style>If my friends, the „Fastaguchis“, had an emblem or an image to best symbolize their union, and that image were food porny, this might be it. </div><br />
Two different yet equally adored pork products from Denmark, thick-sliced juicy bacon and thin-skinned pink hot dogs, on a Danish country plate adorned with … chopsticks. Kai, my half-German, half-Japanese, former Kabuli roommate, and his wife Fenja, my dear half-Danish, half-Norwegian friend have returned from Sudan and firmly ensconced themselves and their two gorgeous children in the Danish capital. No strangers to the chaos and challenges that small children and overnight guests breed, Kai and Fenja invited us up for a visit (actually, did we invite ourselves? We may well have..). A quick 4.5 hour train ride, an hour of which includes a choppy ferry crossing, and we arrived, all five of us, on their doorstep. <br />
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As a couple with children, you quickly learn to hone your bartering skills. “I’ll trade you a Wednesday night out with Martin to watch the Bayern-Dortmund game for my Friday afternoon hair appointment.” And sometimes, when you’ve sharpened those skills enough, you may be able to slant things slightly in your favor. Like the Friday night we arrived in Copenhagen. Kai and Ingo got five hungry, tired kids under four years of age at bedtime in the guise of quality time together while Fen and I got our five hours of QT with ten courses – including wine pairings – at Fen’s friend Jakob’s restaurant, <a href="http://www.mielcke-hurtigkarl.dk/">Mielcke & Hurtigkarl</a>. Luckily we were in the cab on our way to the restaurant before the boys realized that negotiations may have resulted in a lopsided trade. Or at least before they could object. <br />
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Jakob's creations were so gorgeous and our evening so lovely, it deserves it's own post. Forthcoming - tomorrow...Jiffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14183963095380555569noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-128838481363945326.post-56245238951719366732011-11-09T00:58:00.000-08:002011-11-09T00:58:59.343-08:00Ten Days in Puglia, Part 3: The Heel of the Boot<style>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFFeCzX5KZdStkNGf9i_TL8R4iDqW0MnfPnN89edZbUgpHq_RNvAe15oPHd-xM1G0nMUP_tq_bWQ_QZeEbq_uA7UewQcpQWieDplhvW9GbioIT3p0NoBlLEnU5W22LwyWlK0cpI9veDU8/s1600/IMG_0828.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFFeCzX5KZdStkNGf9i_TL8R4iDqW0MnfPnN89edZbUgpHq_RNvAe15oPHd-xM1G0nMUP_tq_bWQ_QZeEbq_uA7UewQcpQWieDplhvW9GbioIT3p0NoBlLEnU5W22LwyWlK0cpI9veDU8/s400/IMG_0828.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
This was the first time I had booked a vacation home online, sight-unseen. I was a little wary as photographs online or in brochures occasionally accentuate the positive to the point of distortion. But I was also quite intrigued. When I contacted Bruno, the owner of “La Grica” where we stayed just outside of Tricase in southern Puglia, via the HomeAwayUK website, he sent me a link (<a href="http://www.lagritca.it/">www.lagritca.it</a>) providing additional information on the location and amenities. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVQgxXABoZ40Yf0jhg1VDjeH0n-bGZoDo0M5AxYXqRph4F4hyphenhyphen_QHSaLdTJ4X_u46rk7mhs1HLRa2WAGY_vjELRivn_WBZ7oQrUngqSoTt69bKzXw4rQWEaNAhDe8qjaZRkFNFUWQdBxFg/s1600/IMG_0848.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVQgxXABoZ40Yf0jhg1VDjeH0n-bGZoDo0M5AxYXqRph4F4hyphenhyphen_QHSaLdTJ4X_u46rk7mhs1HLRa2WAGY_vjELRivn_WBZ7oQrUngqSoTt69bKzXw4rQWEaNAhDe8qjaZRkFNFUWQdBxFg/s400/IMG_0848.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>Upon arrival we thought, perfect! This is exactly what we expected based on the photos on the website! The house had whitewashed walls, blue shutters and painted tiles, a thatched roof protecting the large terrace surrounded by olive and fig trees. It reminded me of postcards from Santorini and had the same view to boot – an unobstructed 180 degree panorama of the Adriatic sprawled out before it. I typed “sea view” into my house hunt criteria on the HomeAway site and sea view is precisely what we got. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLTK8s27Js06uEQ6COKS-9XWeaizIu86zoQpcsNK-z3pyUd1nIIQNbzQVqfAgb3wAzzoqWuEQU5uayCkUbEeBBrEk1vCFiqAxIkBYRJ-awHu9nCee6gwsylIhk3sDtf1HDqucvMC3RFUE/s1600/IMG_0612.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLTK8s27Js06uEQ6COKS-9XWeaizIu86zoQpcsNK-z3pyUd1nIIQNbzQVqfAgb3wAzzoqWuEQU5uayCkUbEeBBrEk1vCFiqAxIkBYRJ-awHu9nCee6gwsylIhk3sDtf1HDqucvMC3RFUE/s400/IMG_0612.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
The inside was basic but sufficient and clean. The terrace was really so amazing that we didn’t spend much time inside. There was even an outdoor shower and a clay pizza oven and grill. <br />
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The beach was not right out the front door but was accessible. Being on the Adriatic side of the “heel”, we were on the rockier, untamed side. There were steep winding staircases carved into the rockface every few kilometers where swimmers can make their way down to the intensely turquoise water below. For divers or snorkelers, it is a dream; for parents with young children, it’s a bit of a nightmare. The pathways were steep in places and windy conditions meant strong waves which made getting in and out of the water tricky. Kids would do better on the sandier shores of the Ionian side between Santa Maria di Leuca and Gallipoli.<br />
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Speaking of kids, if we were to bring the kids back with us next time, I unfortunately would have to say that we probably would not choose to stay here again – as much as I would LOVE to. The house is located just off of a busy road (although you don’t notice this because the house itself is situated down a windy set of stairs, far below) and while the terrace was perfect for my husband and myself, it would be a bit limited for a few small children who would want to run around and kick balls – all of which would fly over the railing and roll 100 meters through olive groves toward the sea below. Easy beach access or a nice yard would be much more ideal for children. Basically, its not the kind of place you as a parent could relax and let the kids run around unsupervised: steep steps, busy roads, vertical drops – it’s the kind of place where you would want to have your kid on a dog leash. But for 2-4 adults – it is an absolute dream. If we can cajole the grandparents into taking the kids again, we would love to get a couple of friends together and come back here.<br />
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Or more. The house has two parts; the lower part was rented out to another couple, a middle aged Italian couple from Rome. We said hello in the mornings and they shared a few restaurant tips with us but otherwise, we were very respectful of each other’s space and we rarely noticed someone else was there.<br />
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Bruno rented the house on a weekly basis, from Saturday – Saturday. We explained to him that we would have to leave Thursday, two days early, as we had stashed the kids away with their grandparents and need to get back and he gave us a 100€ discount on the weekly rate – which was incredibly nice of him, as he didn’t have to do that.<br />
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Speaking of Bruno, he had the keys waiting in the door for us when we arrived. He came up shortly thereafter to introduce himself, see if we had any questions and clue us in as to where to find groceries, the nearest gas station, and the best restaurant in the area. His house was situated about 100 meters below ours and he instructed us to come see him if we had any questions or problems. <br />
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About Puglia itself... <br />
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Puglia is best undertaken with a car. Public transport is limited and bicycles require serious quadriceps for the gorgeous cliff-hugging roads. Small, charming towns like Otranto, Gallipoli, Santa Maria di Leuca on the coast offer incredible seafood, nighttime passegiatas that take one back in time through the old winding streets of the walled cities, and soft sandy beaches with turquoise water that locals liken to the Maldives. Small villages on the interior like Specchia, Taviano, and Tricase provide a peek at everyday life on the Salento where visitors can stock up on local produce from nearby farms (Puglia is famous for its vegetable antipasti), homemade salami and cured meats and legendary fresh cheeses like Puglian burrata. At A Casa Tu Martinu, diners (like us) sit al fresco in a gorgeous courtyard garden sampling the bread dipped in vino cotto, a cooked wine sauce, bruschetta melanzane, discs of fried eggplant a top a pomodorini salsa, fresh handmade orrchiette with stewed greens or pasta all ceci, pasta with chickpeas. Fresh produce is also the star on the menu at the many messerie in the area. Messerie are former or current farming estates that boast some of the freshest fare in the Salento. <br />
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We usually spent the mornings gasping at the view from our terrace over thick slices of succulent watermelon and strong shots of espresso. By the time we managed to tear ourselves away, it was nearly noon and we would explore one of the nearby towns while everyone was at home having lunch, avoiding the mid-day heat. We would escape the heat at one of the gorgeous beaches – Baia dei Turquie north of Otranto or Baia Verde, otherwise known as the Italian Maldives, south of Gallipoli – from 3 pm onwards. One afternoon, we opted to rent a boat and explored the gorgeous rocky coastline around the Baia dei Zagare, south of Otranto and the cliffs and coves north of Leuca. <br />
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Gorgeous beaches, delicious fresh fish and vegetables, stunning views and a very relaxed local vibe is what we experienced in the Salento. Thanks again HomeAwayUK for the opportunity to stay in one of your amazing properties. We will definitely be staying with you again soon!Jiffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14183963095380555569noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-128838481363945326.post-299012431105364092011-08-12T01:31:00.000-07:002011-08-12T01:59:37.902-07:00Ten Days in Puglia, Part 2: A Basilicata Seque and Southward<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpGJStLZAZfwktyRDnb41a5EAMMB8padaLjCWMbx2k2tY_-pydKuSdmSwQHkqJGcbuiufQ4mDCpbdWVJ-Mv0_p01YZy_OwosP_HFyivwXUzgsklaOrMzmyqTrHXCOWxUqRHDpSxl374fE/s1600/IMG_0389.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpGJStLZAZfwktyRDnb41a5EAMMB8padaLjCWMbx2k2tY_-pydKuSdmSwQHkqJGcbuiufQ4mDCpbdWVJ-Mv0_p01YZy_OwosP_HFyivwXUzgsklaOrMzmyqTrHXCOWxUqRHDpSxl374fE/s400/IMG_0389.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Lovely, limestoney, Trani welcomed us into a gorgeous old monestary and fed us fresh fish and creamy gelato.</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAle3sgOXuzlBDiW_6J4-CJoLcI2y2zjckjpdbJg6s-V_qNHQl_vvu9RYiWAo1QFmVDdSmy6Pn7oGOrQpBolPDVifbwOrFdQsgi9s61xhydsO2v7iqGWUAHhoHS-IRCnYrHF19v02FSIA/s1600/IMG_9937.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAle3sgOXuzlBDiW_6J4-CJoLcI2y2zjckjpdbJg6s-V_qNHQl_vvu9RYiWAo1QFmVDdSmy6Pn7oGOrQpBolPDVifbwOrFdQsgi9s61xhydsO2v7iqGWUAHhoHS-IRCnYrHF19v02FSIA/s400/IMG_9937.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;">Had we been staying in an apartment instead of a hotel, we would have hit up this charming fisherman and his selection of langoustine, pulpo, sea urchins and fresh fish.</span></div></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilEH3A5lXrStn7hobSYHqIPqv_WachNeZFATRSdgehyDCbCJk63H1oBVn1__IBqfWNJOBh-i66EkhOd-yVteYbTrgzUoJfTO-EQjXyWz190nZLfd2d9gE_1I6SS6NzvEMCEBje8JCOSpI/s1600/IMG_9953.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilEH3A5lXrStn7hobSYHqIPqv_WachNeZFATRSdgehyDCbCJk63H1oBVn1__IBqfWNJOBh-i66EkhOd-yVteYbTrgzUoJfTO-EQjXyWz190nZLfd2d9gE_1I6SS6NzvEMCEBje8JCOSpI/s400/IMG_9953.jpg" /></a></div><br />
Sometimes you just stop, right there in the middle of the street, and admire. But keep an ear out for oncoming Vespas. They'll sneak up on you, fast. <br />
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In case you've thought about doing one of those "Leaning Tower of Pisa" poses on other monuments, you might want to reconsider, as Ingo cheerfully demonstrates at the Castel del Monte, about an hour outside of Trani and high on Ingo's, "Must see before I die" list. <br />
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<div style="text-align: justify;">So, Matera. In all honesty, I had never heard about Matera until I read <a href="http://travel.nytimes.com/2010/11/21/travel/21basilicata-next.html">this article</a>. I am not sure if the city, particularly the former cave dwellings, referred to as the "Sassi" or stones, have attracted many tourists in the past or if the industry got a boost when Mel Gibson' filmed "The Passion of the Christ" here in 2004. But it appears that Matera is poised to become a sort of Disneyland for spelunking tourists. Declared a UNESCO World Heritage Site in 1993, the old cave dwelling side of the city faces a gorgeous arid canyon. The caves were actually inhabited until the 1950s when the Italian government forced residents out because it was an "embarrassment" to have people living in such squalor in modern times. Government high rises were constructed and the former owners were begrudgingly relocated. Begrudgingly because these caves were kinda rad. They stayed cool in hot summers, boasted the first irrigation system in the city and offered membership into a sort of tight knit community that comes from living literally on top of each other. </div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifKKicdnxslDY3gV3-wBePCY1SAY3sUK79P9_8QavDHLf-zEbi-_sqc7YhUE2Vh4Jq498foHS6dYvkNOdc9FbRJt-zIzebac8hhIzxKQiQ6hVNrTHo6dXt95ZVAM38xsXjV_-We5IUZNE/s1600/IMG_0648.JPG"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifKKicdnxslDY3gV3-wBePCY1SAY3sUK79P9_8QavDHLf-zEbi-_sqc7YhUE2Vh4Jq498foHS6dYvkNOdc9FbRJt-zIzebac8hhIzxKQiQ6hVNrTHo6dXt95ZVAM38xsXjV_-We5IUZNE/s400/IMG_0648.JPG" /></a><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">We booked a room at the <a href="http://www.legrottedellacivita.com/">Sextantio Albergo Diffuso Le Grotte della Civita </a>which coincidentally, is the primary focus of an article in the upcoming September issue of National Geographic Traveler Magazine entitled <a href="http://travel.nationalgeographic.com/travel/italy-hotels-traveler/">"The Towns Italy Forgot"</a>. (Another one of those DAMNIT!! WHY DIDN’T I WRITE THIS!! moments). As Miriam Murphy says in the article, it is a one-of-a-kind hotel and she speaks with the proprietors and provides interesting background on the architect’s vision for the hotel and other similar projects focused on resurrecting abandoned villages while preserving their architectual and historic integrity. And although Phillipe Starcke obviously wasn't around back in the day to design bathtubs for the cave dwellings like the one in our hotel room, they do use mostly locally sourced materials, like the dark woods used by local carpenters to make the closets and tables. Or old stone troughs used as sinks. </div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg73-ZpJJpOiOJGBF9aO4CACBgK6OxJHhOmMkY0Diy08dzeDnn_3KaQghEvpMCngPVACpaSRFdQIgbAM9KN8Q_c1s1W71I84ebmDyl4g4w3Y11D6cHwBbaNt9Cv-PP8_fArx15ZKQdpOr8/s1600/IMG_0661.JPG"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg73-ZpJJpOiOJGBF9aO4CACBgK6OxJHhOmMkY0Diy08dzeDnn_3KaQghEvpMCngPVACpaSRFdQIgbAM9KN8Q_c1s1W71I84ebmDyl4g4w3Y11D6cHwBbaNt9Cv-PP8_fArx15ZKQdpOr8/s400/IMG_0661.JPG" /></a><br />
