tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-382152682024-03-13T15:16:31.406-07:00EAT MY GLOBEA FOODIE'S JOURNEY THROUGH MIDDLE AGEHermano 2http://www.blogger.com/profile/00317059903586211224noreply@blogger.comBlogger81125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38215268.post-71712541541398085282008-06-09T11:23:00.000-07:002008-06-09T11:28:31.275-07:00<a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SE11zzmDKgI/AAAAAAAAFog/nAA0sP9BMZw/s1600-h/eatmyglobe.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SE11zzmDKgI/AAAAAAAAFog/nAA0sP9BMZw/s320/eatmyglobe.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5209949876821109250" /></a><br />BOOK MY GLOBE: US EDITION<br />Yes, I am way behind on the blog writing<br /><br />There is a good reason. I am concentrating on writing the book itself for the good folks on both sides of the Atlantic, who have paid me cold hard cash to deliver in August.<br /><br />I promise to catch up soon. In the meantime, I hope the image above meets with approval<br /><br />It is the cover of the jacket from The Free Press who will publish the book in the good old US of Stateside<br /><br />I will supply links to Amazon for this and the Uk edition in due course<br /><br />Thanks<br /><br />SimonHermano 2http://www.blogger.com/profile/00317059903586211224noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38215268.post-15174484841351186712008-06-01T11:49:00.001-07:002008-06-01T12:15:46.122-07:00THAILAND: COOL SWEET IN BANGKOK<br />My next couple of days in Bangkok, I concentrated on fitting in a bit of sightseeing, which included, of course, a visit to The Royal Palace.<br /><br />When I arrived, the place was mobbed and lines of people dressed in black were forming sombre, orderly queues.<br /><br />I was unsure what was going on. I had no TV and had not had chance to catch up with any news on my P.C. So, I walked to the nearest information booth to be informed that the sister of The King of Thailand had died the day of my arrival.<br /><br />Princess Galyani Vadhana was 84 and revered in Thailand for her promotion of education and culture amongst other things.<br /><br />In fact, all of the royal family is treated with extreme deference and honour in Thailand, from simple things like standing for the national anthem before the showing of a movie in the cinema to harsh punishments for signs of disrespect. It is unusual coming from a country where our royal family receive and indeed deserve so little respect, with a few exceptions, to visit a country where they are part of the very fabric of society.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SELxbzG7vkI/AAAAAAAAFnU/x5VxCaM1A7k/s1600-h/funeral+queue.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SELxbzG7vkI/AAAAAAAAFnU/x5VxCaM1A7k/s320/funeral+queue.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5206989579071766082" /></a><br /><br />Because of the ceremonies, much of The Royal Palace was closed so, I cut short my time there and headed to visit the legendary Khao San Road, the epicentre of South East Asia’s back packing community.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SELv7DG7vgI/AAAAAAAAFm0/FQp22P0apn0/s1600-h/royal+palace.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SELv7DG7vgI/AAAAAAAAFm0/FQp22P0apn0/s320/royal+palace.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5206987916919422466" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SELvkjG7vfI/AAAAAAAAFms/69drjdjp65I/s1600-h/royal+palace+2.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SELvkjG7vfI/AAAAAAAAFms/69drjdjp65I/s320/royal+palace+2.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5206987530372365810" /></a><br /><br />For years, just about every gap year traveler has begun their adventures in this street which became famous when it was featured in the rather drab film of Alex Garland’s equally drab book, The Beach and, unless you are eighteen, there is precious little to recommend anything other than the most hurried passage through an ugly street full of tatty cafes serving banana pancakes and panini to hungry youngsters, <br /><br /><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SELwlDG7viI/AAAAAAAAFnE/AvrYbFyvT2I/s1600-h/Khao+San+Road.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SELwlDG7viI/AAAAAAAAFnE/AvrYbFyvT2I/s320/Khao+San+Road.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5206988638473928226" /></a><br /><br />On the most subjective of research methods, most of the kids seemed to be white, middle class and with dreadlock. Many had “gone native” jettisoning their Western clothes on arrival and trading them for the nearest pair of Thai Fishermen’s pants. Quite franlky they look fucking stupid, but hey, I guess it supports the local economy.<br /><br />I left there about five minutes after I arrived and headed off in the nearest tuk-tuk, in search of some lunch, which I found in the form of some fish ball soup at a small shack in Bangkok’s impressive Chinatown. It was, in the blistering heat and staggering humidity, all I could face before heading back to my humble accommodation and having a much needed kip to prepare me for supper.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SELyRTG7vmI/AAAAAAAAFnk/MrMgt-kXqhM/s1600-h/fish+ball+soup.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SELyRTG7vmI/AAAAAAAAFnk/MrMgt-kXqhM/s320/fish+ball+soup.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5206990498194767458" /></a><br /><br />So far, so good. All the food I had eaten from the market and street food snacks to the previous night’s high end meal had been a success, which meant it was time for something to go tits up, which it did with that’s night’s meal at Bussaracum. I had gleaned the recommendation from the Thailand pages on Chowhound, which should have warned.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SELy3DG7voI/AAAAAAAAFn0/3nvWgasovrU/s1600-h/Bussaracum.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SELy3DG7voI/AAAAAAAAFn0/3nvWgasovrU/s320/Bussaracum.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5206991146734829186" /></a><br /><br />It wasn’t an actively bad meal, just lacking any of the freshness and zing of the previous couple of days. Mee Krob was oily and tasted as if it had been sitting around for a while and a salad of Papaya too tasted tired. The only dish that stayed in the memory for any period of time was a dish with the unlikely name of Nong Gob, a tray of meaty frogs legs covered in a fiery sauce. Those I liked and chewed down to the bone.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SELx8zG7vlI/AAAAAAAAFnc/GeU4h6U09io/s1600-h/frogs+legs.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SELx8zG7vlI/AAAAAAAAFnc/GeU4h6U09io/s320/frogs+legs.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5206990146007449170" /></a><br /><br />The rest however was unmemorable and expensive and, while the service was sweet enough, I was in and out in little over an hour, which at least left me time to head down to the river and catch one of the free shuttle busses to the ritzy hotels that line the water and drown my sorrows with a remarkably well made Martini.<br /><br />If there is one thing I like, it is shopping malls. Don’t ask me why, but I love them and can often be found pottering happily around them in air-conditioned comfort in the heat of the day when I am traveling.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SEL03DG7vrI/AAAAAAAAFoM/Ujqo2QofJeM/s1600-h/P1010035.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SEL03DG7vrI/AAAAAAAAFoM/Ujqo2QofJeM/s320/P1010035.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5206993345758084786" /></a><br /><br />Well, of al the cities I have visited, the ones in Bangkok are at the top of the tree. The enormous Siam Paragon with its Car Dealerships on the third floor to the MBK mall with seven floors of stores all selling excellent knock off gear, that of course, I would never dream of buying. <br /><br /><a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SEL0gTG7vqI/AAAAAAAAFoE/dENtbZDELkA/s1600-h/P1010036.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SEL0gTG7vqI/AAAAAAAAFoE/dENtbZDELkA/s320/P1010036.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5206992954916060834" /></a><br /><br />It counter pointed rather well with my afternoon’s journey from modern to ancient as I headed up the river to Wat Pho and to see a splendid Golden Buddha, which seemed to be surrounded by lots of people from South Dakota who were offering useful commentary in a “gee, its big” kind of way.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SELw_zG7vjI/AAAAAAAAFnM/6E-GkD7LqVQ/s1600-h/giant+buddha.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SELw_zG7vjI/AAAAAAAAFnM/6E-GkD7LqVQ/s320/giant+buddha.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5206989098035428914" /></a><br /><br />But, after the disappointments of the night before, I wanted a decent meal. It was going to be my last meal in the city and I didn’t want my abiding memory to be of an oily mee krob. Heaven forfend.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SELynzG7vnI/AAAAAAAAFns/lt7aEsfIO6U/s1600-h/chotechitr.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SELynzG7vnI/AAAAAAAAFns/lt7aEsfIO6U/s320/chotechitr.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5206990884741824114" /></a><br /><br />Another recommendation this time turned out to be a real winner. Chote chitr was a tiny, unassuming place with a big reputation. Cuttings from papers local and international covered its small walls. Apart from me, the only other table occupied was by a group of women taking a break from work for lunch and I was quickly ushered to a small table and given a menu.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SELzIDG7vpI/AAAAAAAAFn8/pPMLzOc0Oto/s1600-h/banana+flower.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SELzIDG7vpI/AAAAAAAAFn8/pPMLzOc0Oto/s320/banana+flower.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5206991438792605330" /></a><br /><br />As poor as the meal had been the night before, this meal was as good. The meek rob, well I just had to have that again, was stunning, fresh and crispy with the sourness of tamarind. A salad of banana flower was fresh and had all the pre-requisite sharpness and the green curry’s chilli kick brought tears to my eyes.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SELwNzG7vhI/AAAAAAAAFm8/FGrH938YNvM/s1600-h/mee+krob.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SELwNzG7vhI/AAAAAAAAFm8/FGrH938YNvM/s320/mee+krob.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5206988239041969682" /></a><br /><br />It was just about a perfect meal and a perfect end to my time in this hugely energetic city.<br /><br />Talking of energetic cities, next stop Kuala LumpurHermano 2http://www.blogger.com/profile/00317059903586211224noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38215268.post-84387078327835389532008-05-25T09:01:00.001-07:002008-05-25T09:20:14.403-07:00THAILAND: COOL SWEET IN BANGKOK<br />I can say at the very beginning that Thailand ranks in the very highest echelons of my trip both for the food and the people.<br /><br />Mind you, it didn’t look that hopeful to begin with.<br /><br />My flight over from London via Doha was blighted on both legs by screaming children. My malaria tablets had kicked in and made me feel like a pregnant woman with morning sickness and I spent much of the flight going to puke up and to top it all off, when I arrived at Bangkok airport, there was a hideous wait for my bags, for immigration and for a taxi.<br /><br />Not a good start.<br /><br />Things got better when I arrived at my small guesthouse, however and, after a warm welcome, I was able to go straight to my room, shower and head out to explore the local neighbourhood of Sukhumvit.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SDmOtf4QKjI/AAAAAAAAFhM/_PM_kLxp4Rw/s1600-h/sams+lodge.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SDmOtf4QKjI/AAAAAAAAFhM/_PM_kLxp4Rw/s320/sams+lodge.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5204347756706015794" /></a><br /><br />More by luck that judgement, it would appear that I had chosen well. It is a pleasant neighbourhood and my accommodation was within a pineapple’s throw of the nearest station of the efficient Sky Train.<br /><br />Within about an hour of arriving, I was already face down in my first meal, a simple bowl of fried rice prepared at a local street stall. One bite and I knew that I was going to enjoy my time in Thailand. Cooked in front of me, served with a hint of a smile and entirely delicious. Add to that the fact that the cost was less than the price of a daily newspaper back in London and I walked away with smug mode fully engaged.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SDmOKf4QKgI/AAAAAAAAFg0/ohdBF1VooTo/s1600-h/street+stall.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SDmOKf4QKgI/AAAAAAAAFg0/ohdBF1VooTo/s320/street+stall.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5204347155410594306" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SDmQ2P4QKqI/AAAAAAAAFiE/KoKEwNcdG7c/s1600-h/fried+rice.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SDmQ2P4QKqI/AAAAAAAAFiE/KoKEwNcdG7c/s320/fried+rice.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5204350106053126818" /></a><br /><br />The jet lag had kicked in by now, so I headed back to my guesthouse and fitted in a few hours sleep before smartening myself up for a visit to a well-known local restaurant, Ban Kanitha, which had been recommended to me by a friend who had lived in Bangkok for many years.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SDmRf_4QKtI/AAAAAAAAFic/7qOaK3GgMDY/s1600-h/bhan+kanitha+sign.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SDmRf_4QKtI/AAAAAAAAFic/7qOaK3GgMDY/s320/bhan+kanitha+sign.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5204350823312665298" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SDmO8_4QKkI/AAAAAAAAFhU/b8jSYM6vfVw/s1600-h/pre-meal+snacks.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SDmO8_4QKkI/AAAAAAAAFhU/b8jSYM6vfVw/s320/pre-meal+snacks.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5204348022993988162" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SDmRPv4QKsI/AAAAAAAAFiU/NB0QnGJfR5w/s1600-h/crab+salad.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SDmRPv4QKsI/AAAAAAAAFiU/NB0QnGJfR5w/s320/crab+salad.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5204350544139791042" /></a><br /><br />I was slightly dispirited to see, when I arrived, that the only other people in the place were a couple of loud British businessmen who were squealing at high volume to the manager<br /><br />“If you make it too hot, we won’t pay for it”<br /><br />He of course, smiled sweetly in return, despite their horrific behaviour and turned to me with a menu. It wasn’t cheap, this being a place I suspect is predicated on feeding the large ex-pat community, which congregates in this part of Bangkok. But, as a first experience of Thai food in Thailand, I was pleased with what was served. A shrimp salad was sharp, fresh and fiery, soft shell crab had a pleasing crunch and the shrimp cakes came with a sauce whose sweet, sour taste was unmistakably Thai.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SDmOkv4QKiI/AAAAAAAAFhE/xB-9zCDgDGo/s1600-h/shrimp+cakes.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SDmOkv4QKiI/AAAAAAAAFhE/xB-9zCDgDGo/s320/shrimp+cakes.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5204347606382160418" /></a><br /><br />With a couple of cold beers, it was enough to send me off to an early night and thoughts of the next four months on the road.<br /><br />The following morning, jet lag kicked in once again, and I was up and about at 5am. I took the all too rare opportunity to catch up on some writing before heading out to visit one of Bangkok’s famous markets. In this case, The Chatachuk Market, about a half hours ride North on the Sky Train.<br /><br />By the time I arrived at 8.30am, it was already well underway and the small spaces of its crowded passageways were already crowded with weekend shoppers. It’s a great market, one of the best with just about everything on sale you could imagine.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SDmPwf4QKmI/AAAAAAAAFhk/oAuIUg_vBjQ/s1600-h/market.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SDmPwf4QKmI/AAAAAAAAFhk/oAuIUg_vBjQ/s320/market.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5204348907757251170" /></a><br /><br />I can’t think of too many markets where shops selling puppies, being blow dried to fluffy cuteness in preparation for the arrival of potential new owners, could sit next to shops where live chickens were being killed, gutted and fried, in preparation of the arrival of, well, me.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SDmP4_4QKnI/AAAAAAAAFhs/_t32mAyj1R0/s1600-h/large+fish+market.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SDmP4_4QKnI/AAAAAAAAFhs/_t32mAyj1R0/s320/large+fish+market.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5204349053786139250" /></a><br /><br />This being Thailand, there is food, of course there is food. There is food everywhere. The people are obsessed with it and, after a starter snack of a couple of passable spring rolls, my nostrils were attracted by the smell of that chicken frying. I stopped at a small stall where the chicken seemed to be the major thing on offer and ordered a sizable portion to work my way through.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SDmQ-P4QKrI/AAAAAAAAFiM/JoSGb6WaACU/s1600-h/fried+chicken.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SDmQ-P4QKrI/AAAAAAAAFiM/JoSGb6WaACU/s320/fried+chicken.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5204350243492080306" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SDmQXf4QKpI/AAAAAAAAFh8/wWMnXzhaN-A/s1600-h/fruit+and+veg.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SDmQXf4QKpI/AAAAAAAAFh8/wWMnXzhaN-A/s320/fruit+and+veg.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5204349577772149394" /></a><br /><br />What can I tell you? I am a sucker for good fried chicken at the best of times, but this was right up there. Serious stuff and served with a seriously spicy sauce that needed washing down with the fresh fruit drinks being made at the next stall. If I close my eyes, I can taste it now. I gnawed on it until the bones were sawdust, which received a reward in the form of a smile from the owner as I paid her whatever small pittance it cost.<br /><br />The humidity, by now, was stultifying and I was pleased to climb back on board the air conditioned Sky Train and head back to my guesthouse for a nap. I was obviously exhausted, because by the time I awoke, it was dark outside and I realised I had been asleep for about six hours.<br /><br />Still, I managed to drag myself bleary eyed into the shower and woke up enough to head out to the Suan Lum night market where, I had been told, they had an excellent open air food court.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SDmODP4QKfI/AAAAAAAAFgs/ak-g-FW7JnE/s1600-h/suan+lum+night+market.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SDmODP4QKfI/AAAAAAAAFgs/ak-g-FW7JnE/s320/suan+lum+night+market.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5204347030856542706" /></a><br /><br />I am told that it is under threat of closure, which is a great shame because both the market and the food court are a great deal of fun. After a stroll around the shops of the market, most specialising in traditional Thai handicrafts, I headed to the food court, which was set up so you bought pre-paid vouchers which could be exchanged for food and drinks at any of the many stalls set up around an area of seating the size of a football field.<br /><br />The first odd sight was of young Thai women dressed in traditional German outfits. I had not long returned from Munich and thought for a moment that my malaria tablets (also prescribed for dealing with cases of the clap, thanks for telling me Dr Patel!) had caused hallucinations. However, it transpired that, as everywhere, the German brewers had been there first and one of the biggest beer stands was Pauliner. <br /><br />The second odd sight was the seeing a large TV screen showing Wigan Athletic Vs Bolton Wanderers to a less than rapt audience of bemused Thai families. The English Premiership is incredibly popular all over the world, but I think they might have been hoping for Liverpool, Manchester Utd or Chelsea rather than a couple of bottom table, Lancastrian strugglers.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SDmPHv4QKlI/AAAAAAAAFhc/eDsuKk2EkGM/s1600-h/people+at+night+market.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SDmPHv4QKlI/AAAAAAAAFhc/eDsuKk2EkGM/s320/people+at+night+market.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5204348207677581906" /></a><br /><br />Still, everyone seemed to be having a damn good time and I joined in with a big bowl of Green chicken curry and sat down to watch the game. To be honest, it had the same effect on me as it would have done had I been back in the UK, it drove me home to bed.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SDmQIv4QKoI/AAAAAAAAFh0/kzdNSg5lBh4/s1600-h/green+curry.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SDmQIv4QKoI/AAAAAAAAFh0/kzdNSg5lBh4/s320/green+curry.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5204349324369078914" /></a><br /><br />It is fair to say, I was enjoying my early experiences of Thailand. Particularly as I had no idea what to expect before I got there. However, on the walk home, I took a detour through one on Bangkok’s infamous streets of girly bars, Soi Cowboy and, I have to admit to almost bringing my supper back up at the sight of fat, old and ugly European men (mostly German and Dutch it appeared) groping girls young enough to be their daughters and certainly not looking as if they wanted to be groped by anyone let alone these, corpulent, lecherous Neanderthals.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SDmOYf4QKhI/AAAAAAAAFg8/D9W_OLN9Rwk/s1600-h/soi+cowboy.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SDmOYf4QKhI/AAAAAAAAFg8/D9W_OLN9Rwk/s320/soi+cowboy.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5204347395928762898" /></a><br />A few of them called out to me<br /><br />“Come, buy me lady drink”<br /><br />“You want massage?”<br /><br />Their lips formed a smile but their eyes were hidden behind bars of being trapped in this vile profession.<br /><br />It was my first experience of Thailand’s seedier side and it made me as angry as it did nauseous.<br /><br />I went to sleep with the sounds of Sukhumvit filtering through my window and those small, sad smiles of the small sad girls filtering through my jet lagged dreams.Hermano 2http://www.blogger.com/profile/00317059903586211224noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38215268.post-17758130695352749692008-05-07T07:49:00.001-07:002008-05-07T08:20:33.715-07:00MUNICH: A TURN FOR THE WURST<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SCHELg8iJaI/AAAAAAAAFSk/rT8AXJj7KTI/s1600-h/me+munich.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SCHELg8iJaI/AAAAAAAAFSk/rT8AXJj7KTI/s320/me+munich.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5197651147063698850" /></a><br /><br />Let me begin by saying that the Germans are entirely barmy.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SCHGNQ8iJfI/AAAAAAAAFTM/bxuCfaixh4Q/s1600-h/german+wings.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SCHGNQ8iJfI/AAAAAAAAFTM/bxuCfaixh4Q/s320/german+wings.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5197653376151725554" /></a><br /><br />I actually mean than in a good way. Not the “come down at 4am and put a beach towel over everything that moves kind of way” but in a way that holds them up for admiration for their devotion to all things beer and pork related.<br /><br />The Bavarians are, if it is possible, even more barmy. Genuinely barking mad and drinking at the Doollaly Tap.<br /><br />I love them to bits.<br /><br />I have always had a fondness for Germany and the Germans even since my job as a publisher meant that I attended twenty (yes count them) Frankfurt Book Fairs. I also dealt with many German publishers and spent happy times on the road visiting them at their offices, mainly in Munich.<br /><br />Add to that the fact that the book of EAT MY GLOBE had also been sold to a German Publisher (Ullestein) then there was very little chance that I would not find some opportunity to shoehorn them in to my trip.<br /><br />I decided on Munich for a few reasons. One was that, I love it as a city. Another was that my brother, Robin had not been there and I thought that it could make a nice addition to our other joint blog, Dos Hermanos. I also had a couple of friends there who could show me around. Finally, it was because, of all Germany, I really like the food in Bavaria.<br /><br />Ah, German food. It is about as misunderstood as our own dear British cooking. But, when it is at its best, based on great ingredients and simple preparations, then it is hearty and delicious if a little challenging vis proportions.<br /><br />The flight to Germany was typically smooth and the new-ish Lufthansa Terminal at Munich’s airport a delight.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SCHHbQ8iJlI/AAAAAAAAFT8/Yy4wGi1uqpM/s1600-h/airport.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SCHHbQ8iJlI/AAAAAAAAFT8/Yy4wGi1uqpM/s320/airport.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5197654716181522002" /></a><br /><br />Robin had, of course, done plenty of research and had fashioned his own guidebook culled from the pages of various publications and internet sites. Their first bit of good news was that, before we even caught the train into town and to our hotel, there was a very good bier hall at the airport itself.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SCHDSw8iJWI/AAAAAAAAFSE/8FRudcQDBT4/s1600-h/robin+planning+notes.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SCHDSw8iJWI/AAAAAAAAFSE/8FRudcQDBT4/s320/robin+planning+notes.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5197650172106122594" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SCHHaw8iJkI/AAAAAAAAFT0/sFKNBplpTbg/s1600-h/airport+bier.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SCHHaw8iJkI/AAAAAAAAFT0/sFKNBplpTbg/s320/airport+bier.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5197654707591587394" /></a><br /><br />It would have been churlish not to make use of it so, we settled ourselves down with a large dark beer and took the edge off our appetite with a plate of grammels chmaltz. Basically, lard spiked with fried onions and chives, which can be spread on black rye bread.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SCHFdQ8iJeI/AAAAAAAAFTE/ve_EqrBLIjk/s1600-h/gremmel+schmaltz.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SCHFdQ8iJeI/AAAAAAAAFTE/ve_EqrBLIjk/s320/gremmel+schmaltz.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5197652551518004706" /></a><br />Compared to our previous visit to Berlin almost exactly a year previously, the weather was perfect and, after depositing our bags at our basic but perfectly serviceable hotel, we set out to see how many hotels we could hit in an afternoon before hooking up with friends later.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" <br />href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SCHEKw8iJZI/AAAAAAAAFSc/DRFHIolapik/s1600-h/me+with+beer.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SCHEKw8iJZI/AAAAAAAAFSc/DRFHIolapik/s320/me+with+beer.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5197651134178796946" /></a><br /><br />We did not do too badly, visiting about four in all including the famous Hoefbrauhouse where large men in leather clothing played Oom-pah music to scare the children and waitresses too wore the traditional Durndl while carrying large plates of sausages and potatoes to hungry tourists seated at communal tables.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SCHFdA8iJdI/AAAAAAAAFS8/M7n7Awh5xR0/s1600-h/hoefbrauhaus.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SCHFdA8iJdI/AAAAAAAAFS8/M7n7Awh5xR0/s320/hoefbrauhaus.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5197652547223037394" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SCHBuQ8iJQI/AAAAAAAAFRU/nOETW8jIey4/s1600-h/wurst+%26+kraut.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SCHBuQ8iJQI/AAAAAAAAFRU/nOETW8jIey4/s320/wurst+%26+kraut.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5197648445529269506" /></a><br /><br />Off all of the bierhalls, this was by far the most touristy and we did not linger long. Long enough to down a beer or two before heading off to the next venue.