SMASHANDSNIFF Take Berlin!

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Coveting Legos in Alexanderplatz.

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.

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!

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.*

I mean, where do the kids get this shit?

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.

This is where my mom says, "What kind of crackhouse playground are you taking my grandchildren to anyway?"

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.

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.

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.

The Lebanese Balloon Twister - available for hire.

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.

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.

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.

*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.

Cooking for Gianni

Gianni is not impressed...

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.

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 pane vecchio.

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 capresse, I would not dream of attempting to make any of these dishes for my very particular, very well-fed, Italian father-in-law.

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.

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. “Cos’e?” 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.

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, “Molto buoni, questi. We’ll bring these with us.” He walked out of the kitchen and left me standing there with my mouth open.

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.

I should have remembered the pane vecchio: when it comes to this sophisticated palate, it’s best to keep it simple.

Squeeze Bacon

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.

Mystery Meat

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?

Copenhagen: Smørrebrød

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.

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.

But the Smørrebrød we had at Aamanns Kolonial Delikatesse in Copenhagen were definitely NOT your home alone variety. Behold:

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! 

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!

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.

Or the "Freerange Pork from Grambogard: Pigs breast served with prunes, honey and applevinegar served with lettuce, fresh plums compote and walnuts". MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM.

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!

Copenhagen: The Danish Hot Dog

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. 

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. 

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, "Das ist mir wurst", meaning  "I don't care" but literally, "This is sausage to me"; or "Es ist sau kalt", 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.

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. 

 

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. 

Copenhagen: Dinner at Mielcke & Hurtigkarl

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.

Mielcke & Hurtigkarl 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.

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. 

First plate from the chef

taste like a freshly mowed lawn

where unicorns play.

Potato on sand

eat the chips if you want but

they're decoration.

A shrimp with shrimp cream 

sit atop a cracker made 

of, surprise, more shrimp.

These small saffron eggs

cast a shadow on the plate,

looks like runny yolk.

The pebbles on sand

remind the chef of the coast;

these are potatoes.

 Looks like deviled eggs;

No, foie gras with raspberry;

Fen and I swooned.

Delicately rolled

leaves and ceps and greens in jus

of I forgot what.

I think this was squid?

It was a little slimy

yet delicious, too.

Roasted beet carpa-

cio looks a bit like roast beef

but it's not at all.

 

Jerusalem art-

ichokes never tasted as

good as they did here.

If I enjoyed the 

taste of lamb, I am sure I 

would have liked this more.

Smooth pumpkin ice cream

on thin ribbons of pumpkin

not too sweet, just right.

More drinks! Why not?! Beer

for dessert? Yes, of course! So 

sweet, frothy and good.

Sprinkled ferry dust

floated down from the ceiling

enchanted lighting.

Experiencing 

chocolate overload just

looking at this pic.

Foam! Foam! Ginger foam!

Carry you away on a 

cloud of bubbly schaum.

Fen, the evening was

fantastic. The food whoa and 

time with you priceless. 

xxx