We wandered the city from one steep slippery stone walkway to the next. Which was a bit of a technical feat being that I was 6 months pregnant – meaning I had to haul around 20 extra pounds and my balance was off - and it was 95 degrees. But the views kept us going, every winding trail offered scenery more spectacular than the next. As much as “jaw-dropping” is an overused cliché, I can’t think of a better word to describe the Sassi. <br />
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In a country like Italy, there is very little left to “discover” – the famous works of art and architecture have all been found, documented, restored and displayed. The charming fishing villages have traded in shanties for boutique hotels and waterfront seafood restaurants, the best beaches are covered with “bagni” where it costs 20 euro a day to have the privilege of sitting under one of their umbrellas and on one of their beach chairs, the best restaurants have lines and waiting lists, as do the most significant cathedrals and now even the wild countryside of Tuscany and Umbria boast views that are blocked by sign after sign for the newest oldest agrotourismo accommodations and dining. </div><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhioe5QbWSc8bEbxkwFDbDO1mj4naOSk4HuMwlbminNaGsAUwp_ColNsNTVGOBUuxJArDfG9fDrkPgg00K9MXDoAOQ1lWMZh1YZ5soIjplGztZD50WdZf3xfP_t93oWBooasQVevcg1_PY/s1600/IMG_0095.JPG"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhioe5QbWSc8bEbxkwFDbDO1mj4naOSk4HuMwlbminNaGsAUwp_ColNsNTVGOBUuxJArDfG9fDrkPgg00K9MXDoAOQ1lWMZh1YZ5soIjplGztZD50WdZf3xfP_t93oWBooasQVevcg1_PY/s400/IMG_0095.JPG" /></a><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Our cave room</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Don’t get me wrong, I love Italy. I fell madly deeply hopelessly in love with Italy when I was 16 and went abroad for the first time in my life on a Rotary exchange program. I spent the summer with two families, both of whom had a girl my age who I quickly called my best friend and both of who lived outside of Milan. I was enchanted by the animated language from the lyricism of the words that would be impossible to speak in a straight jacket for lack of use of the hands and entire body. I was thrilled that dinner started with a huge plate of pasta – just started! I looked forward to the afternoon lull following lunch where we’d lay around and watch bad talk shows or just talk. But most of all, I fell head over heels for Massimiliano. And let’s be honest, a short but sweet love affair will definitely taint your view of a place. </div><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">The common room</span></div>Massimiliano is long gone but my love for Italy remains deep. The way they stock legs of prosciutto and wheels of Grana in gas stations (!) and convenience stores (!), the repertoire of endearing names you are called by complete strangers and acquaintances (Ciao bella! Ciao stella! Ciao gioia!), the stand-up espresso counters and potato chip buffet apperitivi, the nonnas in their one-size-fits-all moomoo dresses and knee high stockings, the way the women will get made up, decked out, dressed up just to go out to the corner store for milk, the multitude of hand gestures that one must learn to actually understand the language, the tolerance for sexist talk shows that have not changed in 20 years. Even the annoying things – especially the annoying things – are endearing. That’s love. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3bjOnCrgpik97Y9dQVg6ZSVdLS1P8HHH9nCMTqr59Q13H7j8IKEDxQfAn4FG0F-92LQHBYfqgusYMV-pW4XQhmEKFRSoDAbSe3NjJ1d4H95hFOzTIw6uEVfC79mMStNtFk9NZuzJ9BA4/s1600/IMG_0577.JPG"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3bjOnCrgpik97Y9dQVg6ZSVdLS1P8HHH9nCMTqr59Q13H7j8IKEDxQfAn4FG0F-92LQHBYfqgusYMV-pW4XQhmEKFRSoDAbSe3NjJ1d4H95hFOzTIw6uEVfC79mMStNtFk9NZuzJ9BA4/s400/IMG_0577.JPG" /></a><br />
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<div style="text-align: justify;">And the touristy stuff is often endearing as well. But not always. If Italy had a Masai Mara, a Chang Mai hill people tour, an overtouristy, voyeuristic, over-hyped, something potentially interesting relegated to the ranks of banal, it would be Alberobello and “trulli” country. Please tell me I am wrong, I so wanted to be enchanted. And I preface my opinion by saying we had only 24 hours to spend in the Valle d’Istria – nowhere near enough time to explore it properly. I would have loved to spend a week in an artfully restored trullo somewhere in the countryside – and I don’t doubt there are many of them and that they are amazing. But I am atalking about Alberobello. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1tjKkyYsBDwMzZULX8oy_v8RZ9UP4cM9OLqPCFcvzkZoJJTQvaMUOCInZugjj8LdNMrx2lrUEyaB8jAl7SXV9wVTn2Ml4UFPt1FiQ_SaLcWUfv6RCrIdH4a6AdX8nWqfD-Wq6oKq-2qc/s1600/IMG_0714.JPG"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1tjKkyYsBDwMzZULX8oy_v8RZ9UP4cM9OLqPCFcvzkZoJJTQvaMUOCInZugjj8LdNMrx2lrUEyaB8jAl7SXV9wVTn2Ml4UFPt1FiQ_SaLcWUfv6RCrIdH4a6AdX8nWqfD-Wq6oKq-2qc/s400/IMG_0714.JPG" /></a><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">A typical trullo in Alberobello</span></div><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">Just skip it. Drive by. Snap a pic if you want. But don’t stay there. It’s the kind of place where you feel like you got suckered. You will be angry with yourself for falling prey to the trulli scam. At least, that is kinda how we felt. Go instead to Locotarondo for dinner, and stop in Martina Franca for granita at the M Betitto Sorbeteria. </div><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj06IQm5JJPfpECQhWHXJgbAaaALhVhZedwYLv1OxAeijJ-EZ5nqlSjLvCcljskRoq1mVSu88MW9HHtJXV_JDrWz6L_yScq9D4DEpRJmt4-vDe9VEGoPb7eshd3CBcTPGuKmd1QWaMozgc/s1600/IMG_0262.JPG"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj06IQm5JJPfpECQhWHXJgbAaaALhVhZedwYLv1OxAeijJ-EZ5nqlSjLvCcljskRoq1mVSu88MW9HHtJXV_JDrWz6L_yScq9D4DEpRJmt4-vDe9VEGoPb7eshd3CBcTPGuKmd1QWaMozgc/s400/IMG_0262.JPG" /></a><span style="font-size: x-small;"> An evening stroll through Martina Franca</span><br />
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<div style="text-align: justify;">Drive by the trullis in the fields, maybe stop by. But do yourself a favor and skip Alberobello. Maybe it’s because we just came from Matera, or maybe it was the family from Long Island who was walking around behind us with a heavily accented running commentary, but the town was just – meh. Everyone wants to sell you something, or provide you with an “authentic” stay in one of their trullis. Just avoid. Overall we were surprised by how “untouristy” Puglia is. At least, by foreigners. Italians discovered Puglia long ago and continue to appreciate its beaches, its food, its towns. But the rest of the world has only just started to catch on. And a great way to take it all in, is to set up shop there for a little while. Like we did. With our HomeAwayUK rental on the Adriatic coast just outside of Tricase, north of the southern most tip, Santa Maria de Leuca. Next and final installment: our amazing little house on a cliff and the southern tip.</div><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMPzUERKS1sZnVXq-oI8778bqc3DcduMCbrwlT8gj83Uem9zbP6-NdCMhpFsJ-ywq0F186YdkyPgU5RV2M0rzz5KQDERr8Dv01YCcwY7j-M9nLsgIHXpU_EAxTYh0f63p7_Wjqc70Vm0E/s1600/IMG_0873.JPG"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMPzUERKS1sZnVXq-oI8778bqc3DcduMCbrwlT8gj83Uem9zbP6-NdCMhpFsJ-ywq0F186YdkyPgU5RV2M0rzz5KQDERr8Dv01YCcwY7j-M9nLsgIHXpU_EAxTYh0f63p7_Wjqc70Vm0E/s400/IMG_0873.JPG" /></a><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Jiffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14183963095380555569noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-128838481363945326.post-957593028730966522011-07-29T01:36:00.000-07:002011-07-29T02:04:33.816-07:00Ten Days in Puglia, Part 1: Gargano<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjenatBUnGtmt3QrYSnKR1Vy8w69nDQ6_Q5Yjq71yGUC0v7051_Eldv1DOzHBGZ76TfER6S5vGDG0RRl02KRpFXpCf8Fl6SpcJeH75-_mnYj084BbRAW3VGLK06RAVBFlBaNcG80Gx1qlk/s1600/IMG_0961.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjenatBUnGtmt3QrYSnKR1Vy8w69nDQ6_Q5Yjq71yGUC0v7051_Eldv1DOzHBGZ76TfER6S5vGDG0RRl02KRpFXpCf8Fl6SpcJeH75-_mnYj084BbRAW3VGLK06RAVBFlBaNcG80Gx1qlk/s400/IMG_0961.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
It was a bit of a serendipitous babymoon. A soon-to-expire voucher for a free rental of a <a href="http://www.holiday-rentals.co.uk/">HomeAway UK</a> property via this <a href="http://grantourismotravels.com/">Grantourismo</a> <a href="http://grantourismotravels.com/2010/08/08/grantourismo-travel-blogging-competition-july-winners/">travel blogging contest</a> and my in-laws volunteering without prompting to take the kids for a while was the equivalent of the stars aligning to offer us what will most likely be our last vacation as two before the impending arrival of baby number three for the foreseeable future. I mean, maybe we will be able to do this again when a) baby three is weened b) the grandparents feel up to the challenge of taking on three at once and c) at least one child is old enough to cook dinner, do the laundry and perform CPR, just in case. Until then, we will revel in the memories of a gorgeous ten day get away to Puglia, otherwise known as "the heel of the boot".<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOP8EVc84PL42vJGBoTbO4SOoicneTlYryBMB3Dl_x9AZ2y_VXfRRnmMwsW2OPPmancOj1xKx8cLqwgfuO1UZSx2qPHSoBQcR7el3ndpjI0M4-kYJr9HLyMthAQHv6lVO_k4qT_0V5oxA/s1600/IMG_0298.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOP8EVc84PL42vJGBoTbO4SOoicneTlYryBMB3Dl_x9AZ2y_VXfRRnmMwsW2OPPmancOj1xKx8cLqwgfuO1UZSx2qPHSoBQcR7el3ndpjI0M4-kYJr9HLyMthAQHv6lVO_k4qT_0V5oxA/s400/IMG_0298.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>We left the kids with tears in our eyes on the beach with their grandparents not far from Ferrara. An hour later, the tears were dry and we had the stereo cranked, the windows down and we were free on the open highway, just me, my man and one baby minus 14 weeks. First stop: the gorgeous Gargano Promontory and the slippery-stoned, peninsula-topped, jaw-dropping view offering town of Peschici.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi23qBu6PuN0gbAI0EWIESn15dl9x3JGSpqbvRSN0TmDkP0YtESHjAT4dzMHYI_e0lfq_nB9INA6Ybi2BbzuH572orP_b7Z4LmvVuJnmShZ-ct8MwBUcpdgvmBfnRl461g2C0t0h-yvuX0/s1600/IMG_0317.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi23qBu6PuN0gbAI0EWIESn15dl9x3JGSpqbvRSN0TmDkP0YtESHjAT4dzMHYI_e0lfq_nB9INA6Ybi2BbzuH572orP_b7Z4LmvVuJnmShZ-ct8MwBUcpdgvmBfnRl461g2C0t0h-yvuX0/s400/IMG_0317.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
There were delicious discoveries like little almond paste cookies that Ingo took one bite of and declared too rich, and a sort of Puglian scone, the Pane del Pescatore, a dense bun with sweet raisins and salty almonds that filled us up for the rest of the day. There were also slices of hot dog and french fry foccaccia which we passed on this time around. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHtv3GU6O7VporQ8F1sMZ4r5vwm3y-UrOw6Q2RptMFaNgfTH2A7NTGxLuIaQ-fhKJKmwVw1o4RtmET6irJteSJLkooGmXPkgqM0uDs15C-bL67x1jGWW-s8zz6a3qHzn30zOqofQDn9Ag/s1600/IMG_0357.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHtv3GU6O7VporQ8F1sMZ4r5vwm3y-UrOw6Q2RptMFaNgfTH2A7NTGxLuIaQ-fhKJKmwVw1o4RtmET6irJteSJLkooGmXPkgqM0uDs15C-bL67x1jGWW-s8zz6a3qHzn30zOqofQDn9Ag/s400/IMG_0357.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>After an amazing meal at<a href="http://www.portadibasso.it/"> Porta di Basso</a> where we sat at a table literally ON a CLIFF, I mean one step over the guard rail and it would have been 100 meters straight down into the sea, we headed out the next day to trace the promontory. Cruising by the trabucci, these old fishing nets that reminded me of the ones in Cochin, where you can sit and eat fish from the sea, into the pan and onto your plate.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOYIjGW_UF9TCXiMiygf2jHT1uibDWvRgoremsssy0YLalxqX3MY4RvdtSR6Gjh0vdcQ8k9acle8gzTvsJ0P9xGGKfMWO5IP6adC4cMeukN8OUdIFB3G68z-pug5T5812e8ExySD8LVnI/s1600/IMG_0366.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOYIjGW_UF9TCXiMiygf2jHT1uibDWvRgoremsssy0YLalxqX3MY4RvdtSR6Gjh0vdcQ8k9acle8gzTvsJ0P9xGGKfMWO5IP6adC4cMeukN8OUdIFB3G68z-pug5T5812e8ExySD8LVnI/s400/IMG_0366.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>Stopping over the lunch hour in sweet little Vieste, we continued tracing the coast, stopping occassionally to oggle the view, like this:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDObQKuAPjU1CPD3h0vastip7rsLQSogt89BR7H4aH_pQJAERSaGHpL8wqogjflOaPb03j0yut_LVTglPT5KSvVNTx9qqMf5KSbDJjDIWvORU4lWD2oSctUq0MfDlY20u9QUPPZ3aceu0/s1600/IMG_9857.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDObQKuAPjU1CPD3h0vastip7rsLQSogt89BR7H4aH_pQJAERSaGHpL8wqogjflOaPb03j0yut_LVTglPT5KSvVNTx9qqMf5KSbDJjDIWvORU4lWD2oSctUq0MfDlY20u9QUPPZ3aceu0/s400/IMG_9857.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
And periodically stopping to hike down to some little spot of beach like this:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmmbHqpK5lGwkDci8hsWrRF4ZQBZIe-cBdbNsNU69KVE5w8wmviJuM7wgCk04ifJAQMz59k2XPaeCvTKCEXCibREaBxOXXipiXgONErE-1WfG4QtofjMM4wQVkgHmwe8Jvond5-I2kIcc/s1600/IMG_9867.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmmbHqpK5lGwkDci8hsWrRF4ZQBZIe-cBdbNsNU69KVE5w8wmviJuM7wgCk04ifJAQMz59k2XPaeCvTKCEXCibREaBxOXXipiXgONErE-1WfG4QtofjMM4wQVkgHmwe8Jvond5-I2kIcc/s400/IMG_9867.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