<br /><br />By the early evening it would be fair to say that The Majumdar Brothers were pretty much “in our cups” but we had hardly started because that night we were going to be spending in the company of Stefan Berg, one of Germany’s leading mixologists. A frightening thought.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SCHCyw8iJTI/AAAAAAAAFRs/oN-ouhXOL9Y/s1600-h/stefan.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SCHCyw8iJTI/AAAAAAAAFRs/oN-ouhXOL9Y/s320/stefan.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5197649622350308658" /></a><br /><br />I had first met Stefan and his cohort, Jorge at the London Bar Show (see previous post to remind yourselves of the liver challenging event that was for one and all) and we had hit it off immediately. So, as soon as I knew I was coming to Munich, I was in touch.<br /><br />The quality of mixing I found in Munich was of an exceptionally high standard with Stefan taking us to bar after bar where the mixing was superb and not just because he was so well known. We did our best to mop it up with a visit to another beer hall for some meat and potato sustenance, but by the time we headed back to the hotel in the early hours, we were, well to be honest, we were pretty much out of our skulls.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SCHDnA8iJXI/AAAAAAAAFSM/3u8O-fhQQiA/s1600-h/ratskeller.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SCHDnA8iJXI/AAAAAAAAFSM/3u8O-fhQQiA/s320/ratskeller.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5197650519998473586" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SCHCAw8iJSI/AAAAAAAAFRk/lYgHDUIqJqE/s1600-h/topped+bread.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SCHCAw8iJSI/AAAAAAAAFRk/lYgHDUIqJqE/s320/topped+bread.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5197648763356849442" /></a><br /><br />So, the next day, we took pity on our livers and took it easy with some good exercise and little or no beer. Munich really is a lovely city, one of the most beautiful in Europe with its wide streets, squares and parks. We enjoyed an amble around the bustling central market (with a stop off for a morning sausage of course) <br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SCHGrg8iJiI/AAAAAAAAFTk/Z_EXXF6jSzo/s1600-h/butcher.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SCHGrg8iJiI/AAAAAAAAFTk/Z_EXXF6jSzo/s320/butcher.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5197653895842768418" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SCHHaA8iJjI/AAAAAAAAFTs/0g42yy7835A/s1600-h/breakfast+buns.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SCHHaA8iJjI/AAAAAAAAFTs/0g42yy7835A/s320/breakfast+buns.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5197654694706685490" /></a><br />and we went “ooh” and “ah” at the marionettes on the famous clock tower. Actually, I didn’t. I have never really been impressed by such things and, after a few minutes of staring up at coloured wooden puppets moving to no particular purpose, I turned to my brother and said<br /><br />“That’s enough for a lifetime” <br /><br />If we took it easy on the booze front, we certainly didn’t on the food front. Fortified with sausages in a bun, we fitted in a light afternoon snack of hot chocolate topped with whipped cream and a plate of cake before heading for an early supper to take on the mighty Schweinhaxen.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SCHGqg8iJhI/AAAAAAAAFTc/H1C-AYUQ5HM/s1600-h/cake+and+choccy.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SCHGqg8iJhI/AAAAAAAAFTc/H1C-AYUQ5HM/s320/cake+and+choccy.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5197653878662899218" /></a><br /><br />By all that is holy, this is the mother of all pork-based dishes. It is, as the name might suggest, basically, a pork knuckle cooked until the skin crackles but the flesh remains creamy and moist. Covered over with gravy and then served with a dumpling which could be used for hand to hand combat, it is one of the most challenging things I have ever eaten. Big brother, on the other hand was man enough to gnaw his portion right down to the bone, but even he went a funny colour when trying to polish off the dumpling.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SCHDnQ8iJYI/AAAAAAAAFSU/2r62ka3sWIs/s1600-h/menu.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SCHDnQ8iJYI/AAAAAAAAFSU/2r62ka3sWIs/s320/menu.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5197650524293440898" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SCHCzA8iJUI/AAAAAAAAFR0/zyTZ847CFlA/s1600-h/schweinhaxen.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SCHCzA8iJUI/AAAAAAAAFR0/zyTZ847CFlA/s320/schweinhaxen.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5197649626645275970" /></a><br /><br />We staggered back to the hotel for a second evening. This time, however, not because of the booze, but because of the half a pound of pork we were both slowly digesting inside.<br /><br />I have to admit that the night was filled with meat sweats, digestive noises that even a brother should not hear and, by the morning, it was still sitting in a lump in my stomach.<br /><br />Fortunately, by the time we reached the destination of our morning’s excursion, I was feeling a lot better and was able to pay attention to the horror that is Dachau.<br /><br />We had been determined to fit it into our schedule. As we reach a stage where many who perpetrated the horrors of The Holocaust and many who suffered under its shadow are dying off, it is important that as many as possible are exposed to the brutality of what occurred.<br /><br />Not just the brutality, however, but also the normalcy that was given to such brutality. That is the true horror of walking around Dachau. It was never actually used as a death camp, but it is the place where the organisation of mass murder was planned. Dachau is what happens when the most efficient nation on earth turns its mind to mass murder.<br /><br />What strikes you most as you walk around the quiet and well preserved camp ground is just how ordinary it feels. Just how normal the Germans were able to make the destruction of a race and just how close they came to succeeding in their task.<br /><br />As elements in Europe attempt to drag us back to the dark days of extreme right wing politics, I truly believe than every man woman and child in Europe should be made to visit one of the death camps to see what man is capable of and what their idiotic ideology can lead too.<br /><br />Unsurprisingly, on our return to the centre of town, we were a little subdued. But, our spirits were soon lifted by the appearance of my close friend, Isabelle who I have known, through publishing, for years.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SCHE4w8iJcI/AAAAAAAAFS0/3PpfJfJlDT0/s1600-h/isabelle.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SCHE4w8iJcI/AAAAAAAAFS0/3PpfJfJlDT0/s320/isabelle.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5197651924452779458" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SCHE4Q8iJbI/AAAAAAAAFSs/veYWrnQOtSQ/s1600-h/me+isabelle.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SCHE4Q8iJbI/AAAAAAAAFSs/veYWrnQOtSQ/s320/me+isabelle.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5197651915862844850" /></a><br /><br />Although originally from across the border in Austria, Isabelle is a Munchen as Muncheners come and she loves the city with a passion. We spent the rest of the day in her company wandering from beer hall to beer hall, sampling food and drink <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SCHGNw8iJgI/AAAAAAAAFTU/5IJwjODOy7c/s1600-h/duck.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SCHGNw8iJgI/AAAAAAAAFTU/5IJwjODOy7c/s320/duck.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5197653384741660162" /></a><br /><br />and then walking it off around Munich’s lovely English Garden before decamping late at night to her own lovely apartment to round off the night and the trip with some fiery schnapps.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SCHCAQ8iJRI/AAAAAAAAFRc/flCgy-oz1z4/s1600-h/wurst.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SCHCAQ8iJRI/AAAAAAAAFRc/flCgy-oz1z4/s320/wurst.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5197648754766914834" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SCHDSQ8iJVI/AAAAAAAAFR8/8u2S_vQX88I/s1600-h/schnapps.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SCHDSQ8iJVI/AAAAAAAAFR8/8u2S_vQX88I/s320/schnapps.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5197650163516187986" /></a><br /><br />That was Germany. It was an all too short visit, but I am delighted to have fitted it into the schedule. It really is one of my favourite countries and the Germans, despite their travel habits, one of my favourite peoples.<br /><br />The food too, is underrated. Oh, it is hardly haute, although there are now many fine high-end dining restaurants throughout Germany. But, it is hearty and honest and that, above all is what attracts me to a culture and a cuisine.<br /><br />God willing, I will be back and, next time, God also willing, I shall do my best to finish a whole dumpling.Hermano 2http://www.blogger.com/profile/00317059903586211224noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38215268.post-10479678033559256712008-04-27T03:37:00.000-07:002008-04-27T04:30:12.161-07:00ICELAND: DON”T EAT THE YELLOW SNOW<br /><br /><a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SBRiZAaGArI/AAAAAAAAFM8/TBuqD6NafK4/s1600-h/blue+lagoon.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SBRiZAaGArI/AAAAAAAAFM8/TBuqD6NafK4/s320/blue+lagoon.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5193884452010721970" /></a><br />Once again, the extraordinary generosity of you folk amazes me.<br /><br />This time, it was in mid January as I headed off to explore the joy that is Iceland at that time of year. A time when the lakes of capital city, Reykjavik are frozen solid enough for local high schools to use as an extra sports field. A time when most normal citizens of this small but thriving city are wrapped up warm inside.<br /><br />Backtrack a bit to the beginning of EAT MY GLOBE and I am sitting in one of my favourite bars, Pinchito and, no, it is not just my favourite because it is less than thrity seconds walk from my apartment.<br /><br />I am telling anyone who will listen that I have just quit my job and will be heading out on the road. The only person who is, in fact, paying any attention is my the manager of the bar and my friend, the glamorously named Magga Kristiansdottir. She is both stunning and can mix a good Martini which makes her, in my shallow book, as close to the perfect woman as it is possible to get.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SBRfswaGAlI/AAAAAAAAFMM/uvalffzDtKk/s1600-h/magga+hat.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SBRfswaGAlI/AAAAAAAAFMM/uvalffzDtKk/s320/magga+hat.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5193881492778254930" /></a><br /><br />“Come to Iceland” She announced, between delivering some plates of excellent Spanish food to a table and greeting some new customers.<br /><br />“You can eat mouldy shark”<br /><br />To be honest, that was about as good an offer as a man like me is ever going to get from someone like Magga so Iceland was on the list.<br /><br />Fast forward almost nine months and there I am again in the same bar, this time agreeing with Magga that I shall meet her at some ungodly hour the next morning to head off to London’s least lovely airport, Stanstead for our early flight to her homeland.<br /><br />Magga, it turned out had the opportunity to head home for her sister’s graduation ceremony. So, it made sense that I join her so, for the time she had free, she could show me around.<br /><br />We were met at the airport by one of her closest friends, Erla who announced that she was handing me the keys to her apartment to sue for a few days and heading off to stay with her boyfriend. Never, as Frankie Howerd might say, has my flabber been so ghasted. I knew from Magga that I had been offered a bed for my three nights there, but had no idea that the whole place was being turned over to me. As I said, I should be used to the acts of generosity I have encountered as I travel the globe, but people continue to astonish me.<br /><br />Before pondering on food, Erla and Magga wanted to introduce me to one of Iceland’s most famous landmarks, The Blue Lagoon, formed in the middle of a stunning outcrop of volcanic rock, is a lake that takes its naturally warmed water from mineral springs. It is a beautiful set up and the three of us spent the next couple of hours happily pampering ourselves in the therapeutic waters until The Sun began to decline over the horizon.<br /><br />Magga had decided that my first experience of Icelandic food would not be in Reykjavic, however, but out on the coast at a small restaurant called Fjorubordid which specialised in local crayfish.<br /><br />It was only a short distance away from The Blue Lagoon, but when you added that to the fact that it was now dark, beginning to snow quite heavily and that Erla’s car had, to be kind, seen better days, it was one of the more interesting transportation experiences of EAT MY GLOBE to date.<br /><br />We made it however and were soon seated in the warm and cheery dining room of Fjorubordid drinking our first beer. Actually, it was our only beer because, like everything else in Iceland, everything is ludicrously expensive and the one small bottle of local beer came in at nearly £10. They had wines on the list too, but a bottle that you might turn your nose up to at the supermarket was coming in at close to £40.<br /><a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SBRdOQaGAhI/AAAAAAAAFLs/sB3K0CIT3DU/s1600-h/restauarant.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SBRdOQaGAhI/AAAAAAAAFLs/sB3K0CIT3DU/s320/restauarant.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5193878769768989202" /></a><br /><br />The food was expensive too, but not quite as nosebleed inducing as the booze. It was also rather good. The restaurant served only crayfish in varying portions, which came simply steamed with accompanying sauces, salads and deliciously addictive small potatoes. The crayfish were the stars though. Great steaming pots of them, to be peeled and sucked down with dubious slurping noises. <br /><br />A lot of people had told me that food in Iceland was, well, crap. Some of it was. Much of it was weird and some of it was downright nasty. But, these small, sweet, plump little beauties were as good as anything I had tried on the trip to date and made the effort of getting there and, indeed back to Reykjavik worth all the effort.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SBRZZAaGAdI/AAAAAAAAFLM/9t8n1t6WPPA/s1600-h/shellfish.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SBRZZAaGAdI/AAAAAAAAFLM/9t8n1t6WPPA/s320/shellfish.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5193874556406071762" /></a><br /><br />By the time we got back to the city and Erla had settled me in her flat, I was ready to crash out. I wanted a reasonably early night as Magga had promised me that the next day brought with it the threat of a boiled sheep’s head, Bill Clinton’s favourite hot dog and the chance to go clubbing with a gaggle of Icelandic lovelies.<br /><br />As you can imagine, with those thoughts in my head, my dreams were, shall we say, quite vivid.<br /><br />I was not meeting Magga until later the next morning as she had errands to run, so, I took one of the all too rare opportunities to sleep in, the pelting snow outside being an added disincentive to forcing myself into the great outdoors any earlier.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SBRYmQaGAbI/AAAAAAAAFK8/fBfTKYFO9qc/s1600-h/snowscene.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SBRYmQaGAbI/AAAAAAAAFK8/fBfTKYFO9qc/s320/snowscene.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5193873684527710642" /></a><br /><br />On top of which, I had just begun to take my Malaria medication in anticipation of my forthcoming trip to South East Asia & India with all the joys of morning nausea that came in attendance.<br /><br />By the time I did drag myself up and out of the flat, The Sun was shining and, although it was still as cold as a first date that you take to see Monday Night Smack Down, I was well prepared, with coat, hat and gloves, to take in the city.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SBReEwaGAiI/AAAAAAAAFL0/EZpNWlgMVPo/s1600-h/me+on+frozen+lake.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SBReEwaGAiI/AAAAAAAAFL0/EZpNWlgMVPo/s320/me+on+frozen+lake.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5193879706071859746" /></a><br /><br />It is a small place. The whole country only boasts a population of some 300,000 but the city of Reykjavic itself is vibrant and attractive. The hosts of coffee shops were already filled with bright skinned youngsters talking about ever such important stuff and well-dressed people were milling around the streets doing their weekend shop.<br /><a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SBRjWQaGAuI/AAAAAAAAFNU/t4cbL4rgLwE/s1600-h/church.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SBRjWQaGAuI/AAAAAAAAFNU/t4cbL4rgLwE/s320/church.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5193885504277709538" /></a><br />By the time, Magga turned up, I think I had just about seen everything there was to see in the town centre, so was glad when she suggested we head off to lunch. I was slightly less pleased when she said we were going to a café the local bus station, but I knew she must have a reason.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SBRarwaGAfI/AAAAAAAAFLc/mvQGivg1ulk/s1600-h/sheeps+head+cafe.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SBRarwaGAfI/AAAAAAAAFLc/mvQGivg1ulk/s320/sheeps+head+cafe.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5193875978040246770" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SBRiYgaGAqI/AAAAAAAAFM0/DSv3ipn4ZSc/s1600-h/chef.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SBRiYgaGAqI/AAAAAAAAFM0/DSv3ipn4ZSc/s320/chef.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5193884443420787362" /></a><br /><br />She did. The café at the local bus station is run by a slightly odd looking man whose has taken it upon himself to protect the traditional foods of Iceland.. In particular he wanted to maintain the tradition of eating Swidd (pronounced swith) which I was delighted to find out was half a boiled sheep’s head with the fur singed off.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SBRargaGAeI/AAAAAAAAFLU/dOaRZ1a-uTo/s1600-h/sheeps+head.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SBRargaGAeI/AAAAAAAAFLU/dOaRZ1a-uTo/s320/sheeps+head.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5193875973745279458" /></a><br /><br />It is not a pleasant thing to look at. Well, it is half a boiled sheep’s head with the fur singed off as I just told you. The teeth are still intact in the jaw and the tongue is very firmly still in cheek. Despite that, it is quite tasty and I picked delicately at the flesh while sipping the “Xmas Ale” Magga had made for me. An odd mix of the local malt drink and a nasty, synthetic orange pop which, as the name suggests, they like to drink at Christmas. Odd stuff indeed.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SBRYVAaGAaI/AAAAAAAAFK0/llCy0I_EOps/s1600-h/xmas+ale.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SBRYVAaGAaI/AAAAAAAAFK0/llCy0I_EOps/s320/xmas+ale.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5193873388174967202" /></a><br /><br />Magga, however was in her element and, after devouring the cheek meat, she ripped open the jaw to reveal the tongue and started work on that before picking the whole thing up and gnawing on it. She is very much my kind of woman.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SBRdNwaGAgI/AAAAAAAAFLk/zkq-MFdabo4/s1600-h/me+with+sheeps+head.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SBRdNwaGAgI/AAAAAAAAFLk/zkq-MFdabo4/s320/me+with+sheeps+head.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5193878761179054594" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SBRjWAaGAtI/AAAAAAAAFNM/pmump_cO9e0/s1600-h/1%EF%80%A22+eaten+sheeps+head.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SBRjWAaGAtI/AAAAAAAAFNM/pmump_cO9e0/s320/1%EF%80%A22+eaten+sheeps+head.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5193885499982742226" /></a><br /><br />Not trusting dentists in London, Magga had made an appointment with her childhood Dr to have a check up and so left me to my own devices pointing me in the direction of one of Reykjaviks oldest institutions. It may come as a surprise to find that it was not a civic building or a church. It was not a place of archaeological interest or a sight of historical importance. It was a hot dog stand.<br /><br />The Icelanders love their hot dogs. In fact, the fist thing Magga did when we got to The Blue Lagoon was rush inside and order one from their café. They appear to be addicted to them.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SBRfsQaGAkI/AAAAAAAAFME/-ujjfykkMyA/s1600-h/magga+hot+dog.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SBRfsQaGAkI/AAAAAAAAFME/-ujjfykkMyA/s320/magga+hot+dog.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5193881484188320322" /></a><br /><br />They are not the only ones because, and this wont come as any great surprise to you, when I arrived at the stall, there were a significant number of pictures of one Mr Billy Jeff Clinton gorging himself on them during a recent visit.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SBRjVgaGAsI/AAAAAAAAFNE/mDVg8dbUpFg/s1600-h/billy+jeff.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SBRjVgaGAsI/AAAAAAAAFNE/mDVg8dbUpFg/s320/billy+jeff.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5193885491392807618" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SBRgnAaGAnI/AAAAAAAAFMc/zYMnvPdxWjc/s1600-h/hot+dog+stand.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SBRgnAaGAnI/AAAAAAAAFMc/zYMnvPdxWjc/s320/hot+dog+stand.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5193882493505634930" /></a><br /><br />Well he has good taste. These are some of the best hot dogs I have ever tried. The dog itself is good, the remoulade sauce gives a nice tang, but the real trick is in the deep fried onions which give a pleasing counterpoint against the soft roll and the sausage. I ate a few during my visit. Not as many as Billy Jeff, that would be silly, but quite a few.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SBRgVgaGAmI/AAAAAAAAFMU/8vpohQ9JBCc/s1600-h/hot+dog.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SBRgVgaGAmI/AAAAAAAAFMU/8vpohQ9JBCc/s320/hot+dog.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5193882192857924194" /></a><br /><br />Full of dog and sheep, I headed back to the flat to prepare for my night out with the Icelandic lovelies. I was not disappointed as one after another of them arrived at my, I mean Erla’s flat as planned and began to get horribly pissed as they prepared for a night out. <br /><br />In Iceland, booze in bars being so expensive, as result of recent prohibition which only ended less than twenty years ago, people tend to buy their liquor at the state run shops and drink at home to get a buzz on before going out where they limit themselves to one or two drinks.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SBRhoQaGApI/AAAAAAAAFMs/9hXYa8OK6eg/s1600-h/girlies.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SBRhoQaGApI/AAAAAAAAFMs/9hXYa8OK6eg/s320/girlies.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5193883614492099218" /></a><br /><br />So, I just sat as Magga, Erla and all their old school friends sat around, became more and more in their cups and talked about their husbands, boyfriends and sex lives. I was concerned that doing all of this might be uncomfortable for them with a balding forty something man sitting in their midst, but no one seemed phased and Magga announced<br /><br />“It’s no problem, you are just like one of the girls”<br /><br /><a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SBReFAaGAjI/AAAAAAAAFL8/9FMr30YYRBs/s1600-h/me+and+erla.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SBReFAaGAjI/AAAAAAAAFL8/9FMr30YYRBs/s320/me+and+erla.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5193879710366827058" /></a><br /><br />Bloody Hell. Obviously, just what I wanted to hear. <br /><br />By about Midnight, I was ready to head to sleep, but the girls were just about ready to head out. Their night was just beginning. Reykjavik has a legendary bar and club scene and I can see why. The main drag of the city is littered with places for people to meet and dance and it does not even begin to get going until well past 1am in the morning.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SBRZYgaGAcI/AAAAAAAAFLE/_OqN9LPHNwk/s1600-h/sirkus+klub.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SBRZYgaGAcI/AAAAAAAAFLE/_OqN9LPHNwk/s320/sirkus+klub.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5193874547816137154" /></a><br /><br />I gave it my best shot, I really did. But, by 5am, I was about to fall asleep, so left them to their own devices and walked back to the flat and to sleep.<br /><br />No great surprise then that I did not wake up until well into the afternoon the next day. Peering through the window, I could see that the snow was pelting down again outside and I felt even less inclined to go out than I did the day before. So I didn’t. I ran across to a local supermarket for a snack and sat in the cosy warm flat writing until the doorbell rang at 6pm.<br /><br />It was Erla.<br /><br />She had not been up long either and offered to take me on a last tour of the city and to the places where I could go and get some of the mouldy shark I had avoided during the trip.<br /><br />She knows and loves her city and took me on a whistle stop tour of all the places of interest. I loved the fact that you could head right up the driveway of the presidential palace and even more so when she told me that it is every Icelander’s right to make an appointment to see the president if they have something they wish to discuss. Imagine doing that with Mr Brown or Mr Bush<br /><br />Finally, she took me to a local supermarket that specialises in some of the more unusual items on the Icelandic menu at this time of year.<br /><br />Thooroblot literally means Thor’s Feast and celebrates the end of the winter when the last of the preserved foods could be eaten and fresh food caught for the first time in months. They are good at preserving things here and on offer with wonders like blood sausage, sour ram’s testicles, dried puffin and of course, Harrkl, mouldy shark.<br /><br />I am not quite sure how they figured it out, but, because of the cold, the local basking shark has to produce a toxic substance under its skin in order to float. If you were to eat it immediately after you caught it, it would make you incredibly ill. So, they bury it until the toxins are removed by the ammonia produced during decomposition (stick with me) it can take up to six months after which, quite frankly, the stuff smells like piss. <br /><br />Along with the Durrian fruit, it is easily the worst smell I have encountered on the trip so far.<br /><br />I bought a tub of it, of course, being an intrepid explorer and I also bought a bottle of Brennivin, the local hooch made with Caraway, which is meant to be drunk with it.<br /><br />But, and I am going to be honest with you here. I tried some in the supermarket and it persuaded me that the tub I bought, still sitting tightly sealed in my fridge, is going to remain that way for some time to come.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SBRhEwaGAoI/AAAAAAAAFMk/He2YFU6g7s4/s1600-h/hakarl.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SBRhEwaGAoI/AAAAAAAAFMk/He2YFU6g7s4/s320/hakarl.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5193883004606743170" /></a><br /><br />So, that was Iceland. We headed back to London early the next morning and I got ready to fly out to Thailand a couple of days later.<br /><br />It is hardly the culinary capital of, well anywhere, but I rather liked it. I liked the people who were incredibly hospitable. I liked the city itself, if not the pelting snow and I even liked some of the food. The thought of those sweet crayfish and the onions in the hot dogs often come back to me when I am hungry.