And then on to the <a href="http://www.hotelbaiadellezagare.it/eng/excursions_itineraries_apulia.php">Baia delle Zagare</a>, a little bay and incredible hotel that Ingo had been hearing about from his parents since childhood when they would dump him and his brother at his grandmother's and head down south for a few weeks on their own (sound familiar?). They would occasionally stay at <a href="http://www.hotelbaiadellezagare.it/eng/hotel_resort_gargano.php">this hotel</a>, a gorgeous place perched up on a cliff with an elevator built into the rock to take guests down to this secluded little expanse of white sand. The only way to get to this bay is to stay at the hotel, have your own yacht to cruise up in OR if you are sneaky like us, talk to someone at the front desk and tell them you are looking for a hotel and wanted to look around the grounds. They instructed us to make ourselves at home and pointed us toward the elevator. The famous elevator! To the famous bay!<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKXI0z5puKP1GoD07PWC83wqMtvd3hZdUc_SJ_JRrXzcw2QbFoqu5MBO2vfkT5ojmvPIDiy5XAFvdw5HIjNxEmQ1eLmiod8VrT35f9pzSNJIMpTjF5vyXQhdY6Ky0IsRj6PFGMtpNhn1U/s1600/IMG_9877.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKXI0z5puKP1GoD07PWC83wqMtvd3hZdUc_SJ_JRrXzcw2QbFoqu5MBO2vfkT5ojmvPIDiy5XAFvdw5HIjNxEmQ1eLmiod8VrT35f9pzSNJIMpTjF5vyXQhdY6Ky0IsRj6PFGMtpNhn1U/s400/IMG_9877.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
Totally dreamy.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK3qbuZIHYU3hBQufgXkgUjWEWgau0cIwCYH01wa9TufHYZ15et86DJ47TJOWJIMxrf0Hzi1AeEaE_qvA6GIbMoF0xjyc-lipwq6MCfcXkHIyTCO775utyHkCYarVBE_IcqWUes2PH-ac/s1600/IMG_9882.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK3qbuZIHYU3hBQufgXkgUjWEWgau0cIwCYH01wa9TufHYZ15et86DJ47TJOWJIMxrf0Hzi1AeEaE_qvA6GIbMoF0xjyc-lipwq6MCfcXkHIyTCO775utyHkCYarVBE_IcqWUes2PH-ac/s400/IMG_9882.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
Pulling ourselves away from the bay, we continued along the coast, passing exceedingly ugly industrial Manfredonia, which spit us off of the promontory and into Trani:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4B0X8NVCSVAu6ZHnPd9mYVspXQEIMiZgS2vJuG8lGE1T6nJqeU-OVHAkfSHUto-qgqMAqEwZN9fsvDtTGuwtQi6UQM1Wp03R5yVxliG8AJ0Gj4cZseaQL5-1vCdf3HyciTCP37qQhODM/s1600/IMG_9889.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4B0X8NVCSVAu6ZHnPd9mYVspXQEIMiZgS2vJuG8lGE1T6nJqeU-OVHAkfSHUto-qgqMAqEwZN9fsvDtTGuwtQi6UQM1Wp03R5yVxliG8AJ0Gj4cZseaQL5-1vCdf3HyciTCP37qQhODM/s400/IMG_9889.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
where we got in just in time to see the sun set over the harbor and cathedral from our hotel room at <a href="http://sanpaoloalconvento.it/">Hotel San Paolo al Convento</a>, a former convent with limestone walls and floor-to-ceiling windows. Thanks for the tip, in-laws!<br />
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From Trani through Matera and the Valle d'Istria and on to the tip of the heel... next.Jiffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14183963095380555569noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-128838481363945326.post-3291340665849231232011-06-03T08:33:00.000-07:002011-06-03T08:33:34.483-07:00Oscar's Birthday Week<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjhQmk0PxcoliYurcyzu_JbepKFrU0mndn4Vz3RgLNP1dEQDb4Zyn4Gp_9JlpnbqGUwiXo-W__o05cIAv-Rh2s_ZPDeLJYY-SsyEyTbKMPDW4aJKym_yo776UF83qYnivUM-gvzkTUfic/s1600/cake.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjhQmk0PxcoliYurcyzu_JbepKFrU0mndn4Vz3RgLNP1dEQDb4Zyn4Gp_9JlpnbqGUwiXo-W__o05cIAv-Rh2s_ZPDeLJYY-SsyEyTbKMPDW4aJKym_yo776UF83qYnivUM-gvzkTUfic/s320/cake.jpg" /></a><i> </i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i>Psychedelic birthday cake. Designed and decorated by Oscar.</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I am a bit fearful that a dangerous precedent has been set. One birthday. Three birthday parties. One week of sugar induced toddler debauchery and a wardrobe covered in frosting. The kid just turned three years old. Yes, it is every exciting, but judging by the amount of fanfare surrounding the big event, you would think he just married the princess of England.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">First, there was the school party. A nutritious lunch was swapped out for a gooey chocolate birthday cake. Toddler approval ratings were high and the change in routine was greeted with rave reviews:</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqQ1cBTerHgPVY_z1Ea2gAhkowXvLHgSQUxYdPTC1xwDNwoeGx2zfQRC06i8t4LGZT6KrXo-2HCcsgfBTzRYfAdfUgdJ1KZNP1iv-A7427QfLGOj5dVtPjUHGAAOU7bCOIiYjPSA0PCKY/s1600/o%2527s+school+party.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqQ1cBTerHgPVY_z1Ea2gAhkowXvLHgSQUxYdPTC1xwDNwoeGx2zfQRC06i8t4LGZT6KrXo-2HCcsgfBTzRYfAdfUgdJ1KZNP1iv-A7427QfLGOj5dVtPjUHGAAOU7bCOIiYjPSA0PCKY/s400/o%2527s+school+party.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Of course we had to have a family party at home. We added a few friends and had Oscar's favorite meal- pesto pasta with chicken and kalamata olives. When people arrived he kept opening the fridge and asking for his "happy birthday." "When is my happy birthday?" I soon realized that he was referring to the dessert and the singing. Most of what he has grasped about birthdays is 'dessert on fire'. Not a bad start.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Wanting a contrast to the cake he ate a few hours ago at school, I combined a banana split and a sundae: homemade banana chocolate-chip ice cream, sprinkled with salted peanuts, topped with whipped cream and a cherry. Hmmm... a dreamy helping of childhood nostalgia. Diving into this salty, sweet, bitter chocolate, treat transported us all to our happy place.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVXTEOWAnMsWRTmyABW1KSGbJfjt-lwZk2UdQaTeNAiG07jTjNg5laO1Lq74ZOv6BSmcQhcUW-rE9bdvkAwFuVORafkbpxGQwHfzjGcvrHyOQBoswoxnt_3AtbWp7UkthEAjJWbNwXImg/s1600/sundae.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVXTEOWAnMsWRTmyABW1KSGbJfjt-lwZk2UdQaTeNAiG07jTjNg5laO1Lq74ZOv6BSmcQhcUW-rE9bdvkAwFuVORafkbpxGQwHfzjGcvrHyOQBoswoxnt_3AtbWp7UkthEAjJWbNwXImg/s400/sundae.jpg" width="300" /> </a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">But the real showstopper had to be the kid-tastic birthday fiesta. Because we are moving back to the US in two weeks, uprooting Oscar from everything he has ever known, we went all out-- Mexican-style. Kid birthday parties are a major event here. The phone book has pages and pages of listings for event spaces solely for kid parties. They are equipped with bounce houses, trampolines, a rig for the <i>piñata</i>, and play structures galore; some have stages for a <i>Backyardigan </i>or <i>Toy Story</i> performance. All provide lots of tables and chairs and a large counter space for a extensive food buffet.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdjf2VBOSx2VMBuAdP8weZUZqlNJVOPCsPhXWPFSlZZRJ1Pv7Bvc8-rMOfc7LWodAXMxV7-Z9p_QFtsXToP-bFJMi5tx1o5J3KLtXpBNu91wleWq90SHlmw-EAAw4CUZOv8daX21Yyc8Y/s1600/jump+house.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdjf2VBOSx2VMBuAdP8weZUZqlNJVOPCsPhXWPFSlZZRJ1Pv7Bvc8-rMOfc7LWodAXMxV7-Z9p_QFtsXToP-bFJMi5tx1o5J3KLtXpBNu91wleWq90SHlmw-EAAw4CUZOv8daX21Yyc8Y/s320/jump+house.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i> Bounce house: Check.</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWSk685POqJAvNKW1M5TdXXtvp1uQ0ZEVUbam5-tDL3iSYSjdQ4usTBhcP2MAHZFFng9B9zjKHeuymFiP8WhgC1BPXbC6mqxvphA4mBuysbGFmqe8OS3DNAkhdJz4RgVjaVNqbqs3vvl0/s1600/pinata.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWSk685POqJAvNKW1M5TdXXtvp1uQ0ZEVUbam5-tDL3iSYSjdQ4usTBhcP2MAHZFFng9B9zjKHeuymFiP8WhgC1BPXbC6mqxvphA4mBuysbGFmqe8OS3DNAkhdJz4RgVjaVNqbqs3vvl0/s400/pinata.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i>Look at the way he steps into the swing. Clearly it is not his first </i><i>piñata</i> <i>bashing</i>.</div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Why the tables and chairs? Kids don't sit still long enough to eat at a party. And a buffet table? Don't you just need a table big enough to hold a cake and perhaps a tub of ice cream? That is all the kids are going to eat, right? In Mexico, when you invite a child to a birthday party, you are inviting the whole family-- sisters, brothers, parents, cousins, uncles, grandparents, the neighbor who is over playing that morning, etc. They all come. And they expect to be fed and watered. So, those fifteen invitations that went out to Oscar's classmates could bring in 150 guests. And the kicker..... no one ever RSVPs.<br />
<br />
So from someone who foolishly tackled it..... if you are ever faced with the challenge of cooking for a large mystery number of adults and children, I suggest you don't. Just call in a taco truck, order the largest cake at the bakery and get your bounce-house on! <br />
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In my memory, growing up in the US, birthday parties lasted two hours MAX at this young age. Parents jumped for joy at the sight of a birthday invitation and quickly scheduled their massage, golf game, etc. Kids were dropped off not one second after the designated time. Now….Mexican-style. Two hours in and the party is just getting rolling. Entire families are still arriving. Naps are not an issue in Mexico and a sleep-deprived breakdown is treated with another slice of cake. Guests plant themselves at the tables and settle in for the afternoon. It’s an event. It truly is a celebration; a reason for everyone to get together. My guess is Oscar is going to want the entire town and their extended families at his fourth birthday—and, of course, a piñata! <div> <hr align="left" class="msocomoff" size="1" width="33%" /><span class="MsoCommentReference"><span style="font-size: 8pt;"><span></span></span></span><span></span><div><div class="msocomtxt" id="_com_1"> </div></div></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span id="goog_1571389809"></span><span id="goog_1571389810"></span></div>Ashley Hooker Jonshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01772516636742390055noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-128838481363945326.post-25926665427796914632011-05-27T01:01:00.000-07:002011-05-27T02:31:34.514-07:00The Perils of Being Pregnant<div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Computer refusing to upload photos but imagine a big plate of raw oysters right here.</i></div><br />
The daily temptations of the local specialties shops notwithstanding (from creamy unpasteurized French cheeses, various forms of raw meats from aged prosciutto, salami, tartars and sushi to anything from the deli counter basically), I now have to dodge children and raw vegetables. My rubella antibodies have gone from "weak" during my first pregnancy to below acceptable levels in this one. Apparently this happens. And so, what follows? Yes, a fellow mother from my children's kindergarten just informed me that there is at least one confirmed case of some sort of rubella, aptly also called German measles, currently circulating among the little miscreants. But children are not this pregnant woman's only nemisis: there has recently been an outbreak of something referred to as EHEC, a form of E. coli bacteria that is resistant to antibiotics and causes a series of unpleasant and potentially fatal intestinal and kidney malfunctions. They have just announced that a leading research institute in Germany has traced the source to raw vegetables - the one thing that pregnant women are told to ingest in large quantities. AND they have traced these vegetables back to... yes, of course, northern Germany.<br />
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While grocery shopping I feel like I am in a minefield: tomatoes about to go off all around me, who knows what's lurking under that lettuce leaf, and the potential pitfalls of choosing the wrong red pepper. ACK! What is a veggie lover to do? Cook them, the experts say. Peel them, boil them, fry them, sauteé them, bake them, just get them hot enough to kill whatever might be on them. But it's summmmmmmeeeeerrr. The season of flip-flops and cut-offs and tube tops and RAW vegetables, of hierloom tomato salads with (raw milk) buffala mozzorella, green goddess dressings made of thousands of fresh herbs, crudités and dips, cold soups made of simple pureed RAW vegetables. Raw, naked, in their natural state. Not baked in cheese and cream, not breaded and fried, not soaking in oil, just plain. Plain delicious.<br />
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In the course of my travels, I have had just about every amoeba, parasite and bacteria from giardia to bilharzia and taken every drug from cipro to hard core antibiotics. Of course this is because I've drank water from puddles full of cow shit in Mauritania, risked "Delhi-belly" by sampling the wares of numerous street food vendors throughout India, eaten fish from still water lakes in Afghanistan and kebobs from dodgy road side stands in Jordan; what I mean to say is, I deserved it. I have thrown major caution to the wind when it comes to taking triple-dog-food-dares. And I paid dearly for it. But this time, the game has changed. My intestinal track is weathered and can hack a little EHEC, I wager. But the fetus - I would like to give it a little more time to prepare before exposing it to all of the intestinal evils of the world. <br />
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So yesterday as the woman scans my items at the check out counter I am practically blushing. I will admit it: I am a bit of a grocery snob. I judge other people by their groceries. I imperceptibly shake my head at the mother who puts a pile of sugary yogurts, Chef-Boy-Ardee-like ready made pasta mixes and nothing-natural-about-them cookies on the conveyer belt; I feel sorry for the middle-aged man who lays out his mayonaisse-laden deli prepared "salads" and his frozen pizzas; I chuckle as I remember when I was one of those students stocking up on ramen noodles and cheep beer. Total snob, I know.<br />
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But as I stand here watching my groceries slide by, I realize I am a conglomeration of all of these people. It's painfully obvious that I've completely shunned the produce aisle, even though signs hang above the arugula, spinach and iceburg saying "E. Coli FREE"; instead, it looks like I am preparing for an impending storm - almost everything is either processed and packaged or pasteurized. Artificially flavored hazelnut cream filled cookies, sour cream and onion Philadelphia and my biggest weakness which I usually deny, those something of Hannover honey mustard pretzel bits. They always give me a stomach ache because I eat too many of them but they are crack-like addictive. Nutritional value of my purchase: negligible. E. Coli risk: 0. Sometimes you have to pick your battles.<br />
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</div>Jiffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14183963095380555569noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-128838481363945326.post-9532868883851846152011-05-24T02:37:00.000-07:002011-05-24T06:16:14.464-07:00Barceloneta: Behind the ScenesAs promised, more on Barceloneta. First, I won't say too much as you can read all about it in the upcoming June issue of Hemispheres Magazine, the United/Continental In-Flight magazine - either on board or online (yay!). But I will give you all a behind the scenes look at the prep for the piece:<br />
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In addition to all of the gorgeous dishes from my previous post, my research also entailed<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYhmT_7i8MKyHmJen3ZZN9Z1v9N6MVXsVqa40SBYvUL6NeCfPzJdXIIVhyA7eIZeU2G5hNgBv9rHVtKlhYyPxOAxE-OkWk2TpjnFyl0yYLzPW_SrPzikEGo6czIVzTtvTTVA6KjQZRhGI/s1600/IMG_8400.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYhmT_7i8MKyHmJen3ZZN9Z1v9N6MVXsVqa40SBYvUL6NeCfPzJdXIIVhyA7eIZeU2G5hNgBv9rHVtKlhYyPxOAxE-OkWk2TpjnFyl0yYLzPW_SrPzikEGo6czIVzTtvTTVA6KjQZRhGI/s400/IMG_8400.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
the chef's smoked rice paella dish - unlike anything I'd tasted before.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnXgH1gNOwxhUk7ZadG-qYhisDJKrW7mCSKmZA0b_vdxpcJLEqIzaf6hsqhT-5NaPBVYULJZGGDS5Lc_2FLsFM4WBKkLVOtb_8gvSwSLVRCpsaJee7V7obJvwYLMg1tLK7LZOAtKppC2I/s1600/IMG_8478.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnXgH1gNOwxhUk7ZadG-qYhisDJKrW7mCSKmZA0b_vdxpcJLEqIzaf6hsqhT-5NaPBVYULJZGGDS5Lc_2FLsFM4WBKkLVOtb_8gvSwSLVRCpsaJee7V7obJvwYLMg1tLK7LZOAtKppC2I/s400/IMG_8478.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
And while Nathan and I tucked into all things from the sea, our fellow diners, Freej and Avis,<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1zTA_oa_2E1hCseQDwhZ6rxGPdS4zzai5OU74m0nD5Kup8AZUuygJhGbmdKdO_onyOdaHMNuAY1AEEi2x8PZ_7fD2QzNYXx59ij_qKDj9SB5dVQgfx4LnxGb4XFK-x1QEUMFaWtDoxPc/s1600/IMG_8495.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1zTA_oa_2E1hCseQDwhZ6rxGPdS4zzai5OU74m0nD5Kup8AZUuygJhGbmdKdO_onyOdaHMNuAY1AEEi2x8PZ_7fD2QzNYXx59ij_qKDj9SB5dVQgfx4LnxGb4XFK-x1QEUMFaWtDoxPc/s400/IMG_8495.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
were giddy to find there was a vegetarian version. <br />
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But we were here for work not pleasure (although combining the two in this case was effortless) and so we finished off every last gambas rojas and smoky granule and headed to the open kitchen to stalk the man behind the mission (that being to bring diners to tears with his creations), a chef named Hug. (I'm not kidding.)<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv8sGv7otZMKj06pszWhYxSc-YkSulxOvDThuVuA18fOH8hMh_Nkprj0MNZVeFMdzdjLKh5-aozsszR5Ful8UDoTqdxZe-TKMr1qvYMP_NWtl3tb3yNYhTkZ8XCBNCwQuVpHni0eaIKZM/s1600/IMG_8509.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv8sGv7otZMKj06pszWhYxSc-YkSulxOvDThuVuA18fOH8hMh_Nkprj0MNZVeFMdzdjLKh5-aozsszR5Ful8UDoTqdxZe-TKMr1qvYMP_NWtl3tb3yNYhTkZ8XCBNCwQuVpHni0eaIKZM/s400/IMG_8509.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
Ah yes, fresh seafood with a view of the Mediterranean and sitting down to talk food with adorable chefs, life is hard. But sometimes you just have to soldier through, you know?<br />
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Nathan and Freej yawned as Eva and I fawned over this talented cook with stunning blue eyes, <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOs87ZENvuyF_w0jQj8qAMUGTCN-JNWI5vsL9XG3QsBdqVrw9VddI9xvYp37Tfr50FMb782VElYwYjlfpjsUIx9SbwcTwLbLC8NYDzMw3PrDSsdof3aNTC_cL6h5AuL26rWUisO-6uzGo/s1600/IMG_8519.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOs87ZENvuyF_w0jQj8qAMUGTCN-JNWI5vsL9XG3QsBdqVrw9VddI9xvYp37Tfr50FMb782VElYwYjlfpjsUIx9SbwcTwLbLC8NYDzMw3PrDSsdof3aNTC_cL6h5AuL26rWUisO-6uzGo/s400/IMG_8519.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
who also, turns out, gives good backrubs. To the pregnant woman. And charms her friend whose boyfriend is standing off to the side rolling his eyes. Ay dios mio. Want some of the freshest, most innovative seafood in Barcelona and a Hug? - his lovely establishment is called Kaiku. Tell him I sent you. Ask for a backrub. Enjoy.Jiffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14183963095380555569noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-128838481363945326.post-79102410763095111542011-05-18T05:23:00.000-07:002011-05-18T05:23:19.004-07:00Barceloneta and its Cuina<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM8MeDavv92oOcaQP8AOhG9hWikZ6ZJEZtEnX1nVsAKa4JCf47DILMxxSnqXy6al5JiQpLc64o5HHM-qiETjeJkeaBCSxJZNrKTqHu5yAD3FE5gGN7XnVMYXNzwOdymnvW-avO1B4h24k/s1600/IMG_8385.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM8MeDavv92oOcaQP8AOhG9hWikZ6ZJEZtEnX1nVsAKa4JCf47DILMxxSnqXy6al5JiQpLc64o5HHM-qiETjeJkeaBCSxJZNrKTqHu5yAD3FE5gGN7XnVMYXNzwOdymnvW-avO1B4h24k/s400/IMG_8385.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>I was in Barcelona a few weeks ago, in the lovely seaside, city beach, revamped fisherman's quarter of Barceloneta and it looked like this...<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3ntdqybE2aegwkEbOd90eG9nSLreXN_3RJbOFnLjBSJwhHzf2vTMAPWXPpw3QBt3ENZGPD6Dro_sEAobQMekji_-TqjfwpHTbolMhYYhB9Wx5nbXTqwZXjTARV5C2f2HDfRk8UOXc29g/s1600/IMG_8390.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3ntdqybE2aegwkEbOd90eG9nSLreXN_3RJbOFnLjBSJwhHzf2vTMAPWXPpw3QBt3ENZGPD6Dro_sEAobQMekji_-TqjfwpHTbolMhYYhB9Wx5nbXTqwZXjTARV5C2f2HDfRk8UOXc29g/s400/IMG_8390.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
and sometimes it looked like this..<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6toLsSGNGDhzAtjcDAa_xoI-adDmTXG3Wa4pzSGKjXGfSGcVE9PNRyfZLy2r5gXrA-qXA5By3GiFdnWl4IkggdIoFy9H2Ht6vL57343Dd81B0rEIqXHclKFMJg7z6UWyJfPhMkvnE4-Y/s1600/IMG_8394.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6toLsSGNGDhzAtjcDAa_xoI-adDmTXG3Wa4pzSGKjXGfSGcVE9PNRyfZLy2r5gXrA-qXA5By3GiFdnWl4IkggdIoFy9H2Ht6vL57343Dd81B0rEIqXHclKFMJg7z6UWyJfPhMkvnE4-Y/s400/IMG_8394.jpg" width="266" /></a></div>and occasionally like this.<br />
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More on Barcelona and its cuina coming to follow shortly... <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Jiffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14183963095380555569noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-128838481363945326.post-87697487151495630392011-04-14T12:50:00.000-07:002011-04-14T12:53:14.475-07:00Bacon Jam: Pig On A Baguette<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtOVV-vBmb6YbNFjacEmW3MpD77XqOdEkiPpt6gp-Tqc0d7dzYujiN-RFTn7khZ0lVXDgvySKeV6CBKNcrU_7Zj7vcP9V7tWQQUsLLwjQh_0ZjugCFUGemQlSedr2ZRsti55Z7xtrzJDY/s1600/baconjam2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtOVV-vBmb6YbNFjacEmW3MpD77XqOdEkiPpt6gp-Tqc0d7dzYujiN-RFTn7khZ0lVXDgvySKeV6CBKNcrU_7Zj7vcP9V7tWQQUsLLwjQh_0ZjugCFUGemQlSedr2ZRsti55Z7xtrzJDY/s400/baconjam2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
I have a guilty secret. I have been keeping quiet for the past two months in fear that I would blurt it out without warning or proper fanfare; however, now I just feel like a greedy hoarder for not letting everyone in on it: Bacon Jam! For real! It exists! <br />
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Bacon jam might be the first good thing that has come out of peoples’ obsession with hourly web updates detailing what they are noshing on while sitting in front of their computer. I first stumbled upon these two beautiful words strung together on twitter, which lead to a deeper dive into a few blogs which had recipes for bacon jam, then… I turned to my stash of <a href="http://smashandsniff.blogspot.com/2011/02/blog-post.html">homemade bacon</a>. A choir of angels sang out from the heavens and I knew how to fulfill this pork belly’s calling: Pork product in spreadable, edible form. Good God, man! Could it be as magical as it sounded?<br />
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Oh yes, it is pure nectar! <br />
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For my spin on it, I gave it a sort of Mayan-Mexican twist. Cocoa nibs (roasted cocoa beans) impart the essence of chocolate without adding any sweetness. The ancho and chipotle give it a bit of spice and smoky flavor, while the cinnamon adds subtle warmth. I used agave syrup (you can use honey as a substitute) which is a sweet syrup made from the cactus where tequila comes from… hmmmm maybe I should try a batch with a shot of tequila in the mix.<br />
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A smear of this smoky, spicy, bitter pork "pate" turns dignified guests into gluttons and beggars. After several bites and lots of moaning, an entrepreneur friend of mine immediately began conceiving of world condiment domination- move over ketchup, now bacon comes in a jar! <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifaZiVkrRiaKB1UFlv9ZosgknxePlaH1e5GsduHv06pYPB9qY4thWWerdIcNxzZLz493PsXY0CbmeM8h7_oznoxIEeqT5qDBluh6kkFV0yqBcAG7D40XpCWilXhW5R3wtJMKnCPsUYmIE/s1600/baconjam3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifaZiVkrRiaKB1UFlv9ZosgknxePlaH1e5GsduHv06pYPB9qY4thWWerdIcNxzZLz493PsXY0CbmeM8h7_oznoxIEeqT5qDBluh6kkFV0yqBcAG7D40XpCWilXhW5R3wtJMKnCPsUYmIE/s400/baconjam3.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><u><b>Pig On A Baguette</b></u></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">1 # bacon, cut into 1” pieces</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">1 onion, medium dice</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">4 cloves garlic, minced</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">3 tablespoon brown sugar</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">1 teaspoon ancho chili powder</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">1 teaspoon chipotle powder (or smoked paprika)</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">¼ teaspoon cinnamon</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">1 tablespoon cocoa nibs, ground</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">¾ cup coffee</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">¼ cup cider vinegar</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">¼ cup agave syrup (or honey)</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: -0.25in;">1.<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span>Dump bacon into a skillet and cook until fat is rendered and bacon is slightly crisp. Add the onion and sauté for about 3 minutes. Pour out half of the bacon fat. Add the garlic and cook for 1 min.</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: -0.25in;">2.<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span>Add the sugar, all of the spices and cocoa nibs and stir over heat for 1-2 minutes. </div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: -0.25in;">3.<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span>Pour in coffee, vinegar and agave and simmer on low for about 3 hours. Add water during the cooking if the liquid gets too low.</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: -0.25in;">4.<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span>Transfer to a food processor and pulse until slightly smooth. I leave it a bit chunky with bacon bits. Serve with baguette and apple slices.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Ashley Hooker Jonshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01772516636742390055noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-128838481363945326.post-75735565799749547472011-04-08T01:32:00.000-07:002011-04-08T01:44:08.093-07:00Eating Moscow: Traditional v. Innovative<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwI9IQdxZfcDTYcTMpUB6Hxbn5IGlgqbM8l6SDLy0_y67by2guMP4tMd5x9DCbmIoeo9VG0_5OMM-C3e-FqRqEheKfrYdZeQm4JETVRRnjcRyYoFgjbo_1EpLGYpUl4RmPankq41kV-Sw/s1600/IMG_8077.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwI9IQdxZfcDTYcTMpUB6Hxbn5IGlgqbM8l6SDLy0_y67by2guMP4tMd5x9DCbmIoeo9VG0_5OMM-C3e-FqRqEheKfrYdZeQm4JETVRRnjcRyYoFgjbo_1EpLGYpUl4RmPankq41kV-Sw/s400/IMG_8077.JPG" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">If it weren't for the touch screen waiter's monitor, you could be standing in someone's living room in Moscow circa 1979.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;">A secret restaurant in a Russian housewife's living room? Or a Russian-home-cooking joint and just another quirky thematic restaurant in the vast Ginza Project empire? It is hard to tell the difference upon entrance, after you've rung the door bell on at what looks like a standard Moscow apartment building. </div><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEU7nBiupBJZOty3taP2lw2qo5CJQMiD57PYaGzdq1aNH1qNfXldlOwtTl0_P6Tq8n6Sf3GnsckwbVQBCkcTfSxe6CApMdwWOAymrcz2KmqyBaGXKGB3vEnMAkV5zfxGgJ_jDM-9_gnDM/s1600/IMG_8079.JPG"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEU7nBiupBJZOty3taP2lw2qo5CJQMiD57PYaGzdq1aNH1qNfXldlOwtTl0_P6Tq8n6Sf3GnsckwbVQBCkcTfSxe6CApMdwWOAymrcz2KmqyBaGXKGB3vEnMAkV5zfxGgJ_jDM-9_gnDM/s400/IMG_8079.JPG" /> </a><br />
Someone answered the door and we were ushered into the entryway where we were instructed to hang our coats before proceeding to the table. Decorated like an old-fashioned and slightly worn living room, it was cozy and familiar. <br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhizEEH1xhNBpkaAKh5NzIZ4XVPc8JgZ8g2A8LAZlpx_qWiZPuKB8PX5W3wKP-SFucbGWP0M8T9cx032UfpHgka2xDqqrT4COGbvhlmJ-XM4Pv1cqak-LnmCDQhwsKcdnlUKlI97-D6x5k/s1600/IMG_8072.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhizEEH1xhNBpkaAKh5NzIZ4XVPc8JgZ8g2A8LAZlpx_qWiZPuKB8PX5W3wKP-SFucbGWP0M8T9cx032UfpHgka2xDqqrT4COGbvhlmJ-XM4Pv1cqak-LnmCDQhwsKcdnlUKlI97-D6x5k/s400/IMG_8072.JPG" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Meat jello...</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;">The menu, although authentically Russian was nothing to write home about. It may have been my fault for ordering the meat jello – but I like a challenge and couldn’t pass this one up. The “herring in a fur coat” – a typical Russian herring salad in beets and mayo has also been filed away under things I am glad I tried but don’t necessarily need to eat again. It was fine. But it is not something I will find myself craving after a fast.</div><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvjD9VBNdKA_XcdOxiEoITmGSY4jEaf1bxolp2oug3NBa7tSl8qtJsl3sV2pi1qbQavPK0rb6T3FENgtAleHhuF1w7NqgCtSe4vDN19Ybn_MtX9T6Dd-j4iu8brIOwad0p2HCdQina_Ik/s1600/IMG_8070.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvjD9VBNdKA_XcdOxiEoITmGSY4jEaf1bxolp2oug3NBa7tSl8qtJsl3sV2pi1qbQavPK0rb6T3FENgtAleHhuF1w7NqgCtSe4vDN19Ybn_MtX9T6Dd-j4iu8brIOwad0p2HCdQina_Ik/s400/IMG_8070.JPG" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Herring in a fur coat</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;">The borscht was good, the mushroom julienne was creamy and warming, the blini with salmon were also done well. As I said, it was all authentic and it was all good. It just wasn’t great. The real reason to go is the atmosphere which was cozy and novel and allowed us to pretend we were getting a home cooked meal – even though there was a group of native English speaking tourists or expats a few tables over. </div><br />