<br /><br />Not so sure about the sheep’s head and the ram’s testicles though. I will leave those to Magga<br /><br />Next stop, South East AsiaHermano 2http://www.blogger.com/profile/00317059903586211224noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38215268.post-42414728043205836592008-04-17T09:42:00.000-07:002008-04-18T12:07:45.170-07:00ISLAY: THREE MEN AND A STILL<br /><br /><a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SAhHEwzAcjI/AAAAAAAAFEk/7RtEFrY3EKg/s1600-h/Nick+%26+John.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SAhHEwzAcjI/AAAAAAAAFEk/7RtEFrY3EKg/s320/Nick+%26+John.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5190476717688386098" /></a> <br /><br />If you have been reading the blog from the start, you will know that one of my first forays into the world of food and drink on this trip was to meet with the estimable John Glaser of Compass Box Whisky.<br /><br />He was good enough to spend a whole day with me at the very start explaining all about the processes of making whisky(”good whisky is like good pornography. They both need good wood”) and about his own maverick but highly regarded company specialising in blended and pure malts.<br /><br />So, fired up by that, I decided that I was going to spend some time between longer foreign journeys and head up to Scotland to see where the sauce is made at the source.<br /><br />John made a few suggestions and put me in touch with Kilchoman, a new distillery on Islay. There first releases would not be until 2010, but the new spirit, fresh off the stills was already getting good reviews and augured well for the future.<br /><br />They were incredibly responsive and, before long, I had arranged to go and spend a week with their master distiller, Malcolm Rennie seeing what happened when. Most of the work would be done in the morning which also gave me ample time to visit as many of the eight other distillers on the island as possible.<br /><br />It sounded perfect. Islay whiskies have always been my favourite with their unmistakable smells of smoke and peat.<br /><br />It also sounded perfect to John because, once I told him that I was on my way, he managed to sculpt some time from his hectic schedule and agreed to join me for my week’s stay. It was just getting better and better. Not only was I going to be on Islay, home of my favourite whiskies, I was going to be joined by one of the most respected men in the whole industry. A double bonus.<br /><br />Another bonus came when John, in an act of extraordinary generosity which I soon found out was not isolated, agreed to cover the costs for the whole shebang. Even when the mad, bad and dangerous to know, Mr Nick Strangeway, cocktail maker extraordinaire got wind of the trip and made us a party of three.<br /><br />What John knows about making Whisky, Nick knows about using it and what he knows about using it, I knew about drinking it. We were an unlikely grouping and I could not help but think of the characters in my favourite humorous novel “ Three Men & a Boat”<br /><br />The flights were relatively painless. From London to Glasgow and from there, by a small propeller driven plane, to Islay’s tiny airfield and, by early evening we were settled in our waterside guesthouse and having the first of many tastings at the nearest bar which, inevitably had one of the biggest collections of Whisky I have ever seen.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SAherAzAcvI/AAAAAAAAFGE/TCzXEoLiv30/s1600-h/guesthouse.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SAherAzAcvI/AAAAAAAAFGE/TCzXEoLiv30/s320/guesthouse.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5190502663585821426" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SAhdjwzAcuI/AAAAAAAAFF8/WLk8sHXNi6E/s1600-h/john+at+bar.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SAhdjwzAcuI/AAAAAAAAFF8/WLk8sHXNi6E/s320/john+at+bar.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5190501439520142050" /></a><br /><br />Well rested and plumped up by an excellent in heart attack inducing breakfast the next morning, we made our way the few short miles to Kilchoman (pronounced Kil-Ho-Man) for our first days work. <br /><br /><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SAhQeAzAcoI/AAAAAAAAFFM/FP37r-93IGE/s1600-h/kilchoman.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SAhQeAzAcoI/AAAAAAAAFFM/FP37r-93IGE/s320/kilchoman.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5190487047084733058" /></a><br /><br />Malcolm Rennie and his colleague, Gavin have both been in the business a long time and were already working the morning distillation with the sort of quiet professionalism that comes from twenty years in the business. They were also indulging in a constant stream of affectionate bickering, more akin to an old married couple than colleagues. All very funny and which continued over a welcome cup of strong tea as they told us what our tasks would be for the next week.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SAhcLAzAcrI/AAAAAAAAFFk/4JfX_CnYg4Y/s1600-h/gavin+and+malcolm.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SAhcLAzAcrI/AAAAAAAAFFk/4JfX_CnYg4Y/s320/gavin+and+malcolm.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5190499914806751922" /></a><br /><br />First up a tour of Kilchoman’s small but perfectly formed facilities. The malting floor (Kilchoman being one of the few that grows its own barley and floor malts rather than buying in malted barley which the larger distilleries are forced to do) then the mash tums where the heated malts are turned to a beer called wash and then the stills themselves where, as all Scotch Whisky is, the wash is distilled once and then the resulting spirits are distilled again to give the clear liquid that becomes the amber beauty of Scotch after aging in the barrels.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SAd_GQzAceI/AAAAAAAAFD8/RUwL6CMU0zE/s1600-h/still+room+kilchoman.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SAd_GQzAceI/AAAAAAAAFD8/RUwL6CMU0zE/s320/still+room+kilchoman.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5190256841132634594" /></a><br /><br />Then a trip to the warehouse to see the first barrels of what will become Kilchoman’s first release in 2011. The New Spirit, that is the spirit given up after second distillation is already being released in small sample bottles and augurs well for the future. There are already the signs of a Scotch that will age incredibly well in the barrel and Malcolm, with all his experience, was quietly pleased as the knowledgeable amongst us ( that will be John and Nick) made all the right noises.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SAhc6QzActI/AAAAAAAAFF0/3z0-UNfHDRc/s1600-h/cask+no1.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SAhc6QzActI/AAAAAAAAFF0/3z0-UNfHDRc/s320/cask+no1.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5190500726555570898" /></a><br /><br />Over the next few days they put us to work. First of all turning the malt on the floor by hand to make sure that all parts of the barley heated through at the same time. Next, shovelling through to the wash and the mash tuns so it could brew and finally, measuring the “Faints” and “stills” of the first and second distillations.<br /><br /><br /><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SAhHmAzAckI/AAAAAAAAFEs/O8WVtDvQPYA/s1600-h/me+turning+malt.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SAhHmAzAckI/AAAAAAAAFEs/O8WVtDvQPYA/s320/me+turning+malt.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5190477288919036482" /></a><br /><br />Fortunately, most of the main work takes place in the morning which meant that each afternoon we were able to head off and visit six of the seven other distilleries on the island. John Glaser, before starting his own company was a honcho at Diagio who own most of the distilleries on Islay. Because of that and because of Nick’s own connections, our visits to the distilleries were far more than just the normal tour guides. In most cases we were shown around by the master distillers and then treated to tastes of some very special whiskies indeed. From a 12 year old of the very best distillations from Bowmore to a 21 year old from Lagavulin aged solely in Sherry casks.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SAhfuAzAcxI/AAAAAAAAFGU/3MtTV4LEyPI/s1600-h/bowmore+tasting.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SAhfuAzAcxI/AAAAAAAAFGU/3MtTV4LEyPI/s320/bowmore+tasting.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5190503814637056786" /></a><br /><br />My own favourite was from Caol Isla, for so long known as one of the producers of single malts for Johnny Walker, but now producing very fine single malts under its own name<br /><br /><br /><a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SAhFYwzAcfI/AAAAAAAAFEE/TuN5nTrC6Gk/s1600-h/still+room+coal+isla.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SAhFYwzAcfI/AAAAAAAAFEE/TuN5nTrC6Gk/s320/still+room+coal+isla.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5190474862262514162" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SAhceQzAcsI/AAAAAAAAFFs/LGGj6ntXadw/s1600-h/coal+isla+glass.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SAhceQzAcsI/AAAAAAAAFFs/LGGj6ntXadw/s320/coal+isla+glass.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5190500245519233730" /></a><br /><br />In more recent times, because Bourbon barrels can only be used once for their original purpose, the old barrels have been sent to Scotland to contain Scotch. However, in times past, the barrel of choice was a Sherry barrel and some limited editions are still made in this way which gives the end result a rich, dark, amber hue and a definite hint of matters Jerez to the palate and nose.<br /><br />The “cheats” way is to age the whisky in the normal oak and then move it for the last eighteen months or so to a sherry barrel to give a similar result in a process called ‘finishing” However, the end result is not the same. The final product tastes like two whiskies grafted on to one another not a smooth drink from first sniff to final taste.<br /><br />However, if “finishing” is not always the best aesthetically, it is certainly good for business as the re-invigorated distillery of Bruichladdich has proved.<br /><br />When Mark Reyneier bought the distillery a few years back, he bought with it significant amounts of stock. Given that he would not be able to get a return on his investment from new distillation for at least five years, he had to make the most of these existing stocks.<br /><br />Using his experience in the wine trade, he decided not to go down the route of releasing the standard 10, 12 and 21 year olds but instead to create a marketing drive based on limited releases of whisky finished in a huge variety of barrels ranging from La Tour to D’yquem. The result has taken the whisky world by storm for good and for bad.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SAhQBwzAcnI/AAAAAAAAFFE/8auzvnTs5GQ/s1600-h/la+tour+barrels.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SAhQBwzAcnI/AAAAAAAAFFE/8auzvnTs5GQ/s320/la+tour+barrels.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5190486561753428594" /></a><br /><br />The collector of Scotch, or The Malt Maniacs, have been snatching up every new release so quickly that each bottle is soon worth double or triple its original asking price soon after release. That is if you can get a hold of it.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SAhfLAzAcwI/AAAAAAAAFGM/V-zqS5fWZp8/s1600-h/bruichladdich.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SAhfLAzAcwI/AAAAAAAAFGM/V-zqS5fWZp8/s320/bruichladdich.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5190503213341635330" /></a><br /><br />The Scotch Whisky Society seem much less impressed and Mark it seems spends much of his time constantly locking horns with them as he butts against what is allowed.<br /><br />I was not wowed by all the Bruichladdich whisky I tried, which suffered much of the layering effect other ‘finished” whisky are limited by, but you cannot help but be impressed by a man who has single handed turned a whole industry on its head.<br /><br />Talking of things turning, let’s move on to my stomach.<br /><br />Amongst all the distillery visits, I was keen to take John and Nick out to see some of the other food on offer on Islay. Very little of it is available in the restaurants and hotels of the area. In fact much of the food on the island is pretty dire. The good ingredients all get exported to the mainland and to Europe where they fetch a pretty penny because of their quality.<br /><br />So, if we could not eat them on the island, we could at least go and visit them at source. One such place was the Islay Oyster Company.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SAhQ-QzAcpI/AAAAAAAAFFU/k32SCalxEsU/s1600-h/islay+oyster+company.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SAhQ-QzAcpI/AAAAAAAAFFU/k32SCalxEsU/s320/islay+oyster+company.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5190487601135514258" /></a><br /><br />Now, I like Oysters, but after a bad one some ten years ago at The Frankfurt Book Fair, they hate me.<br /><br />Nick, however, has a cast iron stomach for things in shell and within minutes of us arriving at The Islay Oyster Company, he was scarfing them down like a good un. I look on enviously until I could stand no more. I am not sure what made me do it, perhaps it was Nick going “go one try one. You will never get a fresher one” and, he was right of course, these were plucked straight out of the water.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SAhGvQzAciI/AAAAAAAAFEc/W3ZPCPJmdpc/s1600-h/nick+oyster.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SAhGvQzAciI/AAAAAAAAFEc/W3ZPCPJmdpc/s320/nick+oyster.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5190476348321198626" /></a><br /><br />So, casting caution to the wind, I sucked one down. It was good, meaty and plump and I felt just fine. That is, of course until four hours later as we were walking through the cellars of Bowmore and I began to come over all queasy.<br /><br />They guys rushed me back to the B&B with a few stops for projectile vomiting and I tried to sleep it off. I failed and, at about 6am the next morning, the locals were treated to the sight of me sitting in the tiny A&E department of Islay’s equally tiny hospital, which we had found with the help of an early rising local.<br /><br />After having a nice lady Dr tell me “it’s probably best if you keep away from Oysters” I returned home to bed while John and Nick went to see the last two distilleries, Ardbheg and the famous, Laphroig. When they returned, they were full of the joys of the beauty of the place and the drams they had been offered. Yippee for them.<br /><br />Fortunately, both being excellent sorts, they insisted we go back the next day so I could see and taste what we had missed. Not before a final visit to the Kilchoman Distillery to say goodbye to Gavin and Malcolm who, bickering as usual, proved the point that, on a tiny island like Islay, everybody knows everybody else.<br /><br />“you were ill yesterday, were you not?” said Gavin<br /><br />“er, yes, I replied”<br /><br />“and you had to the hospital, did you not?” he added <br /><br />“er, yes” I added “ the A&E department”<br /><br />“ I know” he replied “ the woman you asked for directions was ma wife”<br /><br />And with that, we said our goodbyes and left them to argue about who was making the next cup of tea as we headed off to see the final two distilleries<br /><br /><a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SAhPvgzAcmI/AAAAAAAAFE8/waeSwt2e61Y/s1600-h/lagavulin.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SAhPvgzAcmI/AAAAAAAAFE8/waeSwt2e61Y/s320/lagavulin.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5190486248220815970" /></a><br /><br />If there are two companies more beautifully situated than Ardbeg and Laphroig, then I would love to see them. Nestling on the banks of the chopping sea, with the Sun cutting through the chill, it was hard to imagine that I was actually here, on Islay and had spent a week, apart from the time I spent throwing up of course, making a brand new whisky. <br /><br /><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SAhIEAzAclI/AAAAAAAAFE0/E54Nr6riqT8/s1600-h/laphroig.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/SAhIEAzAclI/AAAAAAAAFE0/E54Nr6riqT8/s320/laphroig.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5190477804315112018" /></a><br /><br />There are not too many people I know who can say that. Apart from John and Nick, of course. The other two involed in " Three Men & a Still"Hermano 2http://www.blogger.com/profile/00317059903586211224noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38215268.post-76456064917665312742008-04-03T22:39:00.000-07:002008-04-03T23:22:04.210-07:00BERKELEY: FROM FRUIT BOMBS TO RESTAURANT BOMBS<br />If Santa Cruz is full of loveable weirdos, then Berkeley is what happens to weirdos when they make lots of money and settle down.<br /><br />Everything in Berkeley looks perfect. Oh, it has its dark side, I am sure, but it looks perfect. The streets are filled with achingly styled shops and the people look no less designed. It has a kind of “Stepford Wives” quality about it.<br /><br />I wanted to like it, particularly as it is the lifetime home of my new chum, Alexandra Eisler and her charming family, but if I am honest, I found precious little to warm to in this town which reeks of the neutering which happens when radicalism is bought off with cash and security.<br /><br />I kept thinking of what my beloved late mother would have said in that Welsh accent she never quite lost<br /><br />“All fur coat and no knickers”<br /><br />I managed not to hit anything on my journey up from Santa Cruz, which was a bonus and soon pulled into my last port of call, a traditional style place that reminded me of the motel in Psycho.<br /><br />It was, as so many places have been on this trip, basic but clean and would suit its purpose of giving me somewhere to rest my head and full belly down perfectly and at a price that would not bankrupt me.<br /><br />Alexandra had arranged some fun stuff for my time in town and my first task when I arrived was to head off in search of cheese, my contribution to a picnic then next day at the Hendry Ranch winery.<br /><br />Now, as I have said on many occasions, The USA is the place where good cheese goes to die. So, I had little optimism that I was to going to find anything worthwhile a feeling that was added to when I found that the one store Alexandra had recommended was closed.<br /><br />I began to walk around town in a vain search for cheese and came across the farmers market where there were two (I think) stalls selling locally made cheese. Neither looked that great but, needs must etc etc, so I went to try some samples. I was right, neither was great, but one would do at a pinch so I bought a round.<br /><br />You would have thought that I had asked if I fondle the stall holder’s wife’s tits rather than offer him money for a cheese that would not be used as cow fodder in France or the UK. The sour look on his face is probably what he uses to turn the milk to make his shitty cheese. $10 for lousy cheese and service with a sneer. God Bless America.<br /><br />He was not alone though. As I walked around looking at the other stalls, I saw not one smile from the stallholders. Not one. It was as if this was a black hole where all good humour was sucked up. I began to realise that this is why I am really beginning to fucking loathe farmer’s markets.<br /><br />I managed to supplement this “cheese” with some better examples I found at an over priced foodstore on 4th St and headed back to my motel with just a stop at Fosters Hot Dog Stand to keep me going.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R_XDsK_0J7I/AAAAAAAAE9U/qm4cENhDZVs/s1600-h/fosters+dog+stand.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R_XDsK_0J7I/AAAAAAAAE9U/qm4cENhDZVs/s320/fosters+dog+stand.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5185265709620668338" border="0"></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R_XDq6_0J5I/AAAAAAAAE9E/Fh9mp_Wioqg/s1600-h/dog.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R_XDq6_0J5I/AAAAAAAAE9E/Fh9mp_Wioqg/s320/dog.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5185265688145831826" border="0"></a><br /><br />The next day, Alexandra collected me as promised and, after a brief stop at The Acme Bread Company,<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R_W_-q_0JpI/AAAAAAAAE7Q/S_5PqnMoOSI/s1600-h/acme+inside.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R_W_-q_0JpI/AAAAAAAAE7Q/S_5PqnMoOSI/s320/acme+inside.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5185261629401736850" border="0"></a><br />we headed out with Tim, her hubby and Carson her charming daughter to Hendry Ranch Winery up in The Napa Valley.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R_XEaq_0J8I/AAAAAAAAE9c/NT1B10eUbTQ/s1600-h/hendry+ranch.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R_XEaq_0J8I/AAAAAAAAE9c/NT1B10eUbTQ/s320/hendry+ranch.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5185266508484585410" border="0"></a><br /><br />With a few others, Tim and Alexandra buy grapes here and make their own wines. Wines which I was to try later. So, Dr Hendry had agreed to let a few people visit and give us a tour of his impressive winery.<br /><br />It is quite a place and he is quite a person. A quiet but very heartfelt winemaker who takes the whole business of wines incredibly seriously. Each point of the farm is mapped out not just with variety of grapes but also with clonal types and root stocks. It is little wonder that Hendry was one of the suppliers of grapes for the legendary Californian wine, Opus One.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R_XEbK_0J-I/AAAAAAAAE9s/_vaUmi9x_Cs/s1600-h/map.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R_XEbK_0J-I/AAAAAAAAE9s/_vaUmi9x_Cs/s320/map.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5185266517074520034" border="0"></a><br /><br />Dr Hendry, who in his life away from the winery was a creator of electron accelerators, was incredibly welcoming and hospitable and, after our informative tour, he joined us for our picnic and opened a number of bottles for us to sample.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R_XDrq_0J6I/AAAAAAAAE9M/iVmLya6HgzQ/s1600-h/dr+hendry+opening+bottles.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R_XDrq_0J6I/AAAAAAAAE9M/iVmLya6HgzQ/s320/dr+hendry+opening+bottles.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5185265701030733730" border="0"></a><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R_XAdK_0JsI/AAAAAAAAE7o/6fVtsGgJv_k/s1600-h/cheese.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R_XAdK_0JsI/AAAAAAAAE7o/6fVtsGgJv_k/s320/cheese.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5185262153387747010" border="0"></a><br /><br />The wines seemed to be the opposite of their maker. Where he is quite and soft spoken, these, like so many Californian wines, were loud and shouty. It boils down to taste and these wines were certainly better than some of the reprehensible fruit bombs I have tried from The Napa, but they were still too big for my distinctly European tastes with the high alcohol content swamping the palate.<br /><br />The others in the party, more used to such big tastes were much more at home and bought cases to take away. Although, I am still a fan of many New World wines, my preference for the dignity of Old world wine making remains. Hey, it’s my story, I don’t have to be consistent.<br /><br />On the way home, we made a stop to visit another local Napa legend, Rancho Gordo AKA, Steve Sando. Famous (infamous) on food boards everywhere,<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R_XFAa_0J_I/AAAAAAAAE90/hUYYgHzBk3c/s1600-h/racnho+and+pear.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R_XFAa_0J_I/AAAAAAAAE90/hUYYgHzBk3c/s320/racnho+and+pear.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5185267157024647154" border="0"></a><br />Steve has carved a niche for himself selling a vast range of heirloom beans to foodies across the USA. I have sampled his wares at dinner parties given by friends in the USA, but had never encountered the man myself. So, it was a welcome opportunity to finally put a face to a name. He was in the middle of preparing supper, so our stay was a short one as he offered us prickly pear juice laced with tequila to warm us back to Berkeley.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R_XFA6_0KAI/AAAAAAAAE98/Ma_j0fFvWmE/s1600-h/racnho+beans.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R_XFA6_0KAI/AAAAAAAAE98/Ma_j0fFvWmE/s320/racnho+beans.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5185267165614581762" border="0"></a><br /><br /><br />My final day in Berkeley was also my final day of this leg of EAT MY GLOBE. A leg that had taken in four countries including THE USA, nearly twenty cities and some experiences that it would not be inappropriate to describe as ‘magical” I had made some new friends along the way. Friends who, I am sure I shall know for a long time. I had tried foods that were entirely new to me, the initial point of the trip and I had experienced some lows and some exhilarating highs.<br /><br />It seemed fitting then that I finish the trip by visiting one of America’s truly iconic restaurants, Chez Panisse where, thanks once again to the generosity of Alexandra, I had managed to get a reservation.<br /><br />Across from my motel was Café Fanny, also part of the same group as CP. I wandered across for a breakfast of hot chocolate and a muffin. It should have been a sign of things to come. The place looked wonderful, of course and so did the food. It tasted dreadful however. A triumph of style over substance.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R_XHfK_0KDI/AAAAAAAAE-U/1DYk7olBvYI/s1600-h/choccy+%26+muffin+at+cafe+fanny.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R_XHfK_0KDI/AAAAAAAAE-U/1DYk7olBvYI/s320/choccy+%26+muffin+at+cafe+fanny.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5185269884328880178" border="0"></a><br />Before supper, however, I was invited over to join Alexandra and her family for a pre-supper, supper of freshly caught crab from Northern California. I had to work for my pre-supper supper though and spent a good hour or so filling tasting pots with the jams and marmalades that are part of Alexandra’s new-ish enterprise, The Kensington Marmalade Company before I got near a crab. It was worth the wait. The crab was stunning and made what was to follow all the more disappointing.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R_W__K_0JqI/AAAAAAAAE7Y/WopPNWJGAFI/s1600-h/alex.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R_W__K_0JqI/AAAAAAAAE7Y/WopPNWJGAFI/s320/alex.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5185261637991671458" border="0"></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R_XEa6_0J9I/AAAAAAAAE9k/bt5exSxAOc0/s1600-h/home+made+hooch.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R_XEa6_0J9I/AAAAAAAAE9k/bt5exSxAOc0/s320/home+made+hooch.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5185266512779552722" border="0"></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R_XIsa_0KEI/AAAAAAAAE-c/Xp5qjSkWRDI/s1600-h/crabs+bread+and+butter.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R_XIsa_0KEI/AAAAAAAAE-c/Xp5qjSkWRDI/s320/crabs+bread+and+butter.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5185271211473774658" border="0"></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R_XItK_0KFI/AAAAAAAAE-k/sfCXmLyMuP4/s1600-h/crabs+in+cooler.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R_XItK_0KFI/AAAAAAAAE-k/sfCXmLyMuP4/s320/crabs+in+cooler.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5185271224358676562" border="0"></a><br /><br />Well, let’s be honest. The meal at Chez P was not disappointing. It was iniquitously bad. New words will have to be invented to describe the awfulness of my meal. A shame as one of the pastry chefs, Samantha Wood, had been kind enough to give me a tour of the impressive kitchens earlier in the day. It was also a shame because I was sharing supper with two more local food board regulars, Carolyn and Tamar who had to suffer the tirade of abuse I hurled as each course came out.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R_XHea_0KBI/AAAAAAAAE-E/-KmS7uMW02s/s1600-h/chez+panisse.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R_XHea_0KBI/AAAAAAAAE-E/-KmS7uMW02s/s320/chez+panisse.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5185269871443978258" border="0"></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R_XDDa_0J3I/AAAAAAAAE80/zNBG5jnohkI/s1600-h/CP+menu.