<img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdQUZPuvSNWxZv4MZ10gLCZ3p7O_SFPakKHmRnIIseSpovr08EIn7pKMdG3Ig_uTEVZQlQDsRMjBqnJ_nX_RFB1lpOlUgzuzHuMvNGZKg7a-1YgBTS6xif3GDevR9qg1xpHCdUb8yXq-0/s400/IMG_8069.jpg" /><br />
<br />
Mari Vanna is owned and run by the <a href="http://ginzaproject.ru/SPB/&citySelectMap=Yes">Ginza Project</a> – hear of them? They have over 20 different restaurants and cafés in Moscow and have recently branched out into everything from fitness to taxi service to design to flowers to - sky's the limit - or at least something called "Ginza Sky". And they aim for world domination. They have opened a <a href="http://www.marivanna.ru/ny/">Mari Vanna in New York Cit</a>y and have plans for other projects abroad, rumor has it. <br />
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But out with the old and on with the new...<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivbo-kOtLVHv_eAyCOTk9naK97pk895VAuV7leN6aldYO3HsHu5RBMetNB_SJ0cnnn-OnQFNddAzxZMDuCnG0PUrfwbfUh69lltOkm5HscrMXKEAwkwGL9ZEm3ZqmXYLVIEX0mI2Vv8Uw/s1600/IMG_3612.jpg"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivbo-kOtLVHv_eAyCOTk9naK97pk895VAuV7leN6aldYO3HsHu5RBMetNB_SJ0cnnn-OnQFNddAzxZMDuCnG0PUrfwbfUh69lltOkm5HscrMXKEAwkwGL9ZEm3ZqmXYLVIEX0mI2Vv8Uw/s400/IMG_3612.jpg" /></a><br />
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<div style="text-align: justify;">Ragout: The head chef of this trendy Moscow restaurant is Alexei Zimin, who is also the editor -in-chief of “Eda”, Russia’s only good food magazine according to the critics. The mag covers everything from up and coming Moscow chefs, recipes that range from traditional to innovative and finally, the kicker, the last section offers recipes for foods that can be made with common household appliances (Soup cooked in the coffee maker? Fish poached in the dishwasher? Chicken spatch-cocked between two irons, anyone?). </div><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG12M3n2Upze9-F7TaCg_-YYl3MdfLtYgDAjiiWK376qj25bFs375HbM31jER_RjAC95rwZRZ7SDaLp_Ue9CC7bt0ZhbUlNf3w1Fnj4y5fKDR0fx9rZSfAMDP6VcIogS8BEDWvKnqwMHs/s1600/IMG_8154.JPG"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG12M3n2Upze9-F7TaCg_-YYl3MdfLtYgDAjiiWK376qj25bFs375HbM31jER_RjAC95rwZRZ7SDaLp_Ue9CC7bt0ZhbUlNf3w1Fnj4y5fKDR0fx9rZSfAMDP6VcIogS8BEDWvKnqwMHs/s400/IMG_8154.JPG" /></a><br />
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<div style="text-align: justify;">After stints with big magazine titles in fashion and travel, Zimin decided that if he was going to take the helm of a food magazine he needed a formal education in his subject. He signed up for classes at the Cordon Bleu in London and came back with real chef creds which propelled him from his editor’s office into the kitchen. He currently captains both ships – AH-MAZING. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Ragout was opened by Katya Drozdova, Muscovite restaurateur who also opened Khachapuri, the hip new Georgian establishment that we very unfortunately did not make it to. She is a 30 something mother who has, with these two standouts and other projects in the works, firmly established herself as one of the big names in the Moscow food scene.</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiWO0XFa9NbUlP5H8vriHJ7N33BGn7rQJRj06sn75LcJcZRb_Fa2EHKzvNwqf3Bn0f-FiwMadB5NlVfRg-J4Sma_EGQM29npOnKL_Fy6g9RVOHs0dCwsJRDP8egtcL5bUpzdUxPnbDDuU/s1600/IMG_3617.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiWO0XFa9NbUlP5H8vriHJ7N33BGn7rQJRj06sn75LcJcZRb_Fa2EHKzvNwqf3Bn0f-FiwMadB5NlVfRg-J4Sma_EGQM29npOnKL_Fy6g9RVOHs0dCwsJRDP8egtcL5bUpzdUxPnbDDuU/s400/IMG_3617.JPG" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">dessert</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;">While I tend to shun the hot and trendy in favor of the hole-in-the wall, taco truck, old men in the tea shop type establishments, this is Russian cuisine too I reasoned and so we joined the scensters at Ragout: me, Julie, her friend Ana, my friend Elena, a Russian food and travel journalist based in Italy and her friend Irina, a Moscow fashion designer. Hello lovely ladies! The scene was buzzing, the light coming down in soft spotlights from above, tables pressed close together in rows, the young and beautiful nibbling on seafood risotto or vegetable tempura, tuna tartar with avocado or cod served over white beans and chorizo. But the stand-out of the evening, and I am not a dessert person normally, was the bacon and egg ice cream with salted caramel and brioche. The ice cream tasted like bacon, the “egg” was little bits of apricot, the salted caramel was thick and luscious served on the side in a little pot and the brioche was like a deeply saturated French toast.</div><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxgULP1X_h7eXGvoJElgHdUAw51zWzse4svmwlOMoWMVdmFst_JzvuPSiAm2NUPRFCpW3GppbFMf9S4-RmdYi22KcvoKAtNqigi4LgWPmDvZVDrHTqaKWzfj5WngvQlnuM6apfhCmKVNQ/s1600/IMG_8165.jpg"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxgULP1X_h7eXGvoJElgHdUAw51zWzse4svmwlOMoWMVdmFst_JzvuPSiAm2NUPRFCpW3GppbFMf9S4-RmdYi22KcvoKAtNqigi4LgWPmDvZVDrHTqaKWzfj5WngvQlnuM6apfhCmKVNQ/s400/IMG_8165.jpg" /></a><br />
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The evening was capped off with a visit to the members-only bar Petrovska (Irina was a member) – a soviet nostalgia bar where hipsters mingled with middle-aged foggies – and us - not tragically hip, but not yet foggies. We danced to horrendously bad 70s music, drank vodka with a group of ladies who came of age in the 70s, and then were spontaneously absorbed into a high school reunion in the “kitchen” themed dining room (there were several rooms that were themed to look like a different part of a typical Soviet apartment. <br />
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</div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSY0jdlPWyInrZRGDfq5TR3k1OhPiksE7dUmuTnThl50xjMbR0AVdpxz4fcXrETCjQ4e-ZIbP-tplTKMtk1bgX9Nd9N6ZoYLRBed0y-YsY-WgMYxxnFq77o_YBRtc-bCdWyK6aiBej9P4/s1600/IMG_8168.JPG"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSY0jdlPWyInrZRGDfq5TR3k1OhPiksE7dUmuTnThl50xjMbR0AVdpxz4fcXrETCjQ4e-ZIbP-tplTKMtk1bgX9Nd9N6ZoYLRBed0y-YsY-WgMYxxnFq77o_YBRtc-bCdWyK6aiBej9P4/s400/IMG_8168.JPG" /></a><br />
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<div style="text-align: justify;">The owners asked for donations and trolled flea markets to find old Soviet nostalgia from people’s homes which make the basis for the decoration. Soviet kitsch heaven.) We danced with a couple of very sweaty 50 year old men and swapped remember when stories even though we had no shared history (fake it till you make it!)</div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCqMR-BQ7Ax4q54TiHJGyFyn4PNWnUErQdWeox9jQEwKyin3cMiC2JV4HWB6HAWXp4Upxct4uvGAUgIeKMMKtN8-RfX8XwIW80DHGFbTIQhCk-hIQgnfvp-atEAstR0Idjym3MpUs3CyI/s1600/IMG_8162.jpg"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCqMR-BQ7Ax4q54TiHJGyFyn4PNWnUErQdWeox9jQEwKyin3cMiC2JV4HWB6HAWXp4Upxct4uvGAUgIeKMMKtN8-RfX8XwIW80DHGFbTIQhCk-hIQgnfvp-atEAstR0Idjym3MpUs3CyI/s320/IMG_8162.jpg" /></a><br />
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Whether you are young and hot or absolutely not, in search of babuschka's borscht or something you could just as well find in NYC, it's all typical Moscow.Jiffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14183963095380555569noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-128838481363945326.post-57688880975838463192011-04-05T06:20:00.000-07:002011-04-06T01:06:30.584-07:00Eating Moscow: Georgian-style<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMeOEn6yYyKoq6bUo31XrRKWct2XtJCQFUWe36sV8_amlb6NjFRzqMz-wkqMdOEzAwzDzpQVik09cLZiLDkmZkZC0fYA7juzby-jM8llSiMWAueKKe9ZZ_3KHRO9LqtrWo1nFZ1tEhXbw/s1600/IMG_4173.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMeOEn6yYyKoq6bUo31XrRKWct2XtJCQFUWe36sV8_amlb6NjFRzqMz-wkqMdOEzAwzDzpQVik09cLZiLDkmZkZC0fYA7juzby-jM8llSiMWAueKKe9ZZ_3KHRO9LqtrWo1nFZ1tEhXbw/s400/IMG_4173.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I attempt to suck out the khinkali juice without squirting it all over my shirt </td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;">This is another post in the slowly-drawing-to-a-close Moscow series while simultaneously being a concluding post in the former Georgia series, which I wrote back in June of last year. A reader recently reminded me that I had promised a post on Georgian food and completely failed to deliver. And because Moscow offers some of the best Georgian food outside of the Republic and because I want to encourage as many Georgian food enthusiasts as possible, I go back and now forward to one of the most underrated, most overlooked, most delicious world cuisines - Georgian.<br />
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We begin with khinkali. If you are a dumpling fan, you will love these. First, the meat is usually either ground pork or beef mixed with coriander and chilies. Coriander! So unexpected! So delicious! The chilies give it just a little kick, which could be tamed with a dab of sour cream. if you like. Second, the technique. There is actually a “correct” way to eat these adorable little nubbins. Grasp at the twisted knot and bite gingerly into the dough only. A small bite to make a tiny hole through which you will attempt to drink most of the broth that the meat has been stewing in. And I say attempt for two reasons: you will never manage to get every last drop out, which is actually a good thing. Save a drop or two for your last juicy bite. And secondly, as with any technique, this one requires skill – skill that is only acquired through practice. Therefore you would be wise to bow your arms into a square, bring the dumpling into you, flattening the square into a thin oval, ready to spring back into a bow when the broth inevitably spills out. Approach with caution, very slowly. My instructor was Jacob Jugashvili, Josef Stalin’s great grandson who I was put in touch with through a mutual friend. Jacob educated me not only in the art of the Georgian dumpling but also in history – or at least, his version of it. His recounting of events leading up to and following WWII would make historians gasp and would land him in jail in Germany – as he himself pointed out as an example of what a joke he believes democracy is. A painter, a Soviet nostalgist and a historical revisionist (he called himself a “researcher of the truth”) – needless to say, lunch was “interesting”. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPhRAbX8vkfG1rqqSG5N6rQ4FTEkZDumCDUSoyFTy-hqh_UJbTEZi4E49gEsfVZuol6K9LmO02DzZv2rktENtgzpPoQe0BVLLSTBnc2YZvUc5qi5H314KrnyD7bcsafhTEai1QVPLQDb4/s1600/IMG_4169.JPG"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPhRAbX8vkfG1rqqSG5N6rQ4FTEkZDumCDUSoyFTy-hqh_UJbTEZi4E49gEsfVZuol6K9LmO02DzZv2rktENtgzpPoQe0BVLLSTBnc2YZvUc5qi5H314KrnyD7bcsafhTEai1QVPLQDb4/s400/IMG_4169.JPG" /></a><br />
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One more note on technique, or maybe a rule: don't eat the doughy knot at the end. First of all, they will only fill you up, leaving you less room for the other delicious dishes on the table. And secondly, Georgians frown upon it. You will be told they will make you sick. This sounds to me like one of those reasons mothers make up to prevent their kids from doing something, like, "Fine go ahead and pick your nose but watch out for the sharp-tooth snail!" If you are curious, go ahead and eat one. It won't hurt you. It'll just make you look like a dumpling novice.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3lh3h3cvNAaWcYLzOH0-0e-mXk2CQuMxKvDIxWZBC-tJXB-Wxb_gm8zXOedd1DdU38vNyKBnXktMp821CpHxu6IIlJfPZkCcSHN-Ax6awIBPtKFiChX2hjCMCDIAY5F2Kg3A_Ey202Uw/s1600/IMG_4170.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3lh3h3cvNAaWcYLzOH0-0e-mXk2CQuMxKvDIxWZBC-tJXB-Wxb_gm8zXOedd1DdU38vNyKBnXktMp821CpHxu6IIlJfPZkCcSHN-Ax6awIBPtKFiChX2hjCMCDIAY5F2Kg3A_Ey202Uw/s400/IMG_4170.JPG" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">See the resemblance? </td></tr>
</tbody></table>Khachapuri. My introduction to khachapuri was also sobering – in a completely different way. In the hangover cure kind of way. Out too late the night before with more friends of friends, a British journalist and a Canadian political analyst, the latter of which I met the next morning for a walk and lunch. Andrew and I dragged ourselves around a few city blocks before simultaneously admitting that we both needed an aspirin and hangover food i.e. something greasy and heavy on the carbs. Oh, and did we find it. He smiled when I described my ideal hangover cure: “I know just what you need,” he said.<br />
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And here is what we got: <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx0CqYxYE4o6BAae7Y7Ofi47nDaVG1203N3cS5xhtrTQR5EIDpEvU2tqp_PpPTlJqsVKSCUukYtg7PJGWL-rVCXk1nQeqz422ZzUfJDh0i4dtdzivVc2YJaZ0VrXQycaV7gldFZIsZCro/s1600/IMG_4274.JPG"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx0CqYxYE4o6BAae7Y7Ofi47nDaVG1203N3cS5xhtrTQR5EIDpEvU2tqp_PpPTlJqsVKSCUukYtg7PJGWL-rVCXk1nQeqz422ZzUfJDh0i4dtdzivVc2YJaZ0VrXQycaV7gldFZIsZCro/s400/IMG_4274.JPG" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">When you say Georgian food, most people will have one of two reactions: a blank stare or “Cheese pizza and dumplings!” The cheese pizza is the khachapuri which comes in different forms, the most common being both stuffed and topped with cheese. For the brave and the hungover however, there is only one way to go – the adjaruli khachapuri. Shaped like a little boat with cheese baked in the center, its also topped with a raw egg and a generous slab of butter. So if alcohol poisoning hasn’t killed you, high cholesterol levels and a coronary blockage will. This dish was too much for Georgian-wine-hungover me to handle. You take a fork and stir the melted cheese, raw egg and butter together into a curdly puddle and then work your way from the outside in, picking off the barnacle of the dough boat which you use as a vehicle to get this soupy mess to your mouth. I might have finished half but I think that’s an optimistic exaggeration. <br />
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While khinkali or khachapuri are meals unto themselves, in order to sample more of the cuisine you might skip them (though you shouldn't skip them entirely) or order smaller portions and then opt for a number of the small dishes, mezze-style. And I highly recommend you try as many things as possible. Georgian food is a revelation for vegetarians – so many amazing combinations of spices and nuts, fresh salads and herbs, and cheeses in different consistencies – I really cannot understand why Georgian food has not taken off the way other cuisines have. Small plates to pass like Greek or Lebanese mezzes – washed down with Georgian wine or for the hard core – vodka. It is so easy to see how the <i>supra</i> (Georgian feast) culture has evolved. <br />
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A look at what you would find on your table at a Georgian restaurant serving mezzes: <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixKnKnXRQRBoddqIlInUGslVQPeePS25NSDp1w-Xpn4NyZu_3aJBF4lIOzKwpPM0pHvY4HntZ6rIgG5e2TVqmVA1LFukGtmFPm8tVVih47ZcEPrQVCN_t1tiOffnwLKXf4nZ3Yjhtrfy0/s1600/IMG_4238.JPG"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixKnKnXRQRBoddqIlInUGslVQPeePS25NSDp1w-Xpn4NyZu_3aJBF4lIOzKwpPM0pHvY4HntZ6rIgG5e2TVqmVA1LFukGtmFPm8tVVih47ZcEPrQVCN_t1tiOffnwLKXf4nZ3Yjhtrfy0/s400/IMG_4238.JPG" /></a><br />
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Salads – so many delicious salads, the most common is a simple tomato-cucumber combination topped with either dill, coriander or parsley, oil and vinegar. Simple but so fresh – a necessary counter-balance to some of the heavier sides and khachapuri. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiPBFJpsKwSbo2huq5IKGuhDP3WPftlP84jFilJzosX8uJsrQhX0OzvApGzG-x4_IyDCfrS1toGVCn1Q4nEYqspsQOUB249p3NxnzPZ7YvuHBsTxldczpI-6QNOW-Tqjuj8lUbsqku92Y/s1600/IMG_4277.jpg"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiPBFJpsKwSbo2huq5IKGuhDP3WPftlP84jFilJzosX8uJsrQhX0OzvApGzG-x4_IyDCfrS1toGVCn1Q4nEYqspsQOUB249p3NxnzPZ7YvuHBsTxldczpI-6QNOW-Tqjuj8lUbsqku92Y/s400/IMG_4277.jpg" /> </a><br />
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Badrijani Nigvzit – fried eggplant, rolled up and stuffed with walnut paste. To be devoured. <br />
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Phakali – this post is inspired by the phakali recipe posted by Melissa at the T<a href="http://www.travelerslunchbox.com/journal/2011/3/20/pkhali-unearthed.html">ravelers Lunchbox</a>. This dish is spinach based and combined with what Melissa describes as the combination that she'd "come to recognize as the country's holy trinity of flavors: walnuts, garlic, and a haunting herb-and-spice blend that offsets the biting freshness of cilantro and tarragon with the bitter, aromatic edge of fenugreek", and I thought as I read this YES YES EXACTLY! Every time I ate this I sat there in silence thinking: WHAT IS THIS?? I MUST KNOW WHAT THIS IS!!! The texture and weight of the ground walnuts, the hauntingly mysterious mixture of herbs - those of which I thought I could identify were estragon, coriander and dill – sometimes together, or separately. You know when you purposely keep a bit of something swirling around in your mouth, wracking your mental index of flavors to figure out exactly what it is you have just eaten in the hopes of attempting to reproduce it yourself? I did that bite after bite. FOR THE LOVE, WHAT IS THIS COMBINATION!?!? This combination is so unique, so specific to Georgian cuisine, I personally know nothing else to compare it to - you will simply have to try it yourself. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOj1dieVS7ErWiC_t-c6SxolRdTErzKpY8lgQ7usggLpuw7oDGPYvCw_byh0Uz5WBBKj4jTIPYo1M1oQRq5RAX0pMI-9un6dBnE2LVAuztOM0KcnMZIu_SmeQVWFdodHphP73BwlG2vEQ/s1600/IMG_4278.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOj1dieVS7ErWiC_t-c6SxolRdTErzKpY8lgQ7usggLpuw7oDGPYvCw_byh0Uz5WBBKj4jTIPYo1M1oQRq5RAX0pMI-9un6dBnE2LVAuztOM0KcnMZIu_SmeQVWFdodHphP73BwlG2vEQ/s400/IMG_4278.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lovely Nick and Nino and the continuation of my Georgian culinary education</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Satsivi – a walnut sauce served over chicken, usually cold which comes as a bit of a surprise at first but somehow makes it lighter, refreshing, delicious.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
Shashlik – your typical kebab, grilled on a skewer, seasoned and perhaps alternated with onions, tomatoes or other vegetables.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
Salguni – a salty sometimes rubbery freshmilk cheese akin to feta but not as crumbly. <br />
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And so, so much more.<br />
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If you have the chance to Georgian food, I cannot recommend it enough. If you have the opportunity to get to Georgia, ditto. And if you find yourself in Moscow, check out one of the following Georgian restaurants: <br />
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Genatsvale</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Hachapuri</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Tiflis<br />
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Nazdarovie! </div>Jiffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14183963095380555569noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-128838481363945326.post-78618083144286793652011-04-01T05:21:00.000-07:002011-04-01T05:21:06.267-07:00Eating Moscow: Eliseevskiy Food Market<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPyHugLnQsRab7Y4OCej87O-XR5oVuLuc98uQhSW0h2Ibi7mZLsCpHsvXYoTawbagQEv3duGK7XWYmCD8CPoAG6eUUrZplk0w_QxhbrhXRLFR4OVADhk0UUQrownCjCe2HRPrgbe7qqUQ/s1600/IMG_7995.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPyHugLnQsRab7Y4OCej87O-XR5oVuLuc98uQhSW0h2Ibi7mZLsCpHsvXYoTawbagQEv3duGK7XWYmCD8CPoAG6eUUrZplk0w_QxhbrhXRLFR4OVADhk0UUQrownCjCe2HRPrgbe7qqUQ/s400/IMG_7995.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>In the middle of Tverskaya, the main thoroughfare through central Moscow leading out to the airport, you will find Eliseevskiy Food Emporium, a grand dame of supermarkets. Opened in 1901 by Russian businessman Grigory Eliseev, the store became synonymous with luxury, not only for the imported and hard to find items, but for the architecture and classic Neo-Baroque deco. <br />
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In short, the original structure was built at the end of 18 century, when Catherine the Great's Secretary of State invited architect Matvey Kazakov to build a Palace for his wife. The palace was passed down after her death and was eventually transformed into a literary salon where the likes of Pushkin and other writers and artists gathered. <br />
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Eliseev bought the building at the end 19 century who added it to his comestible empire which already included the largest grocery store in St. Petersburg. <br />
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Originally called the "Eliseev Store and Russian and Foreign Wine Cellars", the establishment opened with great fanfare, including a church service and priests who offered their blessings. Which is ironic because today, the wine and liquor section of the store is cordoned off; apparently, state laws prohibit the sale of alcohol within a certain distance from the church. And an official from the neighboring parish recently realized that technically, the store was within the legally unacceptable distance from their alter. Alcohols sales are currently suspended until the matter is resolved. <br />
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Yeah, this is what my neighborhood grocery store looks like too..<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzUzojMycNCw5Hv1ET8IS4CIlO8_GJnByl3hzzLcMifydMzcV7THMCF0KebuTsgzpQ82UUSh2Yg5RM6ojMUAOGTuaZpK3uIbCdm-KxwD0S5SXuQaEuJuew8ZwTfRBqSUnaI92XsPEymdg/s1600/IMG_8019.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzUzojMycNCw5Hv1ET8IS4CIlO8_GJnByl3hzzLcMifydMzcV7THMCF0KebuTsgzpQ82UUSh2Yg5RM6ojMUAOGTuaZpK3uIbCdm-KxwD0S5SXuQaEuJuew8ZwTfRBqSUnaI92XsPEymdg/s400/IMG_8019.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>And the deli counter...<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpqYXvf-5SrnljcdoEhOBz37hHKDah1QPKjLSwYV6_5SfSQRwTR2spM6ps3fEnzYeZZyy3e1NcHJTofQzNOG8CHFCRcaSrYqXONLXYJDTgHLPkTzCyODLcq_G7OOicfz-VFiNU48zYvU0/s1600/IMG_8018.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpqYXvf-5SrnljcdoEhOBz37hHKDah1QPKjLSwYV6_5SfSQRwTR2spM6ps3fEnzYeZZyy3e1NcHJTofQzNOG8CHFCRcaSrYqXONLXYJDTgHLPkTzCyODLcq_G7OOicfz-VFiNU48zYvU0/s400/IMG_8018.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>Although no one can claim to have as many mayonnaise-based salads as the Russians..<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc6stTv5NzUwMEDlnkrrktSJOQCbiwD9fKKVFAiGogEfJZuxNBb6FiAsGgdmWnra8jJPbX7WwvnOioG8MFhuXnZ0U03II87aHqAdqoKVhQ26lGXuKpZZXnEyHD3Y6NWtP7EHSu-M1opIo/s1600/IMG_8002.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc6stTv5NzUwMEDlnkrrktSJOQCbiwD9fKKVFAiGogEfJZuxNBb6FiAsGgdmWnra8jJPbX7WwvnOioG8MFhuXnZ0U03II87aHqAdqoKVhQ26lGXuKpZZXnEyHD3Y6NWtP7EHSu-M1opIo/s400/IMG_8002.jpg" width="266" /></a></div> Nor, unfortunately, as much caviar...<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio00UM-hFzzRpn-hEHM_dFmJNbEbcSkUff3DYZF39JFAqfMlb7XphbjRqg8RJW5ozsTV7SqxgHtjnv-b8YATQTtlrWj_iPrE0L8GJEF_Y6Fy2BGzETgRBTY_MpUyzc6QDbzXN5V31JWIc/s1600/IMG_8000.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio00UM-hFzzRpn-hEHM_dFmJNbEbcSkUff3DYZF39JFAqfMlb7XphbjRqg8RJW5ozsTV7SqxgHtjnv-b8YATQTtlrWj_iPrE0L8GJEF_Y6Fy2BGzETgRBTY_MpUyzc6QDbzXN5V31JWIc/s400/IMG_8000.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>But we do have plenty of Heinz - which has obviously made its way into the former Soviet Union..<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0PN9e7IocPujKLYZ7cCHTMoHS9c-x0Cw3-EHXXBtozvuOxfHBT5_SRQ5ftxJJM_9JbP7j1uMgqlzwhfkg4Pmi0k6cDumZs42NMv4NKNK_BMOSa-QtXGXI-5MEgQmv-CDOTMjkRUnVYP8/s1600/IMG_8004.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0PN9e7IocPujKLYZ7cCHTMoHS9c-x0Cw3-EHXXBtozvuOxfHBT5_SRQ5ftxJJM_9JbP7j1uMgqlzwhfkg4Pmi0k6cDumZs42NMv4NKNK_BMOSa-QtXGXI-5MEgQmv-CDOTMjkRUnVYP8/s400/IMG_8004.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>Though my home town grocer's ketchup bottle display definitely does not come with such elaborate columns, chandeliers and gold-flecked molding. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj52B2kisTcDip8BOffO4PMwi0RWSe9BNyvslaZvDFqfPMVDWqD_fBCbutfczmuSBOuZGBH1peuIlVM_VJq5f6s9rhOXEoBzr5u4P-T7v-IXVqtASstX0pUnJ5fn5SJd24Ov5DC-dpVWec/s1600/IMG_8003.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj52B2kisTcDip8BOffO4PMwi0RWSe9BNyvslaZvDFqfPMVDWqD_fBCbutfczmuSBOuZGBH1peuIlVM_VJq5f6s9rhOXEoBzr5u4P-T7v-IXVqtASstX0pUnJ5fn5SJd24Ov5DC-dpVWec/s400/IMG_8003.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>Nor such an extensive smoked fish selection.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeom8nlSgiDGR7H2f46_MGwqN8dNjOE3ue_NYPC4zb5e2ru1xsJBiS3QCLlk6Jlug2NEberyZHLqmMCLgwp6MU7LM8RqAqiM-ZIMJsPxLfD4dzTQtFlAZmm7D0EcUhQ7x9qYAcQ74oJZ8/s1600/IMG_8013.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeom8nlSgiDGR7H2f46_MGwqN8dNjOE3ue_NYPC4zb5e2ru1xsJBiS3QCLlk6Jlug2NEberyZHLqmMCLgwp6MU7LM8RqAqiM-ZIMJsPxLfD4dzTQtFlAZmm7D0EcUhQ7x9qYAcQ74oJZ8/s400/IMG_8013.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>Or these gorgeous chocolates with little cherubs on the packaging.<br />
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Although the deli looked amazing, the fish, the cheeses, the meats all so tempting, the only thing I walked out with were non-perishable items - chocolates. Four bags of cherubs in various sizes and shapes that I swore would be souvenir gifts for friends and neighbors - needless to say, I have eaten most of them myself. I don't know why I ever buy edible souvenirs "for friends" - they make it to their intended recipients 50 percent of the time - at best.<br />
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I guess after hanging out in the store for over an hour oogling the deli counter, drooling over the baked goods, handling the beautifully packaged confections, snapping photos of the enormous chandeliers and the hairnetted staff, we felt compelled to purchase. A small price to pay to visit this palace/literary salon-cum-grocery store.<br />
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</tbody></table>Jiffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14183963095380555569noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-128838481363945326.post-8110958096846205332011-03-23T03:48:00.000-07:002011-03-23T03:48:17.129-07:00Eating Moscow: Maslenitsa<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_PA8pc8fK5PFKLYaopR146WRenRHy69p9HUKOyC0AEQqbYBfaUg1201r5a55AwjqLCiwujdKhxHiHnz3S_foluTV8WI1ztHf2cKk02cHaQwt0KSHf4LFzq_DjYQWE5NERsc1GBPWDCgM/s1600/IMG_3363.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_PA8pc8fK5PFKLYaopR146WRenRHy69p9HUKOyC0AEQqbYBfaUg1201r5a55AwjqLCiwujdKhxHiHnz3S_foluTV8WI1ztHf2cKk02cHaQwt0KSHf4LFzq_DjYQWE5NERsc1GBPWDCgM/s400/IMG_3363.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Smetana. Caviar. Blini. </i></span></div><br />
We were there just at the right time. Almost. I flew out of Moscow just as Maslenitsa was beginning. Butter festival or Pancake Festival, Russia's version of a Fat Tuesday - the chance for Orthodox Christians to get their dairy in before you have to give it all up for 40 days of lent culminating in the celebration of Easter when they are allowed to get their dairy, meat, alcohol and booty calls on once again.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9HGWkG8AVVYnXBDPvoG019L11LNwT9RNECaNPjOo7gzVeS4CV07wdCSj5PX6kyqAQH8i1qUGaUwTTlI4_qxAa_ENSLoF8lpxY2XT0Aqp8bOpF1Isf_RLlfMGm21XSNblqrgIaCA2O9NI/s1600/IMG_8050.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9HGWkG8AVVYnXBDPvoG019L11LNwT9RNECaNPjOo7gzVeS4CV07wdCSj5PX6kyqAQH8i1qUGaUwTTlI4_qxAa_ENSLoF8lpxY2XT0Aqp8bOpF1Isf_RLlfMGm21XSNblqrgIaCA2O9NI/s400/IMG_8050.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