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R_XDDa_0J3I/AAAAAAAAE80/zNBG5jnohkI/s320/CP+menu.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5185265009540999026" border="0"></a><br /><br />An insipid starter was followed by a main course which could used in a court of law to stop Americans ever, ever going near a piece of lamb again.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R_XDC6_0J2I/AAAAAAAAE8s/gv4PxS4c-WU/s1600-h/CP+lamb.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R_XDC6_0J2I/AAAAAAAAE8s/gv4PxS4c-WU/s320/CP+lamb.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5185265000951064418" border="0"></a><br />There was a cheese board that would have made Randolph shake his head in disbelief and a dessert where the filling of a tart tried to make its escape from a rock hard pastry base by sliding off.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R_XHeq_0KCI/AAAAAAAAE-M/Y8TqoVVFe2A/s1600-h/cheese+plate.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R_XHeq_0KCI/AAAAAAAAE-M/Y8TqoVVFe2A/s320/cheese+plate.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5185269875738945570" border="0"></a><br /><br />All actively noxious and a lousy note on which to end this part of the trip<br /><br />But, what the hell. It was only one meal amongst hundreds that had passed my lips on this part of the adventure. And what meals they were. BBQ in Kansas, Hot Dogs at Hot Doug’s, Tex Mex and BBQ in Austin, Po Boys in New Orleans and cheese steaks in Philly. Pulled Pork in NYC and tripe tacos in Mexico, Bife in Argentina and Moqueca in Brazil. Thanksgiving turkey in Santa Cruz and fresh crabs in California.<br /><br />My mum always used to tell me I was a lucky little boy.<br /><br />She was right. I am a very lucky boy indeed<br /><br />The journey continuesHermano 2http://www.blogger.com/profile/00317059903586211224noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38215268.post-86418567635041861252008-03-28T10:32:00.001-07:002008-03-29T09:17:37.819-07:00SANTA CRUZ: A LOT TO GIVE THANKS FOR<br /><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R-0v1K_0JgI/AAAAAAAAE5o/B4MO8ihaPJo/s1600-h/licence.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R-0v1K_0JgI/AAAAAAAAE5o/B4MO8ihaPJo/s320/licence.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5182851336704894466" /></a><br />Thanksgiving, I am told, is quite a big deal amongst our former colonial cousins. I don’t know about that. The only thing I normally give thanks for is that, because of certain minor 18th Century skirmishes in far away places, I have the blessed good fortune not to be called Josh or Brad.<br /><br />That not withstanding, these same persons with their cosmetically enhanced smiles and boobies also tell me that Thanksgiving is all about family.<br /><br />Now that, I can understand. I am big on families. Not just my own small family, but my extended family of friends who come under the category of “would take a bullet for” rather than those I would not put out with my own urine if they were on fire.<br /><br />That being the case, I am fortunate to have a rather large family dotted all over the globe and a family that has grown larger still since I began the EAT MY GLOBE trip. I have, however, never encountered a family like the one I met in Santa Cruz. But, I am most extraordinarily glad that I did.<br /><br />One of the first, if indeed not the very first e-mail I received when I announced my intention to quit work and head out on the road was from a fellow food blogger and internet forum regular, Tana Butler. I knew little or nothing about her except that her posts were often very funny, intensely personal and accompanied by photographs that made mine look like the holiday snapshots they were. <br /><br />I rather liked what I read particularly because, like me, she seemed to piss off as many people with her posts as she attracted. Bearing in mind there are people on these food boards who will get in a car and do half a day’s drive to find reasons to be pissed off at someone they never have and probably never will meet.<br /><br />The e-mail offered the opportunity to come and visit for the Thanksgiving holiday where, I was promised I would be able to eat enough food that I would give thanks not to be in a coma the next day. How could I refuse?<br /><br />It is a short drive from San Francisco to Santa Cruz. But, I still managed to scratch my car within thirty seconds of leaving the airport car park which I put down to a strange car with the wheel on the wrong side rather than bald stupidity. <br /><br />I still let out a series of expletives that were hardly fitting with the holiday season, but, switched on the radio and listened to a bit of Stykx and Kansas until my brain stopped working and the pain subsided as I pointed my “Ford Focus or equivalent” towards Highway 1.<br /><br />It’s a pleasant drive, longer than the inland route, but less crowded on the holiday and more scenic.<br /><br />Tana had suggested a couple of possible hotels. All of whom were going to gouge me for the pleasure of a room and a “free” bowl of multi-coloured cereal in a Styrofoam bowl every morning. But, that is just another aspect of the holiday, I guess and as I pulled up outside The Hampton Inn, it seemed a harmless enough spot to rest my head for a few days. Hell, I even managed to unpack all my clothes from Big Red and to iron a shirt or two for the first time in two months.<br /><br />I had swapped mails with Tana for well over six months and I knew that I would like her when we finally met. I was wrong. When we finally met, I did not like her. I adored her. There are few people in this world with whom you make an immediate connection. Tana was one of those few.<br /><br />Sharp witted, funny, vulnerable, open-hearted, generous, spirited, she was, in the nicest way possible, mad as a bag of ferrets. From the moment she spouted her first words to me in person “I hope you are feeling strong, we have a 25lb turkey to carry” I knew that the next three days would prove to be one of the highlights of the whole EAT MY GLOBE trip. Thanks to her and her family, nuclear and extended, it was.<br /><br />Santa Cruz is patently a weird place. It supports my theory that the West of every country attracts all the oddballs, kooks, waifs & strays and people who don’t fit in anywhere else. If that is true of San Francisco, then Santa Cruz obviously attracts the people who don’t even fit in there. It is gloriously mad and filled with an abundant energy that can only come from a place where there are too many group hugs for an uptight London boy to be altogether comfortable with. If ever a town should smell of incense, then Santa Cruz is it. I rather liked it although, for a while, I did feel like Sir David Attenborough discovering a new tribe.<br /><br />First up, however, a trip to The Santa Cruz Farmer’s Market. Here, I differ from Tana. As her licence plate and her estimable website (www.smallfarms.tyepad.com) shows, Tana loves farms. Me? I love the stuff they produce but sometimes, the people who produce the goods can be well, how can I put this politely? I can’t, they can be thick as a Ghurka’s foreskin and should certainly never be allowed to speak to normal folk in a retail way. Too often, they act like they are doing you the favour by letting you buy their product and not the other way around. They may be passionate, dedicated and hard working, but they can also be ornery, rude and lacking in social skills.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R-0vLq_0JdI/AAAAAAAAE5Q/XhDXko0I9JY/s1600-h/market+sign.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R-0vLq_0JdI/AAAAAAAAE5Q/XhDXko0I9JY/s320/market+sign.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5182850623740323282" /></a><br /><br />The Santa Cruz market was better than many and much better than the one I was to visit and loathe in Berkeley, and the people there obviously adored Tana. But, when she suggested that we head off to collect the holiday turkey, I was more than ready, more than willing and more than able.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R-0u-q_0JbI/AAAAAAAAE5A/PP3X-2SI17o/s1600-h/me+and+turkey.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R-0u-q_0JbI/AAAAAAAAE5A/PP3X-2SI17o/s320/me+and+turkey.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5182850400402023858" /></a><br /><br />It was a big old bugger too. 25lbs gets you a lot of bird and, apparently, we were going to have two of them at the dinner. As Tana reeled off the items she and other people at the dinner were going to prepare, it soon became clear that staying away from the multi coloured cereal in the hotel would be a good strategy. We lugged it to the car and headed back to Tana’s home on the a few short blocks drive away.<br /><br />As we approached, Tana spoke up<br /><br />“ I was worried about asking you to come to my house. It’s not that fancy”<br /><br />I made an overstated gesture of examining myself in the mirror and turned to Tana saying “as far as I can tell, I have not suddenly turned into The Queen Mother”<br /><br />And, that was it. From that moment, Tana made me feel like her home was my home and I spent much of the next three days simply hanging out there, cooking and talking.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R-0xTa_0JnI/AAAAAAAAE6g/nQhecp0DZTw/s1600-h/back+garden.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R-0xTa_0JnI/AAAAAAAAE6g/nQhecp0DZTw/s320/back+garden.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5182852955907565170" /></a><br /><br />That first evening, we cooked one of my favourite meals of the whole trip. It was nothing fancy. In fact it could not have been anything more simple. Roast Chicken and mashed potato. But, in the comfort of a family home with a new friend and her family, including Husband, Bob and Tana’s irrepressible grandson, Logan, few meals have tasted better.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R-5reK_0JoI/AAAAAAAAE7I/pXcB86ow4O8/s1600-h/TheLittleWaiter.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R-5reK_0JoI/AAAAAAAAE7I/pXcB86ow4O8/s320/TheLittleWaiter.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5183198387242280578" /></a><br /><br />Given that we had a lot to do the next day, I headed off to bed early and was pretty much asleep before my head hit the pillow.<br /><br />I awoke early and began to do some writing until Bob arrived to collect me for the day’s festivities. Tana was already hard at work. The bird was cleaned and ready for the oven, eggs were ready to be devilled and Tana was up to her elbows in stuffing.<br /><br /><br /><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R-0tLK_0JWI/AAAAAAAAE4Y/twhF3o3mx-Y/s1600-h/raw+turkey.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R-0tLK_0JWI/AAAAAAAAE4Y/twhF3o3mx-Y/s320/raw+turkey.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5182848416127133026" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R-0wNa_0JiI/AAAAAAAAE54/PvZgHpGigpA/s1600-h/devilled+eggs.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R-0wNa_0JiI/AAAAAAAAE54/PvZgHpGigpA/s320/devilled+eggs.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5182851753316722210" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R-0sxa_0JTI/AAAAAAAAE4A/JZugtm15cQE/s1600-h/stuffing.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R-0sxa_0JTI/AAAAAAAAE4A/JZugtm15cQE/s320/stuffing.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5182847973745501490" /></a><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R-0tK6_0JVI/AAAAAAAAE4Q/2mtAsOPI1bA/s1600-h/pie.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R-0tK6_0JVI/AAAAAAAAE4Q/2mtAsOPI1bA/s320/pie.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5182848411832165714" /></a><br /><br />There is only one thing for a good Bengali man to do when hard work is required. I sat down at the living room table and opened a bottle of wine. To be fair, I did a little work. A bit of chopping here, a little slicing and stirring there but, mostly, I just ate and drank and watched Tana get more and more nervous about the end result of her roasting and basting.<br /><br />She need not have worried. The golden bird that emerged sizzling from the oven did her credit. So to did the roasted giblets, which I saved from being deposited in the trash and shared with Bob over a glass of something red.<br /><br /><br /><a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R-0wjq_0JkI/AAAAAAAAE6I/Jw47ojR247I/s1600-h/cooked+bird.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R-0wjq_0JkI/AAAAAAAAE6I/Jw47ojR247I/s320/cooked+bird.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5182852135568811586" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R-0v-q_0JhI/AAAAAAAAE5w/aj84ujdXcGE/s1600-h/giblets.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R-0v-q_0JhI/AAAAAAAAE5w/aj84ujdXcGE/s320/giblets.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5182851499913651730" /></a><br /><br />It was, by now time to head over to the Thanksgiving Dinner venue at the beautiful home of Tana’s chum, Laura. When we arrived laden down with our own contributions we were greeted by nearly thirty other people, all of whom had brought food and wine.<br /><br />It was a uniquely Santa Cruz affair. The women, Goddesses one and all, were very much in charge and the assembled throng all seemed to be linked to one another through a labyrinthine series of marriages and relationships that I never quite got my head around.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R-0vtq_0JfI/AAAAAAAAE5g/f7PEnZbgLoQ/s1600-h/loga+bob.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R-0vtq_0JfI/AAAAAAAAE5g/f7PEnZbgLoQ/s320/loga+bob.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5182851207855875570" /></a><br /><br />It would be easy, being a stranger in such circumstances, to be intimidated and awkward. But, I can say for certain that I felt immediately welcome and rapidly accepted into this crazy, mixed up, oddball extended family. More so than I can ever recall happening before. I made up my mind, as I sucked on the bone of a turkey wing, that I would, if at all possible, head to Santa Cruz every year for Thanksgiving, whether they wanted me to or not.<br /><br /><br /><a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R-0uwa_0JZI/AAAAAAAAE4w/ZRVLGlqDLSE/s1600-h/me+and+cream.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R-0uwa_0JZI/AAAAAAAAE4w/ZRVLGlqDLSE/s320/me+and+cream.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5182850155588887954" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R-0vD6_0JcI/AAAAAAAAE5I/bynF0yjpDgw/s1600-h/party.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R-0vD6_0JcI/AAAAAAAAE5I/bynF0yjpDgw/s320/party.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5182850490596337090" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R-0uDq_0JXI/AAAAAAAAE4g/aXK7rlgJvYI/s1600-h/party+table.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R-0uDq_0JXI/AAAAAAAAE4g/aXK7rlgJvYI/s320/party+table.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5182849386789741938" /></a><br /><br />It was a magical evening. Guitars appeared, songs were sung and so much food devoured that I had to raid my special stash of extra strong Zantac on my return to the hotel.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R-0u26_0JaI/AAAAAAAAE44/sCRhkdKUnQg/s1600-h/me+and+ladies.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R-0u26_0JaI/AAAAAAAAE44/sCRhkdKUnQg/s320/me+and+ladies.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5182850267258037666" /></a><br /><br />Amidst it all, was Tana. Taking photographs here (all the good ones on this post come from her hands) cajoling Logan to eat there and making sure that everyone was well fed and enjoying themselves. Very much a person in her element.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R-0s96_0JUI/AAAAAAAAE4I/sdlxaztFwbE/s1600-h/singing.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R-0s96_0JUI/AAAAAAAAE4I/sdlxaztFwbE/s320/singing.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5182848188493866306" /></a><br /><br />By the time we rolled out of there at past midnight, I knew that my dreams would be accompanied by flowing meat sweats. But, it was worth it.<br /><br />The next day, I wanted to say thank you to Tana and her family for all their help and generosity. There are few better ways of expressing your appreciation for people who love food than by cooking for them. In this case, as I often do, I offered to prepare some Indian food.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R-0ucq_0JYI/AAAAAAAAE4o/TEIUMkNzBXk/s1600-h/me+in+garden.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R-0ucq_0JYI/AAAAAAAAE4o/TEIUMkNzBXk/s320/me+in+garden.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5182849816286471554" /></a><br /><br />None of us thought we would have the appetite to eat much after the excess of the night before. But, as Tana and I shopped and then prepared a simple meal of dahl, chicken and breads, our hunger popped its head up from the bunker and we were soon happily chatting over another home cooked meal.<br /><br /><br /><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R-0wrK_0JlI/AAAAAAAAE6Q/BcP2-WFxVEI/s1600-h/chicken+korma.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R-0wrK_0JlI/AAAAAAAAE6Q/BcP2-WFxVEI/s320/chicken+korma.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5182852264417830482" /></a><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R-0wbq_0JjI/AAAAAAAAE6A/pJMij-NR41c/s1600-h/dahl.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R-0wbq_0JjI/AAAAAAAAE6A/pJMij-NR41c/s320/dahl.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5182851998129858098" /></a><br /><br />And that was my time in Santa Cruz.<br /><br />It had been one of those leap of faith occasions. We had not known each other before I announced my trip and it could have been an awkward disaster. It was far from that. I made a host of new friends who I hope I shall know for a long time. I made friends with a small boy called Logan the thought of whose smile still makes me beam a few months later <br /><br /><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R-0xFK_0JmI/AAAAAAAAE6Y/4Vf8SPKgM1c/s1600-h/24.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R-0xFK_0JmI/AAAAAAAAE6Y/4Vf8SPKgM1c/s320/24.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5182852711094429282" /></a><br /><br />and I met an extraordinary woman called Tana Butler whose strengths and weaknesses, passions and prejudices, successes and failings are dealt with more honestly than anyone else I have met on the trip. <br /><br />Truly a human being and that alone is worth giving thanks for.Hermano 2http://www.blogger.com/profile/00317059903586211224noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38215268.post-58532683754841512582008-03-24T07:34:00.000-07:002008-03-24T09:50:00.171-07:00SAN FRANCISCO: A BRIDGE TOO FAR<br /><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R-faGq_0JAI/AAAAAAAAE1U/MpgRGhy1Pfg/s1600-h/night.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R-faGq_0JAI/AAAAAAAAE1U/MpgRGhy1Pfg/s320/night.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5181349704469062658" /></a><br />I wont go into detail about the rest of my time in Brazil.<br /><br />To be honest, with the exception of the fact that I made some good new friends, I rather disliked my time there, which seemed to consist almost entirely of bed bug bites, sunburn and looking over my shoulder to make sure I was not the latest tourist crime statistic.<br /><br />By the time it came to say goodbye to my new friends there, I was glad to be on my way back to the USA.<br /><br />I was not, however, looking forward to the journey. A relatively painless flight from Salvador to Sao Paolo followed by a twelve hour layover and a twelve hour flight from their to Atlanta. Another four hour layover and then a four hour flight from Atlanta to my final destination, San Francisco.<br /><br />I won’t lie. It was bloody murder. At Sao Paolo airport, perhaps the shittiest I have ever encountered, I dumped my bags and approached the tourist counter and asked if they could point me in the direction of some good eating in their fair city.<br /><br />Well, the idea seemed to throw them but, after a short while the woman behind the counter reluctantly scribbled something on a piece of paper and said “give to cab"<br /><br />So, following her advice, I dumped my bags in left luggage and did indeed give paper to cab. Where did he take me, I know you are dying to find out? Some of SP’s fine Japanese food? The source of the finest feijoida in the known world? <br /><br />Nope, a dodgy old food court in the nearest shopping mall where the best I could manage was a slightly grim “by the kilo” place that provided me with some greasy pork to take my blues away.<br /><br />There was at least free wi-fi and I could mail one of my new found friends in Salvador with the simple words, “I have descended into the very pit of Hell”<br /><br />Well, that enjoyable interlude managed to kill, oh, about an hour. So, by the time I finally left Brazil, some eleven hours later, I was very happy to extend the middle finger to the least favourite country of my trip so far through the window of the rising plane<br /><br />Bye Bye Brazil and good riddance.<br /><br />OK, taking into account the long flight, by the time I finally touched down in San Francisco, I was to use the technical term bloody knackered. Fit for nothing in fact, which was a bit of a shame as I had an invitation to a rather lovely party from the splendid Melanie Wong.<br /><br />Like any true Englishman, I girded my loins and dragged myself under the shower to wake myself up and then met Melanie about forty minutes after I had checked into the hotel. <br /><br />It was a splendid party, as much as I recall. Great food, some excellent wines and good conversation. But, I was so bushed that I took the offer of an early departure to head back to my hotel and to bed.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R-fU-6_0I5I/AAAAAAAAE0c/-V19hl-t9g8/s1600-h/party.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R-fU-6_0I5I/AAAAAAAAE0c/-V19hl-t9g8/s320/party.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5181344073766937490" /></a><br /><br />I was not feeling hugely better the next morning. This was that sort of tiredness that makes you weary to your bones. The sort that a good night’s kip can’t help. I had even developed that twittery eye thing.<br /><br />I was ready to stay in bed the whole day which would have been a bit of a shame as I rather like SF and only had a couple of days to kill there before heading down to Santa Cruz for Thanksgiving.<br /><br />So, it was just as well that I had made an arrangement to meet another chum, Alexandra whose foodie credentials I had tested once before on a fleeting visit to the city and who had been incredibly helpful suggesting and organising things for me to do on the West Coast leg of EAT MY GLOBE.<br /><br />First of all, a trip down to The Ferry Terminal, which was pretty enough but a decent hot chocolate aside, did little to lift my spirits.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R-fZl6_0I_I/AAAAAAAAE1M/gcn84ChFTnw/s1600-h/ferry.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R-fZl6_0I_I/AAAAAAAAE1M/gcn84ChFTnw/s320/ferry.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5181349141828346866" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R-fXWa_0I9I/AAAAAAAAE08/rRbFqIllFuk/s1600-h/choccy+and+pastry.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R-fXWa_0I9I/AAAAAAAAE08/rRbFqIllFuk/s320/choccy+and+pastry.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5181346676517118930" /></a><br /><br />What did help however, was Alexandra’s suggestion that we head across the bridge to Berkeley and, after a rather splendid fried chicken sandwich at Bakesale Betty’s go on a bit of a gelato crawl.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R-fUta_0I4I/AAAAAAAAE0U/oVdP52CLe8s/s1600-h/fried+chicken+sandwhich.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R-fUta_0I4I/AAAAAAAAE0U/oVdP52CLe8s/s320/fried+chicken+sandwhich.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5181343773119226754" /></a><br /><br />First up a visit to The Latest Scoop for whom Alexandra was doing some work. After a quick chat with the owner, Peter, we dived into the cold storage room and came out with about 10 packs of different flavoured ices and sat down to have a bit of a sampling. Strangely, this seemed to make me feel a lot better and when Alexandra suggested moving on to try a couple of other places to make a comparison, I was beginning to think I might be up to the task.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R-fW2q_0I8I/AAAAAAAAE00/5apg7KiwvCQ/s1600-h/latest+scoop.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R-fW2q_0I8I/AAAAAAAAE00/5apg7KiwvCQ/s320/latest+scoop.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5181346131056272322" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R-fLha_0I1I/AAAAAAAAEz8/re4ODgNm5fc/s1600-h/+latest+scoop+2.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R-fLha_0I1I/AAAAAAAAEz8/re4ODgNm5fc/s320/+latest+scoop+2.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5181333671356146514" /></a><br /><br />If I was up to the job, the other places were not. In fact, the gelato at two other places (whose names escape me) we tried bordered on the actively rank. The shops looked the part which, this being Berkeley, they would, but the ice was more air than taste<br /><br />“air is free” Alexandra intoned wisely explaining the basic economics of style over substance. Something Californians do oh so very well.<br /><br />By the time Alexandra dropped me off back at my hotel, I was beginning to feel more like my normal self (who said “fat, ugly and stupid?”) and decided to go and treat myself to the one meal that I always crave when feeling slightly under the weather in the USA, a big fuck off steak.<br /><br />Alfred’s is one of the great institutions of San Francisco and served up, as it had done on previous visits, one of the best steakhouse experiences in the whole of the good old US of Stateside. There are few combinations better for curing a middle aged man of all ills and, by the time I had sucked down a couple of excellent martinis, swallowed up a plate of crispy calamari and gnawed at the bone of a top steak, I was feeling as close to as right as rain as it is possible to get when one has a face like mine.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R-fV2K_0I6I/AAAAAAAAE0k/U40Xu5986-Y/s1600-h/alfreds.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R-fV2K_0I6I/AAAAAAAAE0k/U40Xu5986-Y/s320/alfreds.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5181345022954709922" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R-fQoa_0I2I/AAAAAAAAE0E/4glTtswGYJU/s1600-h/calimari.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R-fQoa_0I2I/AAAAAAAAE0E/4glTtswGYJU/s320/calimari.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5181339289173369698" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R-fWUK_0I7I/AAAAAAAAE0s/JiTGrZi_tlk/s1600-h/steak.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R-fWUK_0I7I/AAAAAAAAE0s/JiTGrZi_tlk/s320/steak.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5181345538350785458" /></a><br /><br />And, with that, I hit the hay feeling much happier than I had the night before.<br /><br />The next day I did the tourist thing. Well you are forced to aren’t you?<br /><br />I walked along by the piers to Fisherman’s Wharf, which was as dreadful as I recall.<br /><br />I looked at The Golden Gate Bridge, which was as unimpressive as I recall.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R-fYX6_0I-I/AAAAAAAAE1E/mzy4Kr3BTGk/s1600-h/bridge.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R-fYX6_0I-I/AAAAAAAAE1E/mzy4Kr3BTGk/s320/bridge.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5181347801798550498" /></a><br /><br />I stared across at Alcatraz which was as foreboding as I recall and I ate lunch at a place in Chinatown which was as underwhelming as I recall. <br /><br />That evening, I had arranged to meet the lovely Deborah Morales. “Who she?” I hear you ask. Well, without Deborah Morales, there would be no EAT MY GLOBE. Without her help and the excellent service of Airtreks.com, I would never have been able to figure out my flights to all these far flung prices at all these odd little times at a price that would not involve me selling my house.