Chefs like Elmar Basziszta at the Baltschug Kempinski were gearing up for Maslenitsa with "Blini Menus", traditional blini recipes like blinis served with caviar and smetana, an ultra-thick and luxurious kind of sour cream or quark, and more creative variations like buckwheat blini with pan-friend scallops, baked beetroot and truffle vinaigrette, beef consummé with pancake julienne, lamb loin wrapped in garlic-rosemary blinis on grilled bell peppers, blinis rolled with smoked salmon, cream cheese and spinach or topped with forest mushroom ragout. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipU6OJ6iUJ08Wwf3e_U22Pbl_sJkNwBLwMU1C5mGva_MyBTEPfE_OlD4qP9CHqN_fIUdLIZrwnV4qf-nLUmqD895cdX8S-q5yVlfUmpJuPQFbltCIZ-aSJUyzfLkCRh-AKO_OsgMtB5F0/s1600/IMG_8052.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipU6OJ6iUJ08Wwf3e_U22Pbl_sJkNwBLwMU1C5mGva_MyBTEPfE_OlD4qP9CHqN_fIUdLIZrwnV4qf-nLUmqD895cdX8S-q5yVlfUmpJuPQFbltCIZ-aSJUyzfLkCRh-AKO_OsgMtB5F0/s320/IMG_8052.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><br />
Basziszta claims that most Russians prefer to stick to the classics. They like traditional dishes served in traditional style, he insists. But the Kempinski caters to an international crowd and the chef reveled in the opportunity to experiment. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje-Oc7mJffISAugeKebz4UhRUgTnOvJxiJuedSVCWM3Q9DBhXxuCoshJ8yd06JEz6ftBwHCNedSkg3AR371AtY6rSOhV9y-qyc1JUNPXLxKDN-n1U5c8GgxoTpbNSdDUe-o32bR_aHQ8w/s1600/IMG_3386.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje-Oc7mJffISAugeKebz4UhRUgTnOvJxiJuedSVCWM3Q9DBhXxuCoshJ8yd06JEz6ftBwHCNedSkg3AR371AtY6rSOhV9y-qyc1JUNPXLxKDN-n1U5c8GgxoTpbNSdDUe-o32bR_aHQ8w/s400/IMG_3386.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br />
For those who didn't make it to the Kempinski due to prior commitments or constrained budgets, there were other ways to get a pancake fix that were less abusive on the pocketbook. Teremok, the popular fast food-style chain and blini specialist also expanded its menu to include a variety of classic and holiday blinis to go. We may have missed the blini stands set up around the Kremlin the following week, but thanks to Chef Basziszta and Teremok, we definitely got our fill of Maslenitsa in Moscow.Jiffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14183963095380555569noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-128838481363945326.post-58784393436076820432011-03-18T07:08:00.000-07:002011-03-18T07:17:00.955-07:00Eating Moscow: Café Pushkin<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigJpP1sllQualZK8bL9SE4o40tDYalsCt2-xFmEhs-g2yWMWlvFFCHBQGVyjoiwkEYRuklY2MLSp4NXKzQzALv_QeUd3j_WxHO1S0Vx67ZlRObh2lSZUIvp6kE7x-HWkfmFDAmDM5lq8M/s1600/IMG_8138.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigJpP1sllQualZK8bL9SE4o40tDYalsCt2-xFmEhs-g2yWMWlvFFCHBQGVyjoiwkEYRuklY2MLSp4NXKzQzALv_QeUd3j_WxHO1S0Vx67ZlRObh2lSZUIvp6kE7x-HWkfmFDAmDM5lq8M/s400/IMG_8138.jpg" width="266" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">Where to start, where to start? With a classic perhaps to put things into context. Not only was the iconic, must-at-least-drink-a-coffee-there Café Pushkin architecturally striking, it was somehow able to be cozy despite the slight air of pomposity. It's the kind of place my grandmother might have taken me to as a kid, where I would sit fidgeting, scolded for using the wrong utensil. At the same time, in the late afternoon sunlight, after shedding 45 layers of wool and fleece, it was welcoming, comforting. The downstairs was informal, whereas upstairs one might feel underdressed without a jacket and tie. But the atmosphere, inviting as it was, is not what would keep me coming back. That, would be the food.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj15RYDJ0yJntmnrPUcTj0OvM802ENy5lf0Hmuwrow5gRX_mWLz_X_4rVge1FBSsg-1r8qTY_vZev95y2D9p8gZcnJ4tjWBHDRfrmtHWwBUvEsf3p1hN6p3lOMXeFRbWjguVODqJ4c1XeQ/s1600/IMG_8143.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj15RYDJ0yJntmnrPUcTj0OvM802ENy5lf0Hmuwrow5gRX_mWLz_X_4rVge1FBSsg-1r8qTY_vZev95y2D9p8gZcnJ4tjWBHDRfrmtHWwBUvEsf3p1hN6p3lOMXeFRbWjguVODqJ4c1XeQ/s400/IMG_8143.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">The wild mushroom pelmeni ruined me. I don't think I will ever order pelmeni again because none that I will ever eat will be as good as the mushroom pelmeni at Pushkin. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEgNNuKDRGwJVqOGWcXdqWFFLPiKR4G5ygsu6EmSAmWiMfAbzbZ5YzCzarcEMCpptYn8KyhUAMUtJOZHBIEokl6rRt37I6aX7taLyl8I3T8JSZYDMHDOTH6xzl6WNsKSlWpX4fdbxmVfA/s1600/IMG_8141.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEgNNuKDRGwJVqOGWcXdqWFFLPiKR4G5ygsu6EmSAmWiMfAbzbZ5YzCzarcEMCpptYn8KyhUAMUtJOZHBIEokl6rRt37I6aX7taLyl8I3T8JSZYDMHDOTH6xzl6WNsKSlWpX4fdbxmVfA/s400/IMG_8141.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">The mushroom julienne, (I was in a mushroom mood, perhaps still reeling from the meat jello the night before, but that's another story) was served in an adorable edible cracker pot - I bit into the lid to see if it was edible. It is - but I would advise against it, I think I cracked my tooth.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">The story of this place is equally charming. Back in the 80s, Russian Andrei Delos was a student studying architecture in Paris. After the fall of the Soviet Union he went back to Moscow, intending to stay for a short visit. Bureaucracy extended his stay indefinitely and soon Delos, fluent in French, was giving city tours to French tourists. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">The French tourists all seem to have one request: Can you take us to Café Pushkin? They had heard about the café in a popular French song about a Russian tour guide who falls in love with a French tourist and in the song he takes her to "Café Pushkin". Thing was, there was no such thing as Café Pushkin. It did not exist. But after being repeatedly asked about the famous non-existent café, Delos had an idea. The architecture student invested his savings in building from the ground up a café that was designed to look like it may have been Pushkin's house. Decorated in period style, he overlooked no detail. Café Pushkin quickly attracted not only the French, but the Moscovite glitterati in droves. To get in today, you need to push past the hordes of SUVs parked outside, drivers waiting with motors running. The establishment has become an institution and it's established Delos as one of the major players in the Moscow restaurant and club scene.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSRIvTt-QH3L0bD2otbVQ0999_8AUqpObtCvWJuzRlXRWbWePd3SKe9P8TsNiUW0es53kBrSFoFkILouLRuBkTBl1w9CBX-tJ0dpzHFnCs0fgTSqJ7lq6kMltHqUdJ1xI5_fSdbtugmz4/s1600/IMG_8147.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSRIvTt-QH3L0bD2otbVQ0999_8AUqpObtCvWJuzRlXRWbWePd3SKe9P8TsNiUW0es53kBrSFoFkILouLRuBkTBl1w9CBX-tJ0dpzHFnCs0fgTSqJ7lq6kMltHqUdJ1xI5_fSdbtugmz4/s400/IMG_8147.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">His latest creation Turandot, has been all over the press lately. Again the design was overseen by Delos' and his keen architect's eye for detail. Built in a "French Chinese" style, the place is opulent, beautiful yet on the verge of becoming gaudy. When we visited, a group of eight adults sat at a table while their children, the girls in white islet dresses with satin sashes (and snowflakes that stay..), ran up and down the stairs and around the dining room as though they were at a picnic in the park. It reminded me of a scene from the Nutcracker, some how so bourgeois Russian - like a dream sequence. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Café Pushkin is open 24 hours - which surprised me - you wouldn't peg it as a 24 hour kinda joint. Apparently around 4-5 am it fills with SUV-chauffeured 20-somethings who are wrapping up a night of clubbing.<br />
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For the food, the atmosphere, the people-watching, when in Moscow save your pennies (which you will have had to do to even breath the air in Moscow) and take them to Pushkin. </div>Jiffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14183963095380555569noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-128838481363945326.post-17679104297198182582011-03-15T15:24:00.000-07:002011-03-15T15:24:57.877-07:00Red February<div style="text-align: justify;">February. The last full month of winter. The last of your already spent patience with the cold, ice, multiple layers, dry skin, frozen toes. And one of the last places you'd probably think to go during this month is Moscow. And yet...</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfbrKKtFpR0MkEnCDKCOShyphenhyphen-LaqiGc2sidSnTx2Mxx3zgRjzLwgBKarbSRIaX1_ohdifTZsJuaJOIa0Du78_NEB-0GhpnE91tTxqoKjvnNspfiVm0w8ndQ10G9DcQ5knHn-gvHL9reM34/s1600/IMG_8089.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfbrKKtFpR0MkEnCDKCOShyphenhyphen-LaqiGc2sidSnTx2Mxx3zgRjzLwgBKarbSRIaX1_ohdifTZsJuaJOIa0Du78_NEB-0GhpnE91tTxqoKjvnNspfiVm0w8ndQ10G9DcQ5knHn-gvHL9reM34/s400/IMG_8089.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
here we are.<br />
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</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Not realizing that I should have said, "Um, let's wait til July!" when my friend Julie called and asked what I thought about a little trip to Moscow during the last week of February, I instead replied by checking ticket prices and googling Russian visa application procedures. And while the next time she calls with a similar proposal, I will most definitely say, "Let's wait til July!", I am glad I got to see Moscow in its fully frozen, minus 18 degree glory. I should come clean and admit that it was minus 18 on the Celsius scale - which I later learned is only about -1 Fahrenheit. As a Green Bay native, -1 Fahrenheit was a typical, if not practically unseasonably warm day in any given January or February. But while I was in Moscow, I wrote emails to family and friends, with the subject heading: "18 F*CKING DEGREES BELOW ZERO!!!!" And it sounds so much more dramatic, more respectable than "ONE F+CKING BELOW!!!", right? But really, once you get below zero, it's just cold period. </div><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqw9BXJrqOISi6x9smqMhWzY-TPt8-H0DXUBbiC0jDPdJkd5UOUeI5HtkIdY6RkYEt3loBNFNlhnZAgMqxFA-b3yEOCTXm7ifI0wlNNsqSalcuhYyBikYjr02Ql82ITXvZGtRxjQJTkkc/s1600/IMG_3381.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqw9BXJrqOISi6x9smqMhWzY-TPt8-H0DXUBbiC0jDPdJkd5UOUeI5HtkIdY6RkYEt3loBNFNlhnZAgMqxFA-b3yEOCTXm7ifI0wlNNsqSalcuhYyBikYjr02Ql82ITXvZGtRxjQJTkkc/s400/IMG_3381.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me and my two wool sweaters, long underwear, three long sleeve t-shirts, snow boots, wool coat, and fleece hat outside the Bolshoi</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
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</tbody></table>To warm up, we were forced to duck into a number of local establishments like <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIxXqoNU7Cx_uh3JqQazZnJ9aqMBJrtZIfylbGjAU4qHAH8d2nmjnqGXveqNvrHR5ObbyTuwFxlIVn84uKrgHRN-xM5sqUoDiY0U4ug7ySADri-ub9VtUxZ7IbgJJE9IAU1OeQS8qIqLs/s1600/IMG_7997.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIxXqoNU7Cx_uh3JqQazZnJ9aqMBJrtZIfylbGjAU4qHAH8d2nmjnqGXveqNvrHR5ObbyTuwFxlIVn84uKrgHRN-xM5sqUoDiY0U4ug7ySADri-ub9VtUxZ7IbgJJE9IAU1OeQS8qIqLs/s400/IMG_7997.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">supermarkets, </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSn2IPmYkEmKIZe5rQJ1QMlnioz-ROG3nq-aN5vj98k0fYPb4o2U7aBMFPND3Lfj_aXRr0cQm8JI4Mcufm7GW3qQiU6Vv2TjXccCRZEGVt2pXQcL8fremZKg4pFrf60lDEXIzVqsQgUcg/s1600/IMG_7993.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSn2IPmYkEmKIZe5rQJ1QMlnioz-ROG3nq-aN5vj98k0fYPb4o2U7aBMFPND3Lfj_aXRr0cQm8JI4Mcufm7GW3qQiU6Vv2TjXccCRZEGVt2pXQcL8fremZKg4pFrf60lDEXIzVqsQgUcg/s400/IMG_7993.jpg" width="266" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">pastry closets, </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmv5Y74Eo4DdCfZ-7JNYCi2pCZnhtY0NKjfMwbLJmTpm-9q0BjxtoT0Tfe4wdu9SoO0ry49gU3-PZnSxroh9mODiUOLEN23vQQ843wDJoTpWBM_hx_8M7unYVOXDIqq1WZJkW9OdhwBj8/s1600/IMG_3592.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmv5Y74Eo4DdCfZ-7JNYCi2pCZnhtY0NKjfMwbLJmTpm-9q0BjxtoT0Tfe4wdu9SoO0ry49gU3-PZnSxroh9mODiUOLEN23vQQ843wDJoTpWBM_hx_8M7unYVOXDIqq1WZJkW9OdhwBj8/s400/IMG_3592.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">cafés, </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEignfCjAvl223AFir3LzjC0maPu6Qui9Quddhr6I0yjfvUBpJSuJJBfkBJal3Fr1g_wOLPjDJK6Buo7YXtsT1ZMcMcaKwmsLi5mBt-lk5gvfc6_z0rRfOIp8tc_fXKpgwZDqQNZHkBvOIU/s1600/IMG_8104.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEignfCjAvl223AFir3LzjC0maPu6Qui9Quddhr6I0yjfvUBpJSuJJBfkBJal3Fr1g_wOLPjDJK6Buo7YXtsT1ZMcMcaKwmsLi5mBt-lk5gvfc6_z0rRfOIp8tc_fXKpgwZDqQNZHkBvOIU/s400/IMG_8104.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: center;">bath houses, </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7vfMAvIXRW-dzUDL6gDnbXIns545A7v_JUwMvmZjkI2SZI2TQSnNOCCvrBGUcpzxNlounmFNeJ8X-kHzDo6662FtqhBQW3wNjqmBkPAwq99k0a_HCl6GksCs72zIyQ1_9nWEROqQve8o/s1600/IMG_8027.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7vfMAvIXRW-dzUDL6gDnbXIns545A7v_JUwMvmZjkI2SZI2TQSnNOCCvrBGUcpzxNlounmFNeJ8X-kHzDo6662FtqhBQW3wNjqmBkPAwq99k0a_HCl6GksCs72zIyQ1_9nWEROqQve8o/s400/IMG_8027.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">subways,</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFohy3PfHs3TQnIW7yY5feFWVJVLvnokVZ9bqBZNXdCAor36hR5U6WjGbUtyHDzyijA4iT3gjSxoEdFunfq9S8Ub4-7PeynigZORFX0kRnVx9x6VHHuUxteOfbcFk5iErBlyS_hCnVyUg/s1600/IMG_8151.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFohy3PfHs3TQnIW7yY5feFWVJVLvnokVZ9bqBZNXdCAor36hR5U6WjGbUtyHDzyijA4iT3gjSxoEdFunfq9S8Ub4-7PeynigZORFX0kRnVx9x6VHHuUxteOfbcFk5iErBlyS_hCnVyUg/s400/IMG_8151.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">theaters,</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXxHfRzxDYkEn2olMjuqtgJV4Z5VxSD7m7tBRrBKhgVF4n2lkqc2zmtPpP2Eh1R_U4K2PcACD2YtjdNBLBoPBivZbOM7-DGPKM-hPcxGUN6ow3cKzegwNpeZnY2JeWgzC9CKxxGB2mkcA/s1600/IMG_8158.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXxHfRzxDYkEn2olMjuqtgJV4Z5VxSD7m7tBRrBKhgVF4n2lkqc2zmtPpP2Eh1R_U4K2PcACD2YtjdNBLBoPBivZbOM7-DGPKM-hPcxGUN6ow3cKzegwNpeZnY2JeWgzC9CKxxGB2mkcA/s400/IMG_8158.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"> and living rooms </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">seeking reprieve from the cold. And while we warmed up, we stocked up. On pelmeni, chocolates, massages, Soviet nostalgia, khajapuri, blini, opera, fur and matrioshkas. For all of the heavy comfort food, the steaming hot saunas, and a certain camaraderie that comes from frozen masses huddled together, maybe February was the best time to visit after all. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">More on all of these places and the things we stocked up on ... next. </div>Jiffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14183963095380555569noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-128838481363945326.post-22040841612522308912011-03-01T06:08:00.000-08:002011-03-07T01:19:30.700-08:00Sniff's Grantourismo Top Ten Travel Tales<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8ZgaHho9GwJpeN6lOeaEhnOFZZlVkGQH_CrTnb5-jPxCCta4mgWc-Ow2AEtbGRZF8wJAUrgqQtbdgenytI_kNuXs9SHTdpoAS9nkats-MDlEn-FZXisT5-9pQOKeqcUApMRYiCQymF0s/s1600/Jordan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8ZgaHho9GwJpeN6lOeaEhnOFZZlVkGQH_CrTnb5-jPxCCta4mgWc-Ow2AEtbGRZF8wJAUrgqQtbdgenytI_kNuXs9SHTdpoAS9nkats-MDlEn-FZXisT5-9pQOKeqcUApMRYiCQymF0s/s400/Jordan.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Atop Petra</i></span></div><style>
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</style><i>In random order...</i> <br />
<br />
Spending the day with Pol Pot's former Head of State, Khieu Samphan and his family at his home outside of <b>Pailin, Cambodia</b>, a stones throw from the Thai border. Khieu is currently sitting before the International Tribunal pleading not guilty for his role in the deaths of 1.7 million Cambodians during the Khmer Rouge regime. During our lunch at his house, he completed denied any responsibility for the events and claimed ignorance. <br />
<br />
After an incredible day at <b>Petra</b>, <b>Jordan</b>, we climbed atop the old court building at closing time with my friend Anees and his Bedoin friend who grew up in Petra. We had the park all to ourselves as we made tea and watched the sunset – 300 meters up. Then scrambled down in the dark after the police called to say they found our car in the middle of no where and wanted us to come into the station. Sobering, ahem.<br />
<br />
Sharing my first <i>khinkali</i> dumplings with Stalin’s great grandson in <b>Tbilisi, Georgia</b>. <br />
<br />
Breaking fast with the men who shovel the coal that warms the bath water in a little cave adjacent to the hamam during Ramadan in <b>Fez, Morocco</b>. We ate stuffed dates while they showed us the hole in the wall where they spied on the naked ladies in the bath. <br />
<br />
My three-day overland trip from Dakhla, Morocco via 50 car military convoy through the <b>Western Sahara territory into Mauritania</b>. We then continued from Nouadibou to Nouakchott – it too us four days to drive 400 km through dramatic sand dunes in a Mercedes van, pulling the plaques out, stuffing them under the wheels and jumping back in the van as it was moving, Little Miss Sunshine style. <br />
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Getting caught in a rainstorm while sleeping on a rooftop in a small village in <b>Dogon country, Mali</b>. As we climbed down from the roof I burst into a rousing rendition of "Singing in the Rain" which turned into a medley of my favorites from "My Fair Lady", "Oliver" and "Sound of Music". The owners of the roof wanted to reciprocate so they cajoled the children into singing a traditional Malian song for us. They were fantastic and we gave them a thunderous round of applause. <br />
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My first trip abroad at 16, a month-long exchange in <b>northern Italy</b>. I fell in love with the food, the culture, the people... and Massimiliano. <br />
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My first summer in <b>Cesky Krumlov, Czech Republic</b> where my friend Vasek took us floating down the Vltava on inner tubes. We got out every five minutes or so, pulling over at a local bar to grab a Pilsner, a shot of Slivovitz and some head cheese. Then continuing the float, a lazy day around a gorgeous castle and lots of fire wire. <br />
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Standing on the rooftop of an old <i>haveli</i> in downtown <b>Lahore, Pakistan</b> during <i>Basant</i>, the annual kite festival, watching the kites dip and dance and fight. Cheering the winners who remained in the sky and sympathizing with the losers whose kites were cut and plummeting. <br />
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Driving around the Blue/Hazrat Ali Mosque in <b>Mazar-e-Sharif, Afghanistan</b> on Nowroz (New Years) only to find ourselves suddenly surrounded by a jubilant mob, singing and dancing and playing drums on the hood of our car. We were in standstill traffic, with euphoric revelers ten people thick surrounding us. There was a sudden moment of panic realizing that if this mob suddenly got out of hand, we could be in serious danger. But when we looked at the buzzing mob, we realized there was nothing but good will and good energy. And we were part of it. <br />
<br />
<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">This post has been entered into the <a href="http://grantourismotravels.com/">Grantourismo</a>-<a href="http://www.holiday-rentals.co.uk/">HomeAway UK</a> travel writing competition for February. What are you favorite travel memories?</span></i>Jiffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14183963095380555569noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-128838481363945326.post-50629264860325564502011-02-14T13:36:00.000-08:002011-02-16T06:30:10.534-08:00Charcutepalooza: Makin' Bacon<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ07z9XUu-T_jIwVgW5je8piJaiatX5mW8VtDdtTG97Y-94LTbEEPNOZMrhfRnYgMBNflyLnCepNK7KOS6Gm85b6KvEXMX8x2Xe8OoQPyzCaeLxVPsfUrwgc0pREK7V_ySM40Nbdkq5rc/s1600/bacon+farmer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" h5="true" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ07z9XUu-T_jIwVgW5je8piJaiatX5mW8VtDdtTG97Y-94LTbEEPNOZMrhfRnYgMBNflyLnCepNK7KOS6Gm85b6KvEXMX8x2Xe8OoQPyzCaeLxVPsfUrwgc0pREK7V_ySM40Nbdkq5rc/s400/bacon+farmer.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">In an alternate universe there is a better me. I exercise every day, I have hair people envy, I keep bees, diligently tend a thriving garden, make my own soap and pluck fresh warm eggs from the heirloom chickens running around my backyard—all while working on the cure for breast cancer. (In yet another alternate universe lives a fantastically naughty me, who smuggles diamonds, lives a life of international intrigue and dances with pirates, but that is another story.)</div><br />
When I read about <a href="http://www.mrswheelbarrow.com/charcutepalooza/">Charcutepalooza</a>, <a href="http://www.mrswheelbarrow.com/">Mrs. Wheelbarrow </a>and the <a href="http://theyummymummy.blogspot.com/">Yummy Mummy’s</a> challenge to support their proclaimed Year of Meat, I saw it as a chance to tango with the better me. Each month they will set forth a charcuterie making challenge. January was duck prosciutto. (Participants are allowed to complete this challenge at any point during the year, given the sneak-up-on-you nature of January.) February is bacon!<br />
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</div>A few blocks from my house, huge hogs hang on meat hooks, swaying in the open air, visible from the street. I know this sight isn’t for everyone, but for me it is a beautiful thing. The Boivar Carnicería has been open since 1970 and serves the Santa Tere neighborhood—an old working class area of Guadalajara, lined with low colonial homes, filled with multigenerational families. They receive and butcher 20-30 pigs a day. At 3 pm, they close and go home for a large family meal and a well deserved siesta.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUVuyQuLuaf3-_VB-LWVrWqn1VD9w5yD4nFHQlI71HdEgmVGfpl81zJs_6i-yRnP4iuMOmKPPBNlsRr1hrQndcXKfyt7hyphenhyphen4LyBl49j3Sl4j_3fV6Ru83uVWV6yqvXWR8v61WbbHyls40Q/s1600/butcherexterior1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" h5="true" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUVuyQuLuaf3-_VB-LWVrWqn1VD9w5yD4nFHQlI71HdEgmVGfpl81zJs_6i-yRnP4iuMOmKPPBNlsRr1hrQndcXKfyt7hyphenhyphen4LyBl49j3Sl4j_3fV6Ru83uVWV6yqvXWR8v61WbbHyls40Q/s320/butcherexterior1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">None of the butchers batted an eye when I asked for a slab of pork belly from which to make bacon. I guess I was sort of expecting awe and admiration for taking on such a cool meat-a-licious task, but the butchers were helpful and duly unimpressed. And now I understand why, making bacon is very simple. It is nothing like raising bees or curing breast cancer, it is much more like a week at the spa: a salt exfoliation, followed by a soak in the sea, a rinse and a steam. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTAiOFIkuZiKeHzT9Z-OfdiNsNwcBUSTAnVmdv-SqUYkPoNqk-_SnF9ER6OBi79MgwQCV8omO8pt-QdaTo9qHaKomkRWad_yRHqvutqRK_MyUfaFHcT4GgtA2fRKG2MXDqyemBljUFDew/s1600/butchershopinside.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" h5="true" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTAiOFIkuZiKeHzT9Z-OfdiNsNwcBUSTAnVmdv-SqUYkPoNqk-_SnF9ER6OBi79MgwQCV8omO8pt-QdaTo9qHaKomkRWad_yRHqvutqRK_MyUfaFHcT4GgtA2fRKG2MXDqyemBljUFDew/s320/butchershopinside.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><strong><u>Making Bacon</u></strong><br />
Adapted from the required reading and textbook of Charcutapalooza: <em>Charcuterie</em> by, Michael Ruhlman.<br />
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Salt Exfoliation- Mix 60 gr. of kosher salt, 2 teaspoons of curing salt, 30 gr of brown sugar, ¼ cup fresh chopped rosemary, 1/4 cup crushed black peppercorn and 4 crushed bay leaves. Channel your inner masochist and rub your 3-5 pounds of pork belly like a Turkish bath masseuse trying to remove all of your skin. Leave an even coat of salt on all sides. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNBIOe9YZ2vVqUz51n2JH0cSLV5rXevYma6ZGAXfy3UIADrodRxTTFCzqLS6eNodeDYd0xsYBFs9e9gyzkadXxWIQzQv6I3tQdK40K_01ovxW2IL4DtuEsB74g1Q9fNVKMP0ENEOZrXz4/s1600/bacon+slab.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" h5="true" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNBIOe9YZ2vVqUz51n2JH0cSLV5rXevYma6ZGAXfy3UIADrodRxTTFCzqLS6eNodeDYd0xsYBFs9e9gyzkadXxWIQzQv6I3tQdK40K_01ovxW2IL4DtuEsB74g1Q9fNVKMP0ENEOZrXz4/s320/bacon+slab.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">The Soak- Place the belly in a zip-lock bag or in a non-reactive container just large enough to hold it. It will release a lot of liquid as it cures. Allow it to linger in the saline bath for seven days, gently turning it over every other day, while whispering sweet nothings.</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div>Rinse and Steam- After seven days, it should feel hard to the touch, if not, allow the magical powers of salty bath to do its work for another day or two. Then, rinse in fresh water and put in the oven at 200F for two hours and roast until it reaches an internal temperature of 150F. And, Bravo! Your pork belly has been cured. It is now bacon! <br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5hk5Lz5A0NmkiIRZ725JPbRm2DRTUP5qOQaFif3S9Lix5Ayz0Tdp-JQgvFUzxnjZLVhnK84_NVXY7s5io-K5UZUUGZ7pdXEWr8WF5DrUAyBWoa6M612153qx0HR2OuAc81iTP5Rv3lkI/s1600/bacon+sandie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" h5="true" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5hk5Lz5A0NmkiIRZ725JPbRm2DRTUP5qOQaFif3S9Lix5Ayz0Tdp-JQgvFUzxnjZLVhnK84_NVXY7s5io-K5UZUUGZ7pdXEWr8WF5DrUAyBWoa6M612153qx0HR2OuAc81iTP5Rv3lkI/s320/bacon+sandie.jpg" width="320" /></a></div> <br />
To celebrate our bacon, we made a Mexican version of the BLT: roasted tomatillos, zesty watercress, avocado, thick cut house-made bacon and chipotle aioli spread on a roll. As an afterthought we added a fried egg with an oozy yolk. Immediately after consumption of this near perfect sandwich (and an unnecessary side-of-bacon), I had to lie down on the couch, nursing an upset stomach while running through the all-too-familiar lecture on over-indulgence and self-control. A better me indeed.Ashley Hooker Jonshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01772516636742390055noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-128838481363945326.post-81769102655202564112011-01-21T12:39:00.000-08:002011-01-21T12:49:27.473-08:00Vote for Naughtiness!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi3yLZPLD8cNQ4ILPX1t7S7zEhyphenhyphenV2w_vI8oUFxcfQvudzNhdBxeI7x68bt-YioJK4ZKr_LHd1jn_b_852Px5jLyVgiIITe8wFbQlIdl9gijcyZ84p76jOU-DFv2PS2GFo9CfwNRS1upSs/s1600/Food52Salad.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi3yLZPLD8cNQ4ILPX1t7S7zEhyphenhyphenV2w_vI8oUFxcfQvudzNhdBxeI7x68bt-YioJK4ZKr_LHd1jn_b_852Px5jLyVgiIITe8wFbQlIdl9gijcyZ84p76jOU-DFv2PS2GFo9CfwNRS1upSs/s400/Food52Salad.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Photo by Sarah Shatz of Food52</i></span></div><br />
My cheeky irreverence to January denial has been rewarded! (See post below.) It seems naughtiness is delicious! I entered my <a href="http://www.food52.com/recipes/1692_nottoovirtuous_salad_with_caramelized_apple_vinaigrette">Not-Too-Virtuous-Salad with Caramelized Apple Vinaigrette</a> in last week's Food52 contest, “Your Best Salad with Apples” and it has been chosen as a finalist! Amanda Hesser and Merrill Stubbs (two of my idols) and their test kitchen team picked my recipe, and one other, out of 150 very impressive entries. And, now it is up to YOU to choose a winner! Check out the slide show of the making of the recipe <a href="http://www.food52.com/blog/1608_nottoovirtuous_salad_with_caramelized_apple_vinaigrette">here</a>. <br />
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If you haven’t visited the website <a href="http://www.food52.com/">Food52 </a>yet, you most definitely should. It is a cookbook project- that you can help write. Each week they announce a recipe contest. Home cooks have a week to submit creative, tasty, original recipes. Two finalists are chosen, and then the voting goes to the public. (AhhUmmm... that's you.) The winner gets published in the cookbook! In the meantime, Food52 is a dynamic and creative web resource for original recipes by home cooks and food bloggers. It is hands-down the best answer to that ubiquitous question, “What should I make for dinner?”<br />
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So… what are you waiting for? Check it out and don’t forget to click on the tab in the upper right hand corner that says, “cast your vote” and <a href="http://www.food52.com/">VOTE</a>!Ashley Hooker Jonshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01772516636742390055noreply@blogger.com0