<br /><br />Inevitably, I found Airtreks on The Internet at the end of a frustrating day searching for a way to fly into Tokyo and out of Helsinki (go one, you try it) Finally, more by luck than judgement, a Google search of “multi-city flights” brought up the website to Airtreks and, after sending in my request, I was contacted by Deborah less than 24 hours later. Since then, she has show the patience of any number of saints helping me fly from New York to Guadalajara and from Hong Kong to Yangshuo. <br /><br />I wanted to see what she looked like in person and she offered to buy me a drink at a wine bar close to her office. I forewent the offer of supper as I was beginning to fade once again and had to be up early the next day to head down to Santa Cruz, but it was great to put the face to the name. I really recommend them if your travel needs ever require a little more imagination.<br /><br />San Francisco had served its purpose. It always strikes me as the sort of place to pass three days and no more before boredom sets in. I had hardly done it justice, but, as a place to rest up after the rigours of my recent journeys, it did alright by me and it was better than Salvador, Brazil but, that ain't saying much.<br /><br />Next stop, Santa Cruz.Hermano 2http://www.blogger.com/profile/00317059903586211224noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38215268.post-38653047401319131952008-03-12T01:27:00.000-07:002008-03-12T02:06:27.170-07:00SALVADOR, BRAZIL: FISH FOOD IN A SHARK TANK<br />When I first thought about going around the world eating food. I envisioned that it would be a trip filled with smiling faces, tables over burdened with food and local lasses offering me their tastiest, er titbits.<br /><br />What I did not expect was to be prodded in the chest with a gun by a Brazilian airport guard.<br /><br />Welcome to Brazil.<br /><br />The journey had begun badly with a flight on Brazil’s flying gulag, TAM. We landed at Sao Paolo on time and were told by the stewards to stay on board if we were continuing on to Salvador.<br /><br />So, I stayed put. <br /><br />Then, we were told that we had to get off here and clear customs and immigration.<br /><br />So, I got up to leave<br /><br />Then, we were told that we should remain seated and would clear customs and immigration in Salvador<br /><br />So, I sat down again<br /><br />Then, we were told to get off the plane and clear immigration and customs in Sao Paolo.<br /><br />So, I got off the plane<br /><br />When I asked where I should go, the staff just shrugged their shoulders. I finally found the baggage claim area and lugged Big Red (remember? It’s big and it’s red) through customs.<br /><br />I found myself outside the airport and with not clue number one where I should be going.<br /><br />I tried to get back inside, but was stopped by security and told to join a queue about a mile long. I told them I had a connection and tried to walk past the guard at which point he pinned me to the wall with his rifle. A lovely, lovely introduction to Brazil.<br /><br />I was not the only one. There were others on my flight who were in the same predicament. One, an old lady, was sobbing loudly, another was carrying a small child. It was a scene right from Hell.<br /><br />Finally, I found a member of TAM’s staff who did not pretend that they could not speak English and the group of about twenty of us were led past the Security guard and into the airport. I flicked him the UK "V" sign. I am glad looking back on it that he probably did not understand.<br /><br />It appeared that we should have stayed on the plane and it was about to leave, with our without us so everyone, including, if you recall, woman & child and elderly lady had to sprint to our gate where we arrived to be told that we had just made it.<br /><br />It was, of course the same plane and I was in the same seat next to the same man who had flown with me from Argentina.<br /><br />“how did you get on so quickly?” I asked him<br /><br />“Oh, I am used to it” he replied “I just stayed in my seat. I thought it was strange you getting off”<br /><br />I am not sure who I wanted to kill more, the people of TAM or him for not telling me.<br /><br />If any experience was going to sour you to a country, this was going to be it. But, I wanted to give it a chance, so sat back and tried to calm down for the short hour of the flight to Salvador.<br /><br />My pick-up, at least was there when I arrived and, as we drove to The Barra, the port area of Salvador, I began to think that this might just turn out alright after all.<br /><br />I felt even better when I saw my guesthouse, The Estrelo Do Mar which was basic but beautiful with blue tiles and wide balconies. Best of all, it was a few minutes walk from the stunning beach.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R9eVtsz3MEI/AAAAAAAAEtM/1SfqTibmcDU/s1600-h/beach.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R9eVtsz3MEI/AAAAAAAAEtM/1SfqTibmcDU/s320/beach.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5176770909041012802" /></a><br /><br />I changed into my shorts immediately and headed out to explore, my backpack over my shoulder.<br /><br />“you are not going out with that bag are you?” The man behind the reception said.<br /><br />“well, er, yes” I replied<br /><br />“I wouldn’t advise it” he added. “just take enough cash for dinner and keep your camera hidden. There have been quite a few muggings”<br /><br />Oh great. Just peachy keen. I knew Brazil had a reputation for these things, but I had also heard that Salvador, particularly by the beach was OK. I had a friend who had been here a few weeks before me and had no problems at all. <br /><br />Once I went outside, I could see what he meant.<br /><br />I know fear breeds paranoia, but in Salvador, I never really felt safe. I felt as if ever eye was watching me and every person was viewing me as a potential mark. It may have been unfair, but it was a feeling that never really escaped me. <br /><br />A great shame as the beach area is lovely including, men selling coconuts from which they swipe the tops off with worrying looking machetes before inserting a straw for you to suck the chilled liquids through<br /><br /><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R9ec28z3MOI/AAAAAAAAEuc/Qh1QvtB8Yqk/s1600-h/coconut+man.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R9ec28z3MOI/AAAAAAAAEuc/Qh1QvtB8Yqk/s320/coconut+man.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5176778764536197346" /></a><br /><br />I had a supper which consisted of meat, rice and chips washed down with a Brahma beer and headed back to my hotel slightly dispirited about the thought of spending the next five nights looking like a walking $ sign.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R9eVVcz3MDI/AAAAAAAAEtE/iA3xm7VBYU4/s1600-h/rice+%26+chips+combo.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R9eVVcz3MDI/AAAAAAAAEtE/iA3xm7VBYU4/s320/rice+%26+chips+combo.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5176770492429185074" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R9eWE8z3MFI/AAAAAAAAEtU/qgbIdMAi_d0/s1600-h/brahma+beer.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R9eWE8z3MFI/AAAAAAAAEtU/qgbIdMAi_d0/s320/brahma+beer.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5176771308472971346" /></a><br /><br />The next morning, however, after a good night’s sleep, I decided I was going to make a good fist of it. I started with a superb breakfast, one of the selling points of the guesthouse. Fresh fruits, semolina cakes, warm bread and strong tea. I felt better immediately and began to strike up a conversation with a young Chilean woman called Macarena, sitting at the table next to me.<br /><br />She too was having a few days break and told me that in The Pelhorinio that evening it was going to be party night with bands playing and lots of dancing. She did not want to go on her own, so I said that, despite my aversion to all things dance oriented, I would join her.<br /><br />After breakfast, I set out to explore, without bag, of course. <br /><br />I must have walked about ten miles. Up from the beach area, through the town and down to The Pelorinhio I had been chatting about at breakfast. In the day time, it was, quite frankly, an ugly tourist trap where every corner held a hustle. I rather disliked it and could only hope that, in the evening it would be a bit more fun.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R9eatsz3MNI/AAAAAAAAEuU/j2g7fLHp6dc/s1600-h/old+town.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R9eatsz3MNI/AAAAAAAAEuU/j2g7fLHp6dc/s320/old+town.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5176776406599151826" /></a><br /><br />I fought my way through the peddlers and cab drivers to the Elevador Lacerda, a huge elevator, which links the top of the city with the lower city. At the bottom was a market and stalls selling food where you were able to sit and watch young men from the local projects performing Capoeira, that distinctive form of martial arts developed by slaves under the guise of native dance.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R9eXg8z3MJI/AAAAAAAAEt0/jkzF-rVGmOs/s1600-h/elevator.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R9eXg8z3MJI/AAAAAAAAEt0/jkzF-rVGmOs/s320/elevator.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5176772889020936338" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R9eWYcz3MGI/AAAAAAAAEtc/EF47tjpzqz8/s1600-h/caiparaiha.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R9eWYcz3MGI/AAAAAAAAEtc/EF47tjpzqz8/s320/caiparaiha.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5176771643480420450" /></a><br /><br />It is impressive as, indeed, is the ability of the men performing to prise money out of anyone who stops and watches them for more than three seconds.<br /><br />I will be honest, at this point, Salvador had not impressed me and, if I had the choice, I would have high tailed it out of there less than two days into my stay.<br /><br />Fortunately for me, it was going to get better. Not that the town itself ever held any great allure for me, but that night, when I arrived to meet with Macarena for the evening, I found that we had been joined by three others in the guesthouse. Chiara was an Italian working for The Red Cross, Tom & Barney were travelling around Brazil celebrating thirty years together.<br /><br />They were a lovely crowd and it promised to be a fun evening as we headed up to the old town and joined in the party. Every Tuesday night the locals and tourists get together and have a big old shindig. It is a hell of an event with live bands playing, drums sounding and deafening noise wherever you turned.<br /><br />Our group was adopted by young local, Elvis who took us under his wing in the hope of getting a few $ at the end of the evening for looking after us. He was a nice kid and offered to show me where I could go and buy a few cans of beer to drink while the bands were playing.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R9eXN8z3MII/AAAAAAAAEts/BVQQ8OWl1Zc/s1600-h/concert.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R9eXN8z3MII/AAAAAAAAEts/BVQQ8OWl1Zc/s320/concert.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5176772562603421826" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R9eZscz3MLI/AAAAAAAAEuE/CrlRe4Zw5aA/s1600-h/me+%26+elvis.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R9eZscz3MLI/AAAAAAAAEuE/CrlRe4Zw5aA/s320/me+%26+elvis.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5176775285612687538" /></a><br /><br /><br />When I came back to our group, I saw that we have been joined be another woman, Sybil who, it turned out, was from L.A. it threw me a bit because, despite her looks (she is originally from The Philippines) she spoke as if she was from the cast of Beverly Hills 90210.<br /><br />It also turned out that she was staying at a guesthouse close to our own and that was it, we could not shake her off no matter how hard we tried and, God how we tried.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R9eY7Mz3MKI/AAAAAAAAEt8/yDfR4z2tdSw/s1600-h/group.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R9eY7Mz3MKI/AAAAAAAAEt8/yDfR4z2tdSw/s320/group.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5176774439504130210" /></a><br /><br />As the clock struck midnight, Elvis suggested that it was a good time to be heading back to the relatively safe enclave of The Barra and poured is into a cab after we had pressed a few notes into his hands.<br /><br />The party may have been over, but we were not. We were all starving and headed down to a restaurant near the front where we drank far too many Caipirinha and shared a Moqueca, the local seafood stew made with coconut milk and the rather noxious Dende oil that is used to cook just about everything in this part of Brazil. <br /><br /><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R9eW7sz3MHI/AAAAAAAAEtk/75E-XrNtGkk/s1600-h/caiparinhia.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R9eW7sz3MHI/AAAAAAAAEtk/75E-XrNtGkk/s320/caiparinhia.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5176772249070809202" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R9eaSsz3MMI/AAAAAAAAEuM/m50kEprqP3I/s1600-h/moqueca.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R9eaSsz3MMI/AAAAAAAAEuM/m50kEprqP3I/s320/moqueca.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5176775942742683842" /></a><br /><br />I am not quite sure what happened after that. I am told I went dancing which is as unlikely and image as it is unpleasant.<br /><br />It was a long night and I think I got to bed about 2am, which for a man of my advanced age is none too shabby.Hermano 2http://www.blogger.com/profile/00317059903586211224noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38215268.post-58348291531447349672008-03-11T03:34:00.000-07:002008-03-11T04:39:21.603-07:00ARGENTINA: FRESH TO THE SLAUGHTER IN BUENOS AIRES<br />If you have been reading the blog for a while, you may recall that, in June of 2007, I was invited on an incredible 24-hour adventure courtesy of the good people of Beefeater Gin.<br /><br />On that day, I was lucky enough to meet Fernando Cwilich Gil, officially the coolest person I have ever met. Long haired and laconic with dark, Argentiean looks, it is little wonder he was constantly surrounded by the girls on that particular day.<br /><br />My last sight of him was flopped in the in house bar of Beefeater’s factory in South London sporting a pair of paper slippers he had collected from the hotel we had only used for enough time to shower and change clothes.<br /><br /><embed style="width:400px; height:326px;" id="VideoPlayback" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" src="http://video.google.com/googleplayer.swf?docId=5349781871122762225&hl=en-GB" flashvars=""> </embed><br /><br />He lived in BA and promised me that, when I visited, he could point me in the right direction of what to see and, more importantly what to eat.<br /><br />Unfortunately, when I arrived, he had been asked to head to Uruguay on a freelance assignment. But, we managed to move things around so I could at least get to hang out with him for an evening.<br /><br />Even better, Fernando, who it turns out knows just about everybody in the whole city, arranged for me to have supper on the two following nights of my stay with relatives of his and with friends.<br /><br />His Uncle, Martin was a great expert on Argentinean food and one of the founding fathers of The Slow Food Movement in that country. He invited me to join him and his lovely wife, Ljiljana for supper the next evening.<br /><br />They were taking me to La Brigada, arguably the best place for steak in the whole of the city and Martin suggested that I should probably take it easy in preparation for what was to come.<br /><br />Did I listen? Well, after a fashion, yes. I spent the next day going on one of my marathon walks which included a stroll through Puerto Madero the new port development with its expensive restaurants and bars “only for tourists and fat businessmen” Martin told me dismissively later that evening. <br /><br />He was right, there was little to attract me to any of the restaurants on the front, but near to Puerto Madero alongside the main canal,which feeds into the port, was a much better proposition. A strip of stalls selling more of Buenos Aires favourite snack foods,bondiola and choripan. I plumped for the latter and was presented with thick slices of beef in a crunchy roll, which I was invited to lace with chilli and chimichurri from small bowls on a table to the side.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R9Zi3cz3L0I/AAAAAAAAErQ/FOVX-u-ZnDA/s1600-h/bondiola+el+rey.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R9Zi3cz3L0I/AAAAAAAAErQ/FOVX-u-ZnDA/s320/bondiola+el+rey.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5176433526475009858" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R9ZkFcz3L4I/AAAAAAAAErw/DynXTgBqCdU/s1600-h/choripan.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R9ZkFcz3L4I/AAAAAAAAErw/DynXTgBqCdU/s320/choripan.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5176434866504806274" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R9Zifsz3LzI/AAAAAAAAErI/UWornsa7iQc/s1600-h/bondiola.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R9Zifsz3LzI/AAAAAAAAErI/UWornsa7iQc/s320/bondiola.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5176433118453116722" /></a><br /><br />The meat was tough, but had incredible flavour, which repaid the considerable effort needed to work my way through the sandwich. <br /><br />The Bondiola kept me going for the rest of the day and, by the early evening I was just getting to the right side of peckish and headed off to meet up with Martin and his wife. <br /><br /><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R9ZpYMz3L9I/AAAAAAAAEsY/aN3P7AK-lLw/s1600-h/night+scene+2.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R9ZpYMz3L9I/AAAAAAAAEsY/aN3P7AK-lLw/s320/night+scene+2.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5176440686185492434" /></a><br /><br />It is at night that Buenos Aires comes to life. After a brief shower and with the declining Sun shining on its slippery streets, I could see why this is a city that haunts people and brings them back here time and again. That, and the cheap beef, of course.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R9Znosz3L6I/AAAAAAAAEsA/M5zAoZ-gEhE/s1600-h/night+scene.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R9Znosz3L6I/AAAAAAAAEsA/M5zAoZ-gEhE/s320/night+scene.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5176438770630078370" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R9ZjIMz3L1I/AAAAAAAAErY/yLN7AhPWESk/s1600-h/brigada.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R9ZjIMz3L1I/AAAAAAAAErY/yLN7AhPWESk/s320/brigada.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5176433814237818706" /></a><br /><br />La Brigada, is deep in the heart of St Telmo and, as arranged, I met up with my hosts at the agreed time of 8pm. Martin apologized for the shamefully early dining hour explaining that, for most people in BA, supper begins no earlier than 10pm. However, he explained, before my arrival, they had already committed to attend a party and so had to fit in supper beforehand even though, as Martin explained, eating so early “plays havoc with your digestion”<br /><br />It is not just the dining hour. It may well have something to do with all the meat. I thought I liked meat, but next to Martin and Ljiljana, I am like a supermodel nibbling on a bit of lettuce.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/Rzcf99bTrMI/AAAAAAAADMk/hRWkKa4MttI/s1600-h/martin.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/Rzcf99bTrMI/AAAAAAAADMk/hRWkKa4MttI/s320/martin.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5131605449733549250" /></a><br /><br />The Argentineans take these things very, very seriously and, Martin took control of the ordering. He had a long discussion with the waiter about the cut he wanted, the amount of cooking and what was to come with it.\<br /><br />First, some provolone cheese, a sign Martin said, of the quality of the restaurant. Followed closely by some offal action with goat sweetbreads and chitterlings.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R9Zjvsz3L3I/AAAAAAAAEro/HG-inb1EupU/s1600-h/chiterlings.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R9Zjvsz3L3I/AAAAAAAAEro/HG-inb1EupU/s320/chiterlings.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5176434492842651506" /></a><br /><br />Finally, the main event, the Bife, a cut across the bone to give the most flavour. I tucked in with undue abandon. Martin chewed more slowly and with consideration before declaring it “passable” As I said, they take these things very seriously indeed in Buenos Aires.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/RzchqdbTrRI/AAAAAAAADNI/QFEqDjoOJ6g/s1600-h/ribs.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/RzchqdbTrRI/AAAAAAAADNI/QFEqDjoOJ6g/s320/ribs.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5131607313749355794" /></a><br /><br />The wine too and Martin, determinedly in charge, ordered a spectacular Malbec whose spicy damson notes served to bring out all the flavours from the meat.<br /><br />A hugely enjoyable meal.<br /><br />After supper, Martin and Ljiljana invited me to join them at the party they were to attend. The hosts, they told me, were interesting people and would not notice or mind another body at their bash.<br /><br />So, I found myself in a strange part of the city (I could not tell you where if you put a gun to my head) attending a party for two local artists. When we arrived, a well known local singer was setting up to perform. For the next hour, she sang her little heart out. Which is just as well as every song, by law in Argentina, must contain the words “Mi Corazon” at least once. That is true, in fact, throughout Latin America and indeed Spain.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R9ZqA8z3L-I/AAAAAAAAEsg/nJDsY9MU2jo/s1600-h/party.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R9ZqA8z3L-I/AAAAAAAAEsg/nJDsY9MU2jo/s320/party.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5176441386265161698" /></a><br /><br />In sixty minutes, the poor love had her heart stolen, stamped on, stabbed and broken in any number of painful ways. But, she kept going back for more, so I guess it is her own stupid fault.<br /><br />Martin and Ljiljana appeared at my side and asked me if I wanted a lift home. It was 2am. How the hell did that happen? The party was still in full swing, but I was sung out by then so gladly accepted the left back to a warm and welcoming bed. <br /><br />Another great night in Buenos Aires.<br /><br />My last day in the city was much quieter. More walking, a bit of snackage with some more empenada and a decedant afternoon nap which ended when I realized that I needed to pack before the evening.<br /><br />My plane to Brazil was at some ungodly hour in the morning. So, I had not planned to sleep.<br /><br />Fernando had been in touch with his friend, Flor who was The Head of P.R for one of the most glamorous hotels in the whole of South America, The Faena.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R9Zkb8z3L5I/AAAAAAAAEr4/9quJxMxbHkI/s1600-h/faena.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R9Zkb8z3L5I/AAAAAAAAEr4/9quJxMxbHkI/s320/faena.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5176435253051862930" /></a><br /><br />To describe The Faena as a “hotel” is a bit misleading. They describe themselves as “A Universe” and you can see why. It is where all the bueno porteneos of BA go to hang out and where every star who comes to the city clamours to stay.<br /><br />Built during the middle of Argentina’s great crash, it was the dream of wealthy businessman, Alan Faena who bucked the economic trend to turn a former grain silo (which used to house over 40% of Argentina’s grain) into a hotel complex with its own theatre, restaurants and bars and a pool area that could only be more alluring if Natalie Portman was swimming in it.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R9ZqVMz3L_I/AAAAAAAAEso/8Xa_qd6Eqks/s1600-h/pool.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R9ZqVMz3L_I/AAAAAAAAEso/8Xa_qd6Eqks/s320/pool.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5176441734157512690" /></a><br /><br />I was to have supper in The Faena Bistro, a misleadingly simple name as the room itself must have cost a large fortune and was redolent of turn of the 19th Century Paris society.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/RzjundbTrcI/AAAAAAAADOg/1xH1ZFFrTUc/s1600-h/flor.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/RzjundbTrcI/AAAAAAAADOg/1xH1ZFFrTUc/s320/flor.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5132114137070153154" /></a><br /><br />That would matter not a jot if the food was lousy, but the hotel had recently persuaded the wonderfully named Mario Cid De La Paz, a 33yr old acolyte of Mr. Adria to give up his job at the Molecular magician’s hotel in Seville and to return to his native Argentina to look after this restaurant.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R9ZjeMz3L2I/AAAAAAAAErg/2hnUh461AU8/s1600-h/chef+faena.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R9ZjeMz3L2I/AAAAAAAAErg/2hnUh461AU8/s320/chef+faena.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5176434192194940770" /></a><br /><br />It was causing quite a storm in BA where foams and fancies are still seen as imaginative rather than tiresome and De La Paz has the chops of someone who has worked at the source rather than just picked up a foam gun at a cookshop.<br /><br />Over three hours I tried course after course of food that overcame the problems getting real primo ingredients and the local reticence to let the chef go “all out” The most memorable dish of all a red mullet, filleted and surrounding a superb romesco sauce. Each course with a matching local wine.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R9ZoXcz3L7I/AAAAAAAAEsI/eQJXg0U2wJc/s1600-h/fish+faena.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R9ZoXcz3L7I/AAAAAAAAEsI/eQJXg0U2wJc/s320/fish+faena.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5176439573788962738" /></a><br /><br />By the end of it, I was, to be fair, a little woozy and totally unaware of the time. When I noticed what hour it was from the watch on the waiter’s wrist, I gave a girlish squeal and declared that I was going to be late for my flight.<br /><br />I said my “thank you” and “goodbye” and rushed off to meet the car that I had pre-arranged to collect me for my ride to the airport.<br /><br />I had only been in the city for four days and had barely scratched the surface. On top of which, I had not been able to fit trips to Mendoza or Salta into my tight schedule. There was nothing more to be said. Argentina was just another country I would have to add to the list of places to revisit.<br /><br />I was rapidly coming to the conclusion that EAT MY GLOBE could become a full time job. Now, there's an idea.Hermano 2http://www.blogger.com/profile/00317059903586211224noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38215268.post-20710185051401261232008-03-10T02:49:00.000-07:002008-03-10T04:02:20.186-07:00BUENOS AIRES: FRESH TO THE SLAUGHTER IN ARGENTINA<br /><br /><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R9UEyMz3LoI/AAAAAAAAEpw/Ig1hqp_einI/s1600-h/statue.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R9UEyMz3LoI/AAAAAAAAEpw/Ig1hqp_einI/s320/statue.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5176048607210974850" /></a><br /><br />The vagaries of world economics tend to pass me by a little. It is not that I am not interested, more that I am, well just a bit dim when it comes to stock markets, inflationary indicators and trade agreements.<br /><br />However, there are times when the differences between countries, and their economic fortunes and misfortunes, hits you where you feel it most, in the wallet. That can be bad, if you are an American travelling just about anywhere these days or good if you are a Brit or a European with a decent hard currency in your pocket.<br /><br />It is particularly favourable if your next port of call is, as mine was, Argentina. A number of years ago, the economy of this notoriously unstable Latin American shattered into a million disappointed dreams. It is recovering slowly, but still leaving many people disenfranchised and impoverished. For the visitor, it offers a opportunity to experience the country and the capital of Buenos Aires at prices that would scarcely cover a round of drinks back in London.<br /><br />To put it into context, a three course meal at a good restaurant in the decent neighbourhood of Palermo which included a pre-lunch beer, a jug of very acceptable wine and a little something afterwards cost less that $15.<br /><br />But, more of this later. First I had to get there which involved a tortuous trip from Mexico City’s dilapidated International terminal to the equally dreadful one in Argentina’s capital.<br /><br />With a bit of internet good fortune, I had found a lovely little self contained apartment slap bang in Microcentro, which, for $20 a night provided everything I needed in a great location to explore the city by foot and by its reasonable and efficient taxi service.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R9UUmMz3LxI/AAAAAAAAEq4/HPam5treZnM/s1600-h/room.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R9UUmMz3LxI/AAAAAAAAEq4/HPam5treZnM/s320/room.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5176065993238589202" /></a><br /><br />After a welcome shower and an even more welcome few hours kippage, I headed out for a pre-lunchtime walk, which saw me ending up in the well to do neighbourhood of St Telmo, which is packed full of restaurants and bars. One of the most well known was Desnivel and it was here that I had my first experience, at source as it were, of the thing that makes Argentina so famous. It’s beef.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R9UQosz3LqI/AAAAAAAAEqA/a8zAbSb3XiU/s1600-h/desnivel.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R9UQosz3LqI/AAAAAAAAEqA/a8zAbSb3XiU/s320/desnivel.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5176061638141750946" /></a><br /><br />Beef in Argentina is rightly prized as some of the best in the world and is quite different from that you find in the US or UK. In Argentina, beef is served fresh rather than aged and the difference is all in the taste and the texture.<br /><br />My meal of Morcilla, Bife De Chorizo was washed down with a jug of local Malbec, which was served in what the locals call a “Pinguinos” a jug shaped like a Penguin. I never quite figured out why and no one was ever able to give me a proper explanation. So, any clues?<br /><br /><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R9UVCMz3LyI/AAAAAAAAErA/nnYMW4sjbI0/s1600-h/steak.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R9UVCMz3LyI/AAAAAAAAErA/nnYMW4sjbI0/s320/steak.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5176066474274926370" /></a><br /><a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R9UTm8z3LvI/AAAAAAAAEqo/o181hBtkxN0/s1600-h/pinguinos.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R9UTm8z3LvI/AAAAAAAAEqo/o181hBtkxN0/s320/pinguinos.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5176064906611863282" /></a><br /><br />The cost of a meal was a lowly £4 which selfishly struck me as a bit of a result until I began to walk back to my apartment and saw a large protest from locals who had lost every last penny of their pensions. It is, as they say, an ill wind.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R9UUHsz3LwI/AAAAAAAAEqw/9y4Wyc6NL4c/s1600-h/protest.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R9UUHsz3LwI/AAAAAAAAEqw/9y4Wyc6NL4c/s320/protest.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5176065469252579074" /></a><br /><br />Another staple of Argentinean cooking is the empenada. Very different from its Galician namesake, empenada in Argentina are plump little pasties filled with meat, fish or vegetables and considered the perfect accompaniment to a bottle of the local brew, Quilmes.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R9USgcz3LtI/AAAAAAAAEqY/7H19FgjzW64/s1600-h/empenada+advert.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R9USgcz3LtI/AAAAAAAAEqY/7H19FgjzW64/s320/empenada+advert.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5176063695431085778" /></a><br /><br />After a sizeable lunch and with my digestive system playing all kinds of tricks following my flight, I could not face another big meal so walked up to the ritzy area of Recoleta, filled with bars and restaurants alongside palatial residences and sought out El Sanjuanino. It is widely regarded as the best place for empenada in the city and I can see why. When I arrived, it was already filling up with locals and I squeezed myself into a seat for one and ordered a handful of pasties. With meat, with cheese & vegetables and with sardine. They were exceptional and those who said they were the perfect foil to a nice cold one were not wrong.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R9URIsz3LrI/AAAAAAAAEqI/ghXxWO4Am_g/s1600-h/el+sanjuanino.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R9URIsz3LrI/AAAAAAAAEqI/ghXxWO4Am_g/s320/el+sanjuanino.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5176062187897564850" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R9UTBMz3LuI/AAAAAAAAEqg/b5vVO4_x2SE/s1600-h/menu+el+san.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R9UTBMz3LuI/AAAAAAAAEqg/b5vVO4_x2SE/s320/menu+el+san.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5176064258071801570" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R9UR_cz3LsI/AAAAAAAAEqQ/BD8Yubx2U1I/s1600-h/empenada.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R9UR_cz3LsI/AAAAAAAAEqQ/BD8Yubx2U1I/s320/empenada.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5176063128495402690" /></a><br /><br />I could easily have stayed there for more, but the place was heaving by now and it was getting hard to hear myself think as the locals gabbled about the horrors of their day. On top of which, I was beginning to wilt, so took the opportunity to walk home and have an early night.<br /><br />I did, after all, have a lot more meat to eat in the next few days.Hermano 2http://www.blogger.com/profile/00317059903586211224noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38215268.post-45620482395533411782008-02-28T03:43:00.000-08:002008-02-28T07:33:37.000-08:00MEXICO: MEXICO CITY<br />Mexico City was a bit of an anti-climax<br /><br />Not because I had a bad time, but I was constantly reminded, when faced with a menu item that needed explaining or an exotic piece of fruit, how spoiled I had been by having the expert companionship of Cristina and Judy for the last week or so.<br /><br />It was also the point, about six weeks into this stage of the journey, that the travel demons of loneliness and fatigue began to win the battle over excitement and hunger.<br /><br />So, although I certainly got out and about, I can’t possibly claim to have done Mexico City justice. I never saw The Pyramids, I did not visit a single museum nor indeed did I spend anywhere near enough time exploring Mexico City’s incredible past.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R8bSQXPHPdI/AAAAAAAAElo/gsy8L_c07a8/s1600-h/church.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R8bSQXPHPdI/AAAAAAAAElo/gsy8L_c07a8/s320/church.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5172052400638737874" /></a><br /><br />Despite that, I came away from Mexico City with fond memories. Primarily, because of the people who were helpful and welcoming and, of course, because of the food.<br /><br />It will, I am sure, make those who knew me in my past life, laugh out loud when they hear that I arrived in Mexico City on a bus. I have always been the sort of person who decried the use of buses for the logical reason “they are used by the sort of person who uses busses”<br /><br />So, when Cristina informed me that it was the best and cheapest way to get to the capital from Morelia, I had my doubts.<br /><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R8bQtHPHPZI/AAAAAAAAElI/yMolmL3s5tc/s1600-h/me+bus+station.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R8bQtHPHPZI/AAAAAAAAElI/yMolmL3s5tc/s320/me+bus+station.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5172050695536721298" /></a><br />She was not wrong, of course. Mexico’s bus system is a marvel. It has to be given that they have no train services. It is efficient and quick and the buses and the stations remind you more of airports than the grubby coach stations I had been expecting.<br /><a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R8bTanPHPhI/AAAAAAAAEmI/YXJTHH3j9og/s1600-h/bus+station.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R8bTanPHPhI/AAAAAAAAEmI/YXJTHH3j9og/s320/bus+station.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5172053676244024850" /></a><br />Five and a half hours after leaving Morelia, I was flopped on the bed of my hotel. It really was that easy. If only all travelcould be like that.<br /><a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R8bRaXPHPaI/AAAAAAAAElQ/rO8fBn1s4E8/s1600-h/indian+smoke.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R8bRaXPHPaI/AAAAAAAAElQ/rO8fBn1s4E8/s320/indian+smoke.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5172051472925801890" /></a><br />After a welcome shower, I headed off to explore. My hotel was on Paseo De La reforma and close by to a large park and I spent the next couple of hours wandering around looking at snack stalls and the impressive buildings before tiredness hit me and I returned back to the hotel for an early night.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R8afxHPHPUI/AAAAAAAAEkg/yvIqFpjc5Hk/s1600-h/police+on+horse.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R8afxHPHPUI/AAAAAAAAEkg/yvIqFpjc5Hk/s320/police+on+horse.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5171996888186436930" /></a><br />If I can often be accused of neglecting the cultural side of the cities I visit on the EAT MY GLOBE trip, the same cannot be said of the markets. They really are one of the best ways of understanding any society ( the others, in case you are wondering, are TV ads and Porn) and the markets of Mexico City are a thing to behold.<br /><br />Daddy of them all is the astonishing Mercado Mercede situated in the rough and ready Avenida De Salvador area of the city.<br /><br />My hotel advised me to get a taxi there, not because it was unsafe because of its location, more because of the distance from X to Y. I decided to walk figuring that, if I was not going to spend time in Museums, walking a fair distance would at least give me chance to see some of the buildings and some of the local people doing what local people do.<br /><br />It was not such a great distance, a few miles at most, but it certainly gave me the chance to see Mexico’s inhabitants doing what they do. <br /><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R8bPd3PHPWI/AAAAAAAAEkw/dYhkvWv2OcY/s1600-h/mercado+de+la+merced.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R8bPd3PHPWI/AAAAAAAAEkw/dYhkvWv2OcY/s320/mercado+de+la+merced.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5172049334032088418" /></a><br />The market is way outside the normal environs of the tourist and the streets surrounding the food market are swamped with stalls selling just about anything you can imagine from videos where Animals were the stars (and I don’t mean as in the Lassie films) to electronic items and clothing. It also seemed to be home to the majority of Mexico City’s pimps, hookers and pushers.<br /><br />Despite that, I did not feel in anyway threatened by the surroundings and reached the market about an hour or so after leaving the hotel and I even experienced some smiles from the prostitutes that I think were genuine rather than an attempt to see what I keep hidden in my fashionable Lurex posing pouch.<br /><br />Cristina had told me that the market was remarkable even compared to The Abastos in Guadalajara. It was. In fact, it was probably the most astonishing market I have seen on the whole trip ( and I am writing this now some two months later) It would be hard to imagine anything that was not on sale here. Fruits and vegetables towering over you in piles that threaten to topple at any moment, meat and fish in variety and amounts that I had not seen before or since and, of course, the constant whirr of machines making tortilla, the staple of every meal in Mexico and sold by the bundle load.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R8bSdHPHPeI/AAAAAAAAElw/pew0z2v-v1w/s1600-h/chillies+mercado.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R8bSdHPHPeI/AAAAAAAAElw/pew0z2v-v1w/s320/chillies+mercado.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5172052619682069986" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R8afgXPHPTI/AAAAAAAAEkY/lB_KE8v2YAg/s1600-h/totilla+making.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R8afgXPHPTI/AAAAAAAAEkY/lB_KE8v2YAg/s320/totilla+making.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5171996600423628082" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R8aexXPHPSI/AAAAAAAAEkQ/3i7GlEPsxkI/s1600-h/tripa.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R8aexXPHPSI/AAAAAAAAEkQ/3i7GlEPsxkI/s320/tripa.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5171995792969776418" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R8bP6XPHPYI/AAAAAAAAElA/l5E7eJTzN-A/s1600-h/meat.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R8bP6XPHPYI/AAAAAAAAElA/l5E7eJTzN-A/s320/meat.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5172049823658360194" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R8bTKXPHPgI/AAAAAAAAEmA/yVEra3qaCgQ/s1600-h/cactus.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R8bTKXPHPgI/AAAAAAAAEmA/yVEra3qaCgQ/s320/cactus.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5172053397071150594" /></a><br />Despite the hustle and bustle of the market, people still had time to smile, offer tastes and allow me to take pictures. They seemed genuinely bewildered by the sight of a bald European walking around with a camera and a big smile on his face but equally pleased to let me get up close and see what they were doing.<br /><br />By lunchtime, the sights and smells had made me extraordinarily hungry and I decided to take up another piece of advice from Cristina and head to Azul Y Oro, a restaurant situated way at the end of the Metro line in the campus of Mexico city’s university.<br /><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R8bTl3PHPiI/AAAAAAAAEmQ/8rU0--ZKZ8c/s1600-h/azul+y+oro.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R8bTl3PHPiI/AAAAAAAAEmQ/8rU0--ZKZ8c/s320/azul+y+oro.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5172053869517553186" /></a><br />The metro system in Mexico is pretty extensive, incredibly cheap and very efficient. So, within an hour, I was on the shuttle bus that went from the station to the cultural complex of the university.<br /><br />Azul Y Oro, may be in an unlikely setting but it has an astonishing reputation. The chef, Ricardo Muniz, is the author of “The Culinary Dictionary of Mexican Food” and has been widely featured in magazines all over the world.<br /><br />I began simply with a light soup of cilantro and crema, which was standard enough but served to prepare me for one of the other great tastes of my trip. The Polo Con Mole, chicken (either breast meat or, much better, leg and thigh meat) served in a glistening pool of shining sauce made from umpteen ingredients including chilli and dark, smokey, cacao.<br /><a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R8bPrnPHPXI/AAAAAAAAEk4/aAlBZbOF0Dg/s1600-h/mole.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R8bPrnPHPXI/AAAAAAAAEk4/aAlBZbOF0Dg/s320/mole.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5172049570255289714" /></a><br />The taste of mole is hard to describe. I had probably only experienced one deserving of the name once in that brief moment when London went through a phase of opening up “authentic” Mexican restaurants, which were nothing of the kind. I had even tried to make one myself but ended up with a frighteningly red, if not unpleasant sauce that was as Mexican as Anthony Quinn.<br /><br />Here, at Azul Y Oro, I had an epiphany. The initial taste of the sauce is sweet and smokey with a hit of chilli. You think that is it. Then the sauce opens up to reveal layers of flavour like the package in a game of pass the parcel.<br /><br />The chicken it surrounded was fine, but a sauce like this could be laded over dead dog and it would still be good. The restaurant was empty on a quiet Monday lunchtime, and I was not under the watchful scrutiny of the staff, so I took the opportunity to pick up the plate and lick it clean. My mother would have been so proud.<br /><br />The waiter, when he came to collect my plate seemed not put out at all that the plate was almost totally clean. I suspect it happens all the time.<br /><br />That was about it for Mexico City. In the next couple of days, I just mooched and ate. I went to El Refugio for a meal that seemed to consist entirely of cold pig skin <br /><br /><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R8bSD3PHPcI/AAAAAAAAElg/PjFbElWhlMc/s1600-h/fonda+el+refugio.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R8bSD3PHPcI/AAAAAAAAElg/PjFbElWhlMc/s320/fonda+el+refugio.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5172052185890373058" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R8bUCnPHPjI/AAAAAAAAEmY/dcWl6qXtZco/s1600-h/pickled+pork+knuickle.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R8bUCnPHPjI/AAAAAAAAEmY/dcWl6qXtZco/s320/pickled+pork+knuickle.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5172054363438792242" /></a><br /><br /><br />and to Casa De Pavo (turkey) where I tried another mole this time slathered on top of slices of turkey. It was good, but it was not close to that at Azul Y Oro.<br /><a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R8bSqXPHPfI/AAAAAAAAEl4/G-zRpAY0iLw/s1600-h/casa+de+pavo.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R8bSqXPHPfI/AAAAAAAAEl4/G-zRpAY0iLw/s320/casa+de+pavo.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5172052847315336690" /></a><br /><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R8bOXHPHPVI/AAAAAAAAEko/orWLZSdcpJY/s1600-h/pavo+con+mole.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R8bOXHPHPVI/AAAAAAAAEko/orWLZSdcpJY/s320/pavo+con+mole.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5172048118556343634" /></a><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R8bRvXPHPbI/AAAAAAAAElY/vZVaCIa55E8/s1600-h/grafitti.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R8bRvXPHPbI/AAAAAAAAElY/vZVaCIa55E8/s320/grafitti.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5172051833703054770" /></a><br /><br />On my last day, I decided to have an early night. I was exhausted from a day of walking and from six weeks of travelling. My body was bursting out of my clothes increasingly tight clothes and I felt, in the words of Paul Simon “weary to my bones”<br /><br />I also had a flight the next morning to Buenos Aries which meant I had to leave the hotel at 5am.<br /><br />As I sat on my bed and finished off my notes for that portion of the trip, I decided that, at the end of EAT MY GLOBE, I would treat myself to a holiday. Yes, Yes, I know. I will have been travelling for over a year by then but, if you have gleaned nothing else from these pages, you will at least acknowledge that it is pretty hard work and the constant flitting from place to place is a wearying, if fun way to see the globe.<br /><br />I promised myself that, at the end of the journey, when the manuscript was handed into my publishers and when I had settled what was going to happen in the rest of my life, I would have one last adventure, choose one country of those I had visited and spend more time exploring it in depth.<br /><br />There were a few countries on the list. At the top, I scrawled MEXICO in large capitals.<br /><br />Since then, I have been to another eight or so countries and I still have found no reason to take it from the top of the list. I will be back.<br /><br />Next stop, Buenos AiresHermano 2http://www.blogger.com/profile/00317059903586211224noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38215268.post-59040605338076683722008-02-21T17:18:00.001-08:002008-02-21T18:07:08.035-08:00MEXICO: SIN MAIZ NO HAY PAIS<br /><br />We were heading off to Morelia. But, before we get there I want to talk about one of the top ten tastes of the whole trip of EAT MY GLOBE so far and, I am sure it will come as a bit of a surprise to find out that it does not involve meat in any way whatsoever.<br /><br />Cristina and Judy mentioned that, before we set off on the drive to Morelia, some five hours away, they wanted to visit another market. In part to look for clothing, but more because they wanted me to eat a Shrimp Cocktail.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R74nAHPHOlI/AAAAAAAAEeo/t3OWkOHHOt0/s1600-h/mariscos.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R74nAHPHOlI/AAAAAAAAEeo/t3OWkOHHOt0/s320/mariscos.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5169612305163827794" /></a><br /><br /><br />Now, I am actually rather fond of your prawn cocktail. Well, I am fond of the UK version when made well with small sweet prawns on crisp lettuce with a good gloop of a frighteningly pink Marie Rose sauce. I am considerably less fond of the US version with its bright red sauce, which they try to beef up by liberally dosing it with horseradish. So, I was more than keen to see what the Mexicans could come up with.<br /><br />Well, what they came up with was so good I have been dreaming about it ever since. Simple in construction, but achingly fresh and with a zippy bite that makes every nerve ending in your mouth seem as if it has been asleep for the last twenty years.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R74jvnPHObI/AAAAAAAAEdY/r65huSNfTUA/s1600-h/shrimp+cocktail.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R74jvnPHObI/AAAAAAAAEdY/r65huSNfTUA/s320/shrimp+cocktail.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5169608723161102770" /></a><br /><br />Served in a glass normally reserved for an ice cream Sunday, it comprises a few large, meaty shrimp doused with a thin tomato juice that is spiked with chilli, ice, cilantro and a hefty amount of lime juice. <br /><br />The shrimp disappeared in quick, joyful chomps leaving me to spoon out the liquid, which could make even the most jaded palate want to whistle a happy tune. It really is that good.<br /><br />While Cristina and Judy went to do some shopping, I spent a happy hour or so mooching, looking at large slabs of pork rind and haggling with stallholders over DVD’s before we met up again and headed off towards Morelia.<br /><br />It is a long drive which could have been made shorter by use of a toll road, but we all agreed that it would be much more fun to take the free route which would pass by some more pleasant scenery. More importantly, it would bring us in touch with another of Cristina’s favourite restaurants, Carnitas Aeropuertos.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R74q9nPHOvI/AAAAAAAAEf4/Tr9Q63zFPKk/s1600-h/aeuropuerto.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R74q9nPHOvI/AAAAAAAAEf4/Tr9Q63zFPKk/s320/aeuropuerto.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5169616660260666098" /></a><br /><br />Now, I think it is fair to say that Cristina had my number from the start. She knew instinctively that, while I may well fall under the spell of a piece of glorious seafood in the short term, my life is truly predicated on eating meat and lots of it. She suspected, for this reason that Carnitas would be right up my colon. She was not wrong.<br /><br /><br /><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R74qu3PHOuI/AAAAAAAAEfw/lohDGVL5v0Q/s1600-h/carnitas.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R74qu3PHOuI/AAAAAAAAEfw/lohDGVL5v0Q/s320/carnitas.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5169616406857595618" /></a><br />Another feast of meat, as pork is cooked braised and then roasted before being served, you guessed it with tortilla and salsa.<br /><br />Cristina hustled the staff gently into giving us some of their staff aprons and I was thrilled to be able to don mine and go and stand by the counter where the meat was being chopped for a photo opportunity.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R74m_nPHOkI/AAAAAAAAEeg/-kwqhStfGiA/s1600-h/me.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R74m_nPHOkI/AAAAAAAAEeg/-kwqhStfGiA/s320/me.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5169612296573893186" /></a><br /><br />The owner, or at least I think it was the owner, found this all rather amusing and handed me his huge chopper to hold (no sniggering at the back) to add a bit of realism to the whole thing. It would be fair to say that I was a very happy bunny. The apron still hangs with great pride in my kitchen next to my “Burn Rate” apron snaffled from my chums at The American Royal in Kansas City.<br /><br />By the time we reached Morelia, it was already dark and Cristina and Judy deposited me at my hotel with a promise to collect me the next morning.<br /><br />The hotel, Casa de Loma turned out to be one of the nicest of my stay and one of the beguilingly charming staff helped me lug Big Red up three flights of winding stairs before showing me to a truly lovely room decked out in colonial Mexican stylings. <br /><br />After a long day, I did not have much energy to stray too far nor, after two memorable meals, did I have too much appetite. So, I just headed into the town for a stroll in time to see the locals coming out in force for their evening paseo around the small, but beautiful city centre.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R74maHPHOhI/AAAAAAAAEeI/VkCUmbtwZwY/s1600-h/morelia.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R74maHPHOhI/AAAAAAAAEeI/VkCUmbtwZwY/s320/morelia.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5169611652328798738" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R74j73PHOcI/AAAAAAAAEdg/Jj6-jvkx9lU/s1600-h/revolutionary+art.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R74j73PHOcI/AAAAAAAAEdg/Jj6-jvkx9lU/s320/revolutionary+art.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5169608933614500290" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R74nlHPHOnI/AAAAAAAAEe4/RbErjB--HWw/s1600-h/katrina.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R74nlHPHOnI/AAAAAAAAEe4/RbErjB--HWw/s320/katrina.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5169612940818987634" /></a><br /><br />Cristina and Judy collected me bang on schedule the next morning and we headed out to see some more of the city and to take the opportunity to see more of the astonishing offrenda being created for The Day of The Dead.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R74lq3PHOgI/AAAAAAAAEeA/N8Vb-FVk6FM/s1600-h/offrenda.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R74lq3PHOgI/AAAAAAAAEeA/N8Vb-FVk6FM/s320/offrenda.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5169610840579979778" /></a><br /><br />They really are stunning with the marigolds of orange and blue combining to incredible effect in bursts of colour all over the city. They also introduced me to the Pan De Muertes, the bread cooked specially for the occasion.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R74muXPHOjI/AAAAAAAAEeY/FDjktOFdFH4/s1600-h/me+shadow.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R74muXPHOjI/AAAAAAAAEeY/FDjktOFdFH4/s320/me+shadow.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5169612000221149746" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R74lCHPHOfI/AAAAAAAAEd4/sSW9-eh6_H0/s1600-h/pan+de+muertes.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R74lCHPHOfI/AAAAAAAAEd4/sSW9-eh6_H0/s320/pan+de+muertes.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5169610140500310514" /></a><br /><br />On the EAT MY GLOBE journey to date, people had really gone out of their way to find interesting ways of showing me what their local food was about. Cristina was no different. At each turn she and Judy came up with ingredients of which I had never heard, tastes I had never experienced and memories I shall never forget.<br /><br />Supper that evening was a perfect example. Cristina said we were going to church. That didn’t particularly phase me, I had, after all spent a good chunk of my youth thinking I was going to be a priest and I rather like churches. But, when she said that it was for a meal I had visions of us stealing a few communion wafers and eating them in the back of the car washed down with a few stolen glugs of altar wine.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R74rZnPHOwI/AAAAAAAAEgA/ykqilWc4kbE/s1600-h/church.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R74rZnPHOwI/AAAAAAAAEgA/ykqilWc4kbE/s320/church.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5169617141297003266" /></a><br /><br /><br />Instead, what I found at The Church of The Immaculate Conception was a Kermesse A buzzing local food court originally set up by locals to raise money for the building of the church and now, so successful if had become a regular event.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R74mmnPHOiI/AAAAAAAAEeQ/AkGKQYq1Dfg/s1600-h/menu.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R74mmnPHOiI/AAAAAAAAEeQ/AkGKQYq1Dfg/s320/menu.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5169611867077163554" /></a><br /><br />After we had bought a batch of vouchers we headed off to make our selection from a huge range on offer, taking as our guide the old adage that the stalls with the longest queues must be the best.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R74pPnPHOrI/AAAAAAAAEfY/UpYTDI52cDY/s1600-h/cook.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R74pPnPHOrI/AAAAAAAAEfY/UpYTDI52cDY/s320/cook.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5169614770475055794" /></a><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R74n4nPHOpI/AAAAAAAAEfI/6jzn7DRnnvk/s1600-h/family.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R74n4nPHOpI/AAAAAAAAEfI/6jzn7DRnnvk/s320/family.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5169613275826436754" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R74n33PHOoI/AAAAAAAAEfA/3jJWY5L-NHc/s1600-h/fresca.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R74n33PHOoI/AAAAAAAAEfA/3jJWY5L-NHc/s320/fresca.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5169613262941534850" /></a><br /><br />By the time we finally settled down to eat, we placed in front of us everything from quesadillas, tamales and enchilada washed down with large glasses of frescos.<br /><br />I am not going to lie to you. Food in Mexico is not always the prettiest to look at, particularly when I am taking the photographs and it is never going to win many awards for subtlety, but it is seldom anything other than damn tasty and here, where locals bustled around bubbling fryers and spitting grill pans was some of the best I had in my whole time in Mexico.<br /><br />In the next couple of days including The Day of The Dead itself, Cristina and Judy continued to be the best hosts imaginable, generous with both their time and their local knowledge. For someone coming fresh to this exciting country, it made a world full of difference as I tried to understand what makes Mexico tick through my chosen prism of food.<br /><br />They also helped me see beyond the food to other aspects of Mexican life and I could see why Cristina was so keen for me to be in Morelia for The Day of The Dead when we went to visit the cemetery in Tzintzuntzan<br /><br /><a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R74qgXPHOtI/AAAAAAAAEfo/ATOoyhm_F0A/s1600-h/cemetery.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R74qgXPHOtI/AAAAAAAAEfo/ATOoyhm_F0A/s320/cemetery.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5169616157749492434" /></a><br /><br />Cristina, obviously managed to find a space directly opposite the graveyard despite the fact that half of the state of Michoacan was out in force in the same neighbourhood. We strolled in to the cemetery and our respectful admiration of the shrines to the recently and not so recently deceased were welcomed by the locals.<br /><br /><br />A small impromptu, open air service was being held at one end of the plot and I have to admit to shedding more than one tear as these deeply religious remembered their loved ones with prayers and simple hymns.<br /><br /><embed style="width:400px; height:326px;" id="VideoPlayback" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" src="http://video.google.com/googleplayer.swf?docId=3098055130920879541&hl=en-GB" flashvars=""> </embed><br /><br />On my last afternoon in the city and, sadly my last afternoon in the company of Cristina and Judy, they invited me to their delightful house a few blocks from my hotel. There, Cristina introduced me to yet one more Mexican dish, Chilaquiles, made from eggs, day old tortilla and chillies. <br /><br /><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R74pGHPHOqI/AAAAAAAAEfQ/lFd2ss7RvZE/s1600-h/cristina+cooking.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R74pGHPHOqI/AAAAAAAAEfQ/lFd2ss7RvZE/s320/cristina+cooking.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5169614607266298530" /></a><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R74jcnPHOaI/AAAAAAAAEdQ/xUStb2GoIuQ/s1600-h/table+outside.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R74jcnPHOaI/AAAAAAAAEdQ/xUStb2GoIuQ/s320/table+outside.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5169608396743588258" /></a><br /><br /><br /> It proved to be a perfect dish for a perfect brunch and the perfect full stop to my time with two people whose enthusiasm for their adopted home I can still feel now. Their passion for Mexico literally burst out of them with a fire that is infectiously childlike. <br /><br />I could not have found better guides to this new (to me) and remarkable place<br /><embed style="width:400px; height:326px;" id="VideoPlayback" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" src="http://video.google.com/googleplayer.swf?docId=9179902528146251044&hl=en-GB" flashvars=""> </embed><br /><br /><br /><embed style="width:400px; height:326px;" id="VideoPlayback" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" src="http://video.google.com/googleplayer.swf?docId=-6686677213436679964&hl=en-GB" flashvars=""> </embed><br />My next stop was Mexico City the thought of which filled me with great excitement. But, I have to admit that I was also filled with a surge of disappointment that I would not be seeing it through the eyes of my two new friends.<br /><br />It was a disappointment that was hardly softened, even by my last meal in the city of take out barbecued rabbit with a slab of pork rind. That tells you just how disappointed I was.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R74koHPHOeI/AAAAAAAAEdw/lG9rvdGU3RY/s1600-h/rabbit+take+out.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R74koHPHOeI/AAAAAAAAEdw/lG9rvdGU3RY/s320/rabbit+take+out.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5169609693823711714" /></a><br /><br />I hope they will be pleased to hear that the nearly 1000 pictures I took of the places the showed me and the food they introduced me to on that portion of EAT MY GLOBE, are the ones I have returned to most of all when I am reliving some of my many incredible memories.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R74nkXPHOmI/AAAAAAAAEew/ReABlMdc89g/s1600-h/man+on+stilts.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R74nkXPHOmI/AAAAAAAAEew/ReABlMdc89g/s320/man+on+stilts.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5169612927934085730" /></a><br /><br />Next stop Mexico City.Hermano 2http://www.blogger.com/profile/00317059903586211224noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38215268.post-43504652537049127142008-02-15T03:14:00.001-08:002008-02-15T03:37:05.480-08:00MEXICO: SIN MAIZ NO HAY PAIS<br /><br />Guadalajara really is a lovely city<br /><br /><a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R7V1enPHNnI/AAAAAAAAEW4/YeBAysEQBH4/s1600-h/street.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R7V1enPHNnI/AAAAAAAAEW4/YeBAysEQBH4/s320/street.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5167165316266407538" /></a><br /><br />When I awoke early the next morning to the sounds of a couple having wild monkey sex in the room next door, I decided to get straight out of bed and head out to explore as I had not planned to meet up with Cristina and Judy until midday.<br /><br />I spent a very happy few hours walking around the city with its alleyways and squares before the pangs of hunger began to bite and I needed to find some food and find it fast.<br /><br />I found myself by a small central market where a range of stalls selling everything from seafood to local honey surrounded more stalls selling crowds of hungry locals an early breakfast.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R7V3PnPHNvI/AAAAAAAAEX4/_KdKlq9ym-Y/s1600-h/honey.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R7V3PnPHNvI/AAAAAAAAEX4/_KdKlq9ym-Y/s320/honey.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5167167257591625458" /></a><br /><br />There was almost too much choice with tamale looking an odds on favourite for brekkie until I came on a small stand that had a large sign saying “Tacos De Tripa” The decision was made for me.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R7V1QHPHNmI/AAAAAAAAEWw/DeLahwNBHuE/s1600-h/taco+lady.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R7V1QHPHNmI/AAAAAAAAEWw/DeLahwNBHuE/s320/taco+lady.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5167165067158304354" /></a><br /><br />I love tripe in just about every form I have ever had it served. From my old hometown in Rotherham where there was a shop which sold only two items, tripe and roast udder, to Spain where Callos is served in a spicy tomato stew. Let’s face it, tripe is always good.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R7V0VHPHNlI/AAAAAAAAEWo/CEjoeS-nIGI/s1600-h/tripe+taco.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R7V0VHPHNlI/AAAAAAAAEWo/CEjoeS-nIGI/s320/tripe+taco.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5167164053546022482" /></a><br /><br />It is even better when it is deep fried, as it was here and slivers of crunchy tripe were served on top of more warm tortilla for me to douse with lime and salsa before crunching down. I had eight of them, they were that good and they set me up for more of a walk before I headed back to meet Cristina and judy at the hotel.<br /><br />Cristina had particularly suggested that I head to meet them at this time of year because it coincided with Day of The Dead an incredibly important date in certain states in Mexico. As soon as they collected me, we headed off to visit one of the temporary Tanguis, markets which are set up to sell a bewildering variety of things all associated with the festival.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R7V3F3PHNuI/AAAAAAAAEXw/pXvUt0qM9bs/s1600-h/katrina.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R7V3F3PHNuI/AAAAAAAAEXw/pXvUt0qM9bs/s320/katrina.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5167167090087900898" /></a><br /><br />Sugar snack in the shape of skulls, paraphernalia to decorate the Offrenda or shrines to the dead which appear all over the town, some of which are extraordinarily elaborate, models of skeletons known as Katrina and Katrines which are both macabre and strangely joyful and plenty of food. <br /><br /><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R7V2LHPHNqI/AAAAAAAAEXQ/ppHJjoOzCbA/s1600-h/skulls.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R7V2LHPHNqI/AAAAAAAAEXQ/ppHJjoOzCbA/s320/skulls.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5167166080770586274" /></a><br /><br />I was particularly taken with a man cooking small cakes on a griddle. Cristina explained that these were Gordita De Nata, which as the name suggests are made with cream. We waited until the man began to make a new batch, as Cristina explained that they were at their best fresh out of the pan, and then bought three or four. They were every bit as good as Cristina told me and, despite the fact I was full from breakfast, I managed to snaffle far more than my fare share.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R7V3anPHNwI/AAAAAAAAEYA/cUJxpAbh7BY/s1600-h/gordita+de+nata.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R7V3anPHNwI/AAAAAAAAEYA/cUJxpAbh7BY/s320/gordita+de+nata.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5167167446570186498" /></a><br /><br />By all the laws of physics, I should not have been able to eat again, well ever, but after a pleasant couple of hours in the market, Cristina suggested that we all head to another of her favourite taco stands, this time to one specialising in tacos of battered fish. It was as packed as the day before and cars were queuing up to get next to it. I assumed that we would have to park up a little way away and walk back before joining the queue.<br /><br />Cristina, however, is one of those people who, if you were kind, you would say has St Reversa Parallelo, the patron saint of parking looking over her shoulder. It does not matter how crowded a place is, how many cars are around or how unlikely it looks that you will get a space, Cristina never and I mean NEVER fails to find a space and so it proved as we glided with nonchalant ease into a space that just seemed to appear right in front of the crowded stand.<br /><br />The tacos were just as good as the night before and this time, the taste of fresh battered fish was the result of chomping through a soft tortilla. <br /><br /><a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R7V4OnPHN0I/AAAAAAAAEYg/qtsD6Ny_SNA/s1600-h/fish+taco.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R7V4OnPHN0I/AAAAAAAAEYg/qtsD6Ny_SNA/s320/fish+taco.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5167168339923384130" /></a><br /><a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R7V4EnPHNzI/AAAAAAAAEYY/CIJ4sJsQtvs/s1600-h/fish+taco+stand.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R7V4EnPHNzI/AAAAAAAAEYY/CIJ4sJsQtvs/s320/fish+taco+stand.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5167168168124692274" /></a><br /><br />As you may have gathered, I was beginning to think that tacos were a very good thing indeed and, even after a decent supper at a high end local place later than that night, it was still the discs of flour tortilla topped with deeply flavoured chunks of meat or fish that made me break out into a smile every time I thought of them. It still does as I write this.<br /><br />I have to admit to also breaking out into a big smile when I think of The Abasatos, the colossal market on the outskirts of the city which seems to cover innumerable city blocks and sells just about everything imaginable.<br /><br />Cristina was very keen to show me all that it had to offer and, after more of my crunchy breakfast treats,we headed off to explore.<br /><br />I have rapidly discovered something on this trip. I hate farmer’s markets or rather I hate the precious, up their own backside versions we have in the UK and USA where the concept of people growing and selling their own food to the consumer is treated like a ride at Disneyland and the price of the food is swelled up to he same point as the egos of many of the people who sell it.<br /><br />But, real markets, not that is another matter and, on this trip, I am seeing some beauties. From those in South China where you can find everything from crispy skinned dog to the gasping heads of recently decapitated fish, to those in Finland where elk meat sits alongside achingly fresh seafood.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R7V2xXPHNsI/AAAAAAAAEXg/OLboLO4a3wA/s1600-h/prickly+pear+at+abastos.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R7V2xXPHNsI/AAAAAAAAEXg/OLboLO4a3wA/s320/prickly+pear+at+abastos.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5167166737900582594" /></a><br /><br />The Abastos is no different and, as Cristina and Judy showed me around and the hospitable stall holders offered tastes and allowed me to take pictures, I was simply knocked out by the range of what was on offer. Fabulous looking beef, more fish and seafood than I think I have ever seen, machines churning out fresh tortilla at a rate of knots that still struggled to keep up with demand. Slabs of pork rind, Jars of frescos sitting in ice, fruits & vegetables that I scarcely recognised, spices and herbs. You name it, The Abastos has it.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R7V32XPHNyI/AAAAAAAAEYQ/Tz85Y-Dim8E/s1600-h/fresca.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R7V32XPHNyI/AAAAAAAAEYQ/Tz85Y-Dim8E/s320/fresca.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5167167923311556386" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R7V27nPHNtI/AAAAAAAAEXo/B_50lmMSWpc/s1600-h/pork+skin.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R7V27nPHNtI/AAAAAAAAEXo/B_50lmMSWpc/s320/pork+skin.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5167166913994241746" /></a><br />As we left, Cristina ushered me towards a man serving drinks from a small cart. He doled out a couple of cups of Tejuino a delicious drink made, almost inevitably, from corn. I had never tasted anything quite like it. It took me a while to decide if I actually enjoyed it or not. In the end, I came down on the positive side and slurped down more than my fare share as is often the case.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R7V4pXPHN2I/AAAAAAAAEYw/nfDsPT281RM/s1600-h/corn+drink.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R7V4pXPHN2I/AAAAAAAAEYw/nfDsPT281RM/s320/corn+drink.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5167168799484884834" /></a><br /><br />It is also often the case that wandering around markets makes me hungry. In this case, it made me ravenous and I was first to the car when Cristina suggested we head off to try her favourite restaurants, El Chololo which served what she considered one of the best versions of Birria in the city.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R7V4c3PHN1I/AAAAAAAAEYo/7CD22tMO_0c/s1600-h/el+chololo.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R7V4c3PHN1I/AAAAAAAAEYo/7CD22tMO_0c/s320/el+chololo.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5167168584736520018" /></a><br /><br />I had tried Birria before, well at least I thought I had. What I was served at El Chololo proved to me, if I needed more proof, that what we get in the UK is a pathetically ersatz version of the real thing.<br /><br />What I got in London was a slab of lamb swimming in a thin broth. What I got at El Chololo was a mound of goat meat which had been cooked and then separated from its cooking liquor and grilled so it was crispy on top. <br /><a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R7V3s3PHNxI/AAAAAAAAEYI/VYMD_SV9J5U/s1600-h/goat+meat.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R7V3s3PHNxI/AAAAAAAAEYI/VYMD_SV9J5U/s320/goat+meat.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5167167760102799122" /></a><br /><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R7V47HPHN3I/AAAAAAAAEY4/2LY0RbXUcO8/s1600-h/birria+sauce.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R7V47HPHN3I/AAAAAAAAEY4/2LY0RbXUcO8/s320/birria+sauce.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5167169104427562866" /></a><br /><a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R7V2m3PHNrI/AAAAAAAAEXY/zIBDnacvmrc/s1600-h/salsa.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R7V2m3PHNrI/AAAAAAAAEXY/zIBDnacvmrc/s320/salsa.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5167166557511956146" /></a><br /><br /><br />The cooking juices were then served as a soup to be flavoured with lime and chilli while the meat was topped with salsa and wrapped in tortilla.<br /><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R7V1wHPHNoI/AAAAAAAAEXA/dXrDHJ2OqoE/s1600-h/stock.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R7V1wHPHNoI/AAAAAAAAEXA/dXrDHJ2OqoE/s320/stock.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5167165616914118274" /></a><br /><br />Incredible stuff and, as Cristina, Judy, myself and tow friends of theirs enjoyed our meal we were serenaded by a local band of Mariachi. Cristina palmed the leader a few notes and requested a song.<br /><br />Of course, it involved the words “Mi Corazon” It is illegal, I believe to have a song in Mexico that does not make a reference to a heart that is filled to bursting with love or, more likely, broken and battered from misuse at the hands of an uncaring lover.<br /><embed style="width:400px; height:326px;" id="VideoPlayback" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" src="http://video.google.com/googleplayer.swf?docId=-5011654069779856013&hl=en" flashvars=""> </embed><br />This song, however also had another strand and, as the band cried out “Volver, Volver” which means, I think “come back, come back” I was already thinking of just when I could do that. Mexico has that effect on you. When you are there, you are already thinking about when you are next going to come back.<br /><br />I have a friend of whom this is more true than anyone. So true in fact that she is now living there and working at a dream job making tequila. That night, Cristina, Judy and I had a quick drink at a famous local Cantina, La Fuente. We drank tequila, ate fried fish and listened to the band and the constant hubbub of the crowded bar.<br /><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R7V5NHPHN4I/AAAAAAAAEZA/0Uh6AB7o8_M/s1600-h/bar.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R7V5NHPHN4I/AAAAAAAAEZA/0Uh6AB7o8_M/s320/bar.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5167169413665208194" /></a><br /><br />After I returned to my hotel, I saw that the light on my old fashioned Bakelite telephone was flashing. The message was from my friend, Sophie, a stunning French woman who I had met in London earlier that year. She had been promoting her own Tequilla Calle 23 and, as she lived in Guadalajara, we agreed to meet up when I was in town.<br /><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R7V19HPHNpI/AAAAAAAAEXI/wMY9v1oJFA0/s1600-h/sophie.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R7V19HPHNpI/AAAAAAAAEXI/wMY9v1oJFA0/s320/sophie.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5167165840252417682" /></a><br />Unfortunately, my arrival coincided with a business trip of hers and I resigned myself to the fact that we would not meet. The flashing light signalled a message saying she was back in town for one night and did I want to meet her for a drink<br /><br />Where did she suggest? Cantina La Fuente. So, I found myself wandering back there in time to have a quick drink with her before they closed.<br /><br />So, that was just about it for Guadalajara, the next day we were heading to Cristina and Judy’s hometown of Morelia. Before that, they would also introduce me to a dish that will rank in the top ten of everything I have eaten on the trip so far. But, more on that laterHermano 2http://www.blogger.com/profile/00317059903586211224noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38215268.post-41782915542967534112008-02-07T01:50:00.000-08:002008-02-07T02:17:36.081-08:00MEXICO: SIN MAIZ NO HAY PAIS<br />When I mentioned to the people I met in New York that my next stop would be Mexico, no one seemed that excited. Oh, they all thought it would be a great part of the journey and told me to expect incredible food, it was just that, for many Americans, journeying to Mexico barely seems like leaving the US these days. A bit like a Brit hopping over to Paris or Spain. It is so easy it becomes mundane<br /><br />Not for me however, it was a realisation of one of my dreams.<br /><br />When I wrote the very first list of things to do on EAT MY GLOBE, in the top five was “attend a cookery school in Mexico” I had put down the name of the town, Oaxaca, not least because it is home to a famous cookery course but also because, after years of not being quite sure, I was finally confident enough to pronounce the bloody name correctly and felt rather proud of myself.<br /><br />I posted about it on a food website and soon received a message from one Cristina Potters saying “I am sure we can organise something better than that” along side an offer to guide me around for the period of my stay. She gave me the link to her website, Mexico Cooks and one glance was enough to convince me that I was highly unlikely to find too many other people who would<br /><br />a) Know more about Mexican food than she did<br />b) Be prepared to spend so much time in my company.<br /><br />Over the next six months, as I began to travel around the rest of the globe, my thoughts frequently returned to Mexico and what awaited me there. I had been in regular contact with Cristina and she had suggested that I come into the country after New York and in time to be in the country for Dia De Los Muertos on of the most important dates in the Mexican calendar, or certainly for the region where she lives.<br /><br />The plan was set and, on the 28th October, I headed off to JFK at an ungodly hour filled with thoughts of my first real experience of a cuisine that, up until that point, had only been represented by London’s pathetic attempts to recreate which usually result in brown sludge of no particular provenance.<br /><br />My flight gave me some idea what to expect. Huge amounts of money flood into Mexico from ex-pat’s living and working in the USA and, when the same return home for holidays or festivals, they seem hell bent on taking presents for just about everyone they know.<br /><br />After I boarded the plane, I fought my way over to my seat only to find that it was already occupied. Not by a person but by about four large bags of what I took to be clothes. The couple in the window and middle seat made no attempt to move them and just gave me a beatific smile. A smile that lasted until I started to move them myself at which point all hell broke loose and they began jabbering at me in Spanish something, which, even to my untrained ear sounded most unsavoury.<br /><br />The stewardess was with us quickly and, from the look on her face, I could tell that such things were not an uncommon part of her daily schedule. She rattled off a sharp admonishment to them in Spanish and moved the bags to an overhead compartment a few seats back to allow me to sit down.<br /><br />The whole of my flight, the Mexican couple glowered at me as if I had placed their first born in the locker not some tat they had bought at a market in Queens. I am pleased to say, that in the whole of my two weeks in this remarkable country it was the single incidence of anyone being anything other than extraordinarily friendly.<br /><br />By the time I had changed planes in Mexico City and touched down in Guadalajara, I was exhausted and in need to a friendly face, so I was delighted to see Cristina waving to me with a huge grin on her face as I lugged Big Red through customs.<br /><br />Within half an hour, Cristina and her partner, Judy had dropped me at my hotel and left me to freshen up for a short while before collecting me again to give me my first introduction to Mexico. We hit it off immediately, I was sure we would, but reassured by Cristina’s patient responses to some very stupid questions and Judy’s equal level of patience to someone who was about to insert himself into their lives for nearly two weeks.<br /><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R6rXLod8scI/AAAAAAAAETI/PBruW2dsYM8/s1600-h/hotel.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R6rXLod8scI/AAAAAAAAETI/PBruW2dsYM8/s320/hotel.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5164176517575258562" /></a><br />First stop, before supper, the central square where, on a Sunday evening, locals had gathered to listen to a live band and to dance. This was no ordinary dancing though. <br /><br /><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R6rWn4d8sZI/AAAAAAAAESw/Dih1Bhcv-hA/s1600-h/dancing.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R6rWn4d8sZI/AAAAAAAAESw/Dih1Bhcv-hA/s320/dancing.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5164175903394935186" /></a><br /><br />Both men and women were dressed up to the nines and strutted their stuff in a manner that evidenced a huge amount of practice. As the sun began to sink behind the local church, the streetlights began to twinkle and it all, quite frankly took on a slightly surreal tint for a man someone who, a few hours before, had been in New York City. If I was not such a hard hearted soul making such things impossible, I would suggest it almost brought a tear to my eye.<br /><embed style="width:400px; height:326px;" id="VideoPlayback" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" src="http://video.google.com/googleplayer.swf?docId=-7214823351394823935&hl=en-GB" flashvars=""> </embed><br /><br />If my eyes were watery, my belly was empty and when Cristina suggested that we decamp a short drive away for a supper of tacos, I was running for the car quicker than you can say "saluth, deenayro, ee ahmor, ee tyempo pahra deesfrutahrlos"<br /><br />Our destination was Los Altos, <br /><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R6rYh4d8sfI/AAAAAAAAETg/hpmdf-Qpr1E/s1600-h/taco+place.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R6rYh4d8sfI/AAAAAAAAETg/hpmdf-Qpr1E/s320/taco+place.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5164177999338975730" /></a><br /><br />a bustling taco stand about fifteen minutes drive from the centre of town. Here, Cristina and Judy instructed me on the etiquette of taco construction as I gleefully added salsas, lime and chilies to the meat the guys behind the counter had placed on a double layer of fresh corn tortilla.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R6rYQod8seI/AAAAAAAAETY/D-liRE2nrZI/s1600-h/taco+men.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R6rYQod8seI/AAAAAAAAETY/D-liRE2nrZI/s320/taco+men.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5164177702986232290" /></a><br /><br />We found a spot to sit down on the pavement and I took my first bite of Mexico.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R6rXh4d8sdI/AAAAAAAAETQ/Eikc3LxGE4o/s1600-h/taco.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R6rXh4d8sdI/AAAAAAAAETQ/Eikc3LxGE4o/s320/taco.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5164176899827347922" /></a><br />There had been plenty of “fuck me that’s good” moments on the trip to date and this was the latest. I think I lost the power of speech as the combination of savoury flesh, sharp lime juice and fiery salsa hit my taste buds. Cristina smiled like someone watching a small child take their first steps<br /><br />“ I thought you might like these”<br /><br />“Like?” I stammered between mouthfuls “this is one of the best things I have eaten on the trip”<br /><br />I was not lying. The two I had ordered disappeared in about two minutes and I was already up in the face of the servers again demanding more. This time, instead of the goat meat of my first round, I went offal piste and wrapped the tortilla around some brains. <br /><br /><br /><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R6rWYod8sYI/AAAAAAAAESo/gkOkqtnVhYo/s1600-h/brain+taco.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R6rWYod8sYI/AAAAAAAAESo/gkOkqtnVhYo/s320/brain+taco.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5164175641401930114" /></a><br /><br />They were just as good and I would have gone back for even more if Cristina’s declaration of exhaustion had not prompted my own body to suddenly go into “down” mode and begin to shut down<br /><br /><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R6rW-od8sbI/AAAAAAAAETA/G1ZGDYtGHkA/s1600-h/helado+stand.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R6rW-od8sbI/AAAAAAAAETA/G1ZGDYtGHkA/s320/helado+stand.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5164176294236959154" /></a>Mind you, not before I had managed to stuff myself further with some excellent helado from the small store next to the taco stand where a handful of men were churning tubs of the iced delights in containers of salt and ice.<br /><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R6rWx4d8saI/AAAAAAAAES4/4e_y37QBgcI/s1600-h/helado.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R6rWx4d8saI/AAAAAAAAES4/4e_y37QBgcI/s320/helado.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5164176075193627042" /></a><br />I slept little that night. In part, it may have been the excitement of being in a new country. In part, it may have been the four tacos and their spicy accompaniments gurgling along pleasingly in my stomach, but for the most part it was because of a couple in the next room who had wild, unbridled monkey sex for what seemed like the best part of the night. I was cheesed off and jealous in equal measures.<br /><br />By the time they were finally sated, it was almost morning and I realized that sleep and me were going to be strangers for at least one more night.<br /><br />Welcome to MexicoHermano 2http://www.blogger.com/profile/00317059903586211224noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38215268.post-52717004189395830452008-01-29T14:52:00.000-08:002008-01-29T16:18:43.650-08:00NEW YORK: FINISHING UP WITH NOTHING BUT BUTT<br />Obviously, you could spend any number of lifetimes in NYC and not try everything it has to offer on the food front. But, given the fact I was there for less than I week, I did not think I had done too badly.<br /><br />I had managed to break out of Manhattan which is something all too few visitors do and all visitors ought to do if they are interested in food and I had filled my time and my stomach with some of the best NYC has to offer.<br /><br />The last couple of days were no different.<br /><br />Friday came and I had plans to try again to have breakfast at Barney Greengrass. When I arrived on the Monday, it had been closed. For years, when I had stayed in this neighbourhood for business, I had walked past this shop where Mr Greengrass proclaimed himself the self styled “Sturgeon King” and had eaten there before. I had not been overwhelmed by it and had never seen the need to return.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R5-z84d8r2I/AAAAAAAAEOY/UIswGUjQDcc/s1600-h/barneyu.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R5-z84d8r2I/AAAAAAAAEOY/UIswGUjQDcc/s320/barneyu.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5161041556521398114" /></a><br /><br />It is however, as quintessential a NY store as you are ever likely to find and I thought it was worth another go if only to confirm how blah it had been the first time around.<br /><br />My companions this time were not to be native New Yorkers but some fellow travellers from London, Gavin & Anny who happened to be in town at the same time as I was. We had already planned to have lunch together, but agreed that a bit of eggs and onions in the morning might be a good start. Unfortunately, a late one for them before meant they were running behind schedule in the morning. I was the first customer through the door when the shutters came up and was greeted by a message from G&A saying that they were going to be half an hour late. <br /><br />Did I wait patiently so I could enjoy breakfast with my friends? Did I bollocks like? I ordered.<br /><br />The place was already filling up by now with locals who are, as all New Yorkers incredibly specific in their ordering demanding their food in detailed and very specific ways. It is impressive to listen too, but you can’t help thinking that in most cases they are doing it because they can, not because they could tell the difference if it came any other way.<br /><br />Still, my order, given in a much more deferential British style <br /><br />“may I possibly have some lox, eggs and onions please? Ooh, could I have a bialy too. I want to try one of those” <br /><br /> was taken promptly and the food arrived soon after. It was better than I recall with the eggs less dry than on my previous visit and the fish actually having some taste. I rather liked it. The bialy just struck me as a bagel without the hole, but perhaps I am missing something.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R5-zxod8r1I/AAAAAAAAEOQ/URxQIhZTnO0/s1600-h/breakfast.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R5-zxod8r1I/AAAAAAAAEOQ/URxQIhZTnO0/s320/breakfast.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5161041363247869778" /></a><br /><br />By the time I had done eating, my friends had still not turned up, so I left a message for them at the counter and headed off to fill my morning. As soon as I walked out of the door, I bumped into them crossing Amsterdam Avenue and they looked most put out that I had not waited. As I explained to them, in this crazy business of EAT MY GLOBE, you snooze, you loose.<br /><br />I was planning to meet them later anyway for lunch, so we went our own ways until our planned meeting time at Noon.<br /><br />One thing that I never fail to have on my visits to NYC is a huge, enormo, fuck off steak. There is something about a NY steakhouse that just can’t be replicated. The hubbub, the waiters in ill fitting dinner jackets and the ludicrous portions of meat. Of course other places in the US have great steakhouses, but there is something about those in NYC that draw me to them like a moth to a flame.<br /><br />Above all others in New York is Peter Luger’s Steakhouse in Brooklyn. It is, for many, The Holy Grail of steaks and there are plenty of New Yorkers who will stop talking to you if you even suggest that any other place in the city or the country comes close. Mind you, in some cases that would be a good thing.<br /><a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R5-yT4d8rxI/AAAAAAAAENw/ZuOTaXqQs2E/s1600-h/peter.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R5-yT4d8rxI/AAAAAAAAENw/ZuOTaXqQs2E/s320/peter.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5161039752635133714" /></a><br />I waver on the supremacy of Peter Luger over others. This was to be my fifth visit. So far it had been a draw. I had been subjected to two dreadful meals there, but had also experienced two meals when I began to see what all the fuss was about. It was time to break the tie.<br /><br />As I arrived, Gavin and Anny were already there, trying to make amends for their inexcusable lateness early I guess. Now it was my turn to make them wait as, before we sat down, I did what I always do when visiting this famous institution. I sucked down one of their unfeasibly large and vaguely competent Martinis.<br /><br />By the time I had got a nice buzz on, it was time to head to the table. There is only once choice here for the visitor who does not have the opportunity for repeat visits, the porterhouse. Given that Anny would not eat vast amounts, but Gavin and I would, we plumped for the order for three people with some chips. <br /><br />Appetizers here are actively grim, but eating strips of fatty bacon and crappy tomato salads help pass the time while you wait for the main event which in this case was, I am pleased to say, well worth waiting for.<br /><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R5-urod8rnI/AAAAAAAAEMg/0ifxVLEGwAY/s1600-h/steak.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R5-urod8rnI/AAAAAAAAEMg/0ifxVLEGwAY/s320/steak.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5161035762610515570" /></a><br />We devoured the huge slab of meat, cut into large chunks and served with its own juices, in rapid time while sinking more martinis (in my case) and beer, for Gavin & Anny.<br /><br />I was pleased. I want to like this place and the fact that it had let me down on other visits was a disappointment. This was not. This was as good a steak as it is possible to get and I gnawed at the bone much to the distaste of my companions.<br /><br />By mid afternoon, I was already bushed, so headed back to Sanjoy & Evelyn’s flat for a quiet night.<br /><br />The next morning was much the same. I took it easy, partly in anticipation of an early start to Mexico the next day and partly in anticipation of a fun afternoon at the glamorous abode of my chum, Cathy.<br /><br />Now, Cathy is a smoker. I don’t mean she likes to puff on a ciggie, although in her private world she may well do. I mean she loves to smoke stuff. In her small but perfectly formed garden, she has A Big Green Egg, a rather fearsome looking beast in which she smokes hunks of meat for long periods of time. <br /><br />Over the years, Cathy has smoked any number of bits of animal for me to try, but now she raised the bar by ordering a 40lb hunk o’ hog via her work in the restaurant trade, having it cut up and smoking it for god knows how long in preparation for a “Thank the Lord he’s leaving New York” party in my honour.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R5-zWYd8rzI/AAAAAAAAEOA/Q_D94PdgkM0/s1600-h/cathy.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R5-zWYd8rzI/AAAAAAAAEOA/Q_D94PdgkM0/s320/cathy.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5161040895096434482" /></a><br /><br />At the prearranged time, I arrived with Sanjoy & Evelyn in tow along with another dear friend, Jeanette who I have known for ever and who had gladly agreed to come along for the porky ride.<br /><a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R5-v4Id8rsI/AAAAAAAAENI/oRbTjoeYRIc/s1600-h/pork.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R5-v4Id8rsI/AAAAAAAAENI/oRbTjoeYRIc/s320/pork.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5161037076870508226" /></a><br /><br />Cathy had invited about 20 other people, I think, and, as I helped her bring the slabs of meat up from the garden to be pulled apart, others arrived bringing even more food. <br /><br /><a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R5-w-Id8ruI/AAAAAAAAENY/uiUuRi3HZ-o/s1600-h/party.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R5-w-Id8ruI/AAAAAAAAENY/uiUuRi3HZ-o/s320/party.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5161038279461351138" /></a><br />Sandy Levine arrived bearing a Shaker Pie, which is made by baking slices of lemons and sugar in a pastry case. Another friend, Meredith, gelato maker to Don Mario Batali, came with two tubs of her incomparable ices and yet another person, whose name totally escapes me, sorry, arrived with a tray filled with “Mac & Cheese”<br /><br />Normally, those words fill me with as much horror as the word “pizza” and I steer clear of it whenever it is used as a threat against me. However, it actually looked good and smelled better. I tentatively took a small portion and, after sniffing it again, had a bit. What can I tell you? I am a convert. It was so good I went back for seconds and thirds until I was pulling crusty bits of cheese off the bowl in desperation normally reserved for crack addicts.<br /><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R5_CMod8r3I/AAAAAAAAEOg/h98XfGIRxX4/s1600-h/mac.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R5_CMod8r3I/AAAAAAAAEOg/h98XfGIRxX4/s320/mac.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5161057220267126642" /></a><br /><a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R5-xOId8rvI/AAAAAAAAENg/GprD12SOarM/s1600-h/mac.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R5-xOId8rvI/AAAAAAAAENg/GprD12SOarM/s320/mac.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5161038554339258098" /></a><br /><br />The pork was good too, but then I knew it would be. Particularly after offering my expert help pulling it apart into fatty strands<br /><br /><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R5-vOod8rpI/AAAAAAAAEMw/I8RR5KYgF8U/s1600-h/pulling.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R5-vOod8rpI/AAAAAAAAEMw/I8RR5KYgF8U/s320/pulling.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5161036363905937042" /></a><br /><a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R5-wS4d8rtI/AAAAAAAAENQ/iK15llG0aI8/s1600-h/poke.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R5-wS4d8rtI/AAAAAAAAENQ/iK15llG0aI8/s320/poke.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5161037536432008914" /></a><br /><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R5-xaod8rwI/AAAAAAAAENo/xQtlMyXkZrU/s1600-h/greens.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R5-xaod8rwI/AAAAAAAAENo/xQtlMyXkZrU/s320/greens.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5161038769087622914" /></a><br /><br />It was a triumph, as indeed was the whole evening. Much food was eaten and much wine and scotch drunk. The desserts vanished in seconds as if someone had announced that there was going to be a sugar shortage<br /><br /><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R5-u5od8roI/AAAAAAAAEMo/3zo0DgRAs6w/s1600-h/shaker+pie.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R5-u5od8roI/AAAAAAAAEMo/3zo0DgRAs6w/s320/shaker+pie.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5161036003128684162" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R5-ymYd8ryI/AAAAAAAAEN4/HCcFAQb14SE/s1600-h/gelato.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R5-ymYd8ryI/AAAAAAAAEN4/HCcFAQb14SE/s320/gelato.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5161040070462713634" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R5-zkod8r0I/AAAAAAAAEOI/Zs3LGjcec7s/s1600-h/brittle.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R5-zkod8r0I/AAAAAAAAEOI/Zs3LGjcec7s/s320/brittle.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5161041139909570370" /></a><br /><br />I was sorry when the time came to leave. Not because it was just the end of my time at this particular joyful party but because it was the end of my time in New York and, not being in publishing anymore, I was not sure when my next chance to return would come.<br /><br />It is a city of people to whom I give hell for their blind loyalty to a place with huge numbers of failings. It is a city that could never possibly live up to its own publicity as the greatest place to eat on Earth and it is a city that has the capacity to bewilder and annoy at every turn.<br /><br />For all that, it is a city I love to bits and have not tired of, even after a hundred visits. It is a city that is filled with people I love to bits and who had gone all out to make this section of EAT MY GLOBE a special one. They had succeeded. <br /><br />With their help, I had been to the ends of the boroughs in search of amazing things to eat and the city had not come up wanting. I was full up to the brim in so many ways and already thinking of what I would do when I returned.<br /><br />One thing I did know was that it would include seeing my friends, Cathy, Sandy, Beth & Peter, Jeanette and all the rest. Above all, however, it would include, God willing, spending time with Sanjoy & Evelyn, my other parents without whom New York would never feel the same.<br /><br />The next morning, I realised that I had left the party in such a rush, I had forgotten to collect my favourite woolly hat tucked down the side of a chair at Cathy’s place. A shame, that hat has been around the world with me many times.<br /><br />Mind you, I did not think that I was going to need it where I was going next.<br /><br />I was off to MexicoHermano 2http://www.blogger.com/profile/00317059903586211224noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38215268.post-45435006497868472432008-01-28T14:52:00.000-08:002008-01-28T17:59:58.435-08:00NEW YORK: ARTHUR AVE & PATSY'S<br /><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R55ex4d8rHI/AAAAAAAAEIg/CuZ2Q0zGpzw/s1600-h/grand+central.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R55ex4d8rHI/AAAAAAAAEIg/CuZ2Q0zGpzw/s320/grand+central.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5160666434077764722" /></a><br />There is no more beautiful sight in the whole of NYC than the inside of the recently restored Grand Central Station and there is no better a person to meet there than my good chum, Sandra Levine.<br /><br />Inevitably, I met Sandra or Sandy through food websites, but alongside her passion for food, which is considerable as I can testify after tasting a number of excellent meals, is a dedication to capturing and recording some of the architectural highlights and heritage of this city.<br /><br />When I was planning the NYC part of my trip, I made it quite clear to Sandy that she was down in my book to play guide as I headed off to explore a neighbourhood that had caught my imagination when watching movies and documentaries about NY’s vibrant Italian community, Arthur Avenue. She, for whatever reason, seemed to think that accompanying me for a day’s mooching around NY could be an agreeable way to pass the day.<br /><br />Situated in the Bronx, a short train ride from Manhattan (hence the meeting point) Arthur Avenue seems to still retain its title as the de facto capital of Italian New York City particularly in the face of its Manhattan equivalent being devoured by an encroaching Chinatown. It is facing its own challenges however, as Sandy, who has forgotten more about NY than anyone else I have met has ever known, explained. The latest influx into the area is a large Albanian community who have begun to take over the businesses of the area including the restaurants which they still run as “Italian” even though a pale imitation of their former selves.<br /><br />Still, Sandy thought it was still worth a trip and that was good enough for me to brave the train and find the street easily with some helpful and accurate signage<br /><br /><a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R55dBId8q-I/AAAAAAAAEHY/HQh52_I13Xs/s1600-h/arthur+ave.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R55dBId8q-I/AAAAAAAAEHY/HQh52_I13Xs/s320/arthur+ave.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5160664497047514082" /></a><br /><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R55gYod8rSI/AAAAAAAAEJ4/Xdf95ItB7H0/s1600-h/super+simon.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R55gYod8rSI/AAAAAAAAEJ4/Xdf95ItB7H0/s320/super+simon.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5160668199309323554" /></a><br /><br />It is, from what I can tell, definitely a fixture on the tourist trail, with people using it as a feeding point when visiting The Bronx Zoo or the nearby Botanical Gardens. However, on a quiet Thursday mid morning, we were able to spend a good few hours wandering around with precious few other people around to crowd us as we went from store to store gawking everywhere and sampling where we could.<br /><br />The names alone are enough to conjour up a time when this neighbourhood was screaming with new immigrants from Italy. Not yet ready to assimilate and still craving tastes and ingredients from home. De Lilo’s pastries, <br /><br /><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R55emod8rGI/AAAAAAAAEIY/V7qVfGOn_wk/s1600-h/de+lillo%27s+pastry+shop.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R55emod8rGI/AAAAAAAAEIY/V7qVfGOn_wk/s320/de+lillo%27s+pastry+shop.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5160666240804236386" /></a><br /><br />The Cantabria Pork Store and Casa Della Mozarella<br /><br /><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R55d7od8rCI/AAAAAAAAEH4/8-zjbPeKA4k/s1600-h/cantabria+pork+.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R55d7od8rCI/AAAAAAAAEH4/8-zjbPeKA4k/s320/cantabria+pork+.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5160665502069861410" /></a><br /><a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R55eEYd8rDI/AAAAAAAAEIA/D7OLbVoXA6U/s1600-h/casa+della+mozarella.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R55eEYd8rDI/AAAAAAAAEIA/D7OLbVoXA6U/s320/casa+della+mozarella.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5160665652393716786" /></a><br /><br />Umberto’s Clams, Teitel Brothers (didn’t sound very Italian to me) <br /><br /><a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R55gZId8rTI/AAAAAAAAEKA/Qp0z-LWlhrQ/s1600-h/teitel%27s.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R55gZId8rTI/AAAAAAAAEKA/Qp0z-LWlhrQ/s320/teitel%27s.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5160668207899258162" /></a> <br /><br />The Calandra Cheese store and the Indoor Market.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R55dc4d8rAI/AAAAAAAAEHo/IyMoWG6gTzs/s1600-h/calandra+cheese.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R55dc4d8rAI/AAAAAAAAEHo/IyMoWG6gTzs/s320/calandra+cheese.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5160664973788883970" /></a><br /><br />Sandy is nothing if not thorough so had prepared a list of places that not only she, but others, had said should be on any self respecting tour of Arthur Avenue. We tasted canoli at De Lilo’s (in truth not that great) <br /><br /><a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R55dmId8rBI/AAAAAAAAEHw/f0EmoTi--68/s1600-h/canoli.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R55dmId8rBI/AAAAAAAAEHw/f0EmoTi--68/s320/canoli.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5160665132702673938" /></a><br /><br />and clams at Umberto’s. <br /><br /><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R55fmod8rNI/AAAAAAAAEJQ/LmF7xVmMU1Q/s1600-h/meaty+clams.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R55fmod8rNI/AAAAAAAAEJQ/LmF7xVmMU1Q/s320/meaty+clams.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5160667340315864274" /></a><br /><br />In fact, We sucked down clams at two stalls and we stared hungrily at the enormo sandwiches at the Indoor Market.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R55ebYd8rFI/AAAAAAAAEIQ/rvx_e4QbgnY/s1600-h/dandy+clams.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R55ebYd8rFI/AAAAAAAAEIQ/rvx_e4QbgnY/s320/dandy+clams.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5160666047530708050" /></a><br /><a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R55fWId8rKI/AAAAAAAAEI4/w64KimVCVHs/s1600-h/me+clams.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R55fWId8rKI/AAAAAAAAEI4/w64KimVCVHs/s320/me+clams.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5160667056848022690" /></a><br /><a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R55gKYd8rQI/AAAAAAAAEJo/BoKE8jiqKhY/s1600-h/sanwiches.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R55gKYd8rQI/AAAAAAAAEJo/BoKE8jiqKhY/s320/sanwiches.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5160667954496187650" /></a><br /><br />It would have pretty easy to have made a meal by snacking our way along the street, but I wanted to sit down and have lunch at one of the famous restaurants on the Avenue itself. I think Sandy was slightly bemused by this. She warned me that the quality could be variable and that the pricing was made up on the spot depending on how smart you looked or how expensive your shoes were.<br /><br />I understood and was fully prepared for it not to be a great meal, but, as I explained to Sandy, this style of “red sauce” Italian cooking, something which is truly an American creation, was as alien to me as eating horse in Mongolia or Elk in Finland and as such, it had every bit as much right to be sampled even if it turned out to be pretty awful.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R55e7Id8rII/AAAAAAAAEIo/Pel95NDFbEg/s1600-h/dominicks.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R55e7Id8rII/AAAAAAAAEIo/Pel95NDFbEg/s320/dominicks.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5160666592991554690" /></a><br /><br />Well, for the record, the food at our chosen place, Dominick’s was pretty bleh. A heavy pasta dish in a shrimp sauce, <br /><br /><a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R55gLYd8rRI/AAAAAAAAEJw/p6TX-azdGqA/s1600-h/shtimp.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R55gLYd8rRI/AAAAAAAAEJw/p6TX-azdGqA/s320/shtimp.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5160667971676056850" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R55ePod8rEI/AAAAAAAAEII/xcxWD-MYFwE/s1600-h/chicken.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R55ePod8rEI/AAAAAAAAEII/xcxWD-MYFwE/s320/chicken.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5160665845667245122" /></a><br /><br />and chicken Scarpiello which was nice and stewed all served with a glass of “context” wine. That is wine that is just about fine in context but which you would not use on your chips under any other circumstance. Yes, we were overcharged too. The bill came to $40 which I am told was because of my accent. I am used to my British charm getting me into trouble, but rarely has it been the cause of a price hike in a restaurant.<br /><br />Despite all of this, I loved Dominick’s. With the hustle and bustle that only American Italians seem capable of and noise enough from a lunchtime crowd to compete with a jet engine, it was enormous fun. Everybody in there seemed to be having a great time including our table companions who were extolling the virtues of the food more based on memories of childhood than any inherent quality of what was placed in front of them or us. <br /><br /><a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R55fGId8rJI/AAAAAAAAEIw/2Z_-z6FI5jQ/s1600-h/inside+restaurant.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R55fGId8rJI/AAAAAAAAEIw/2Z_-z6FI5jQ/s320/inside+restaurant.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5160666781970115730" /></a><br /><br />Would I ever go back there? Of course not, but I am so glad I did. You will have to ask Sandy what she thinks……………<br /><br /><embed style="width:400px; height:326px;" id="VideoPlayback" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" src="http://video.google.com/googleplayer.swf?docId=8064411492522739103&hl=en-GB" flashvars=""> </embed><br /><br />It was still only early afternoon and had time to kill before my evening plans. Sandy kindly agreed to give me more of a guided tour, this time around some of Manhattan’s Lower East Side. She really knows her stuff and we walked for about an hour as she showed me buildings of note and worth including Kossar’s which is famous for making Bialys.<br /><br />Now, I have to be honest and say that, while I had heard of these things, I had never actually tried one. Similar to a bagel, but simply baked instead of being boiled first, they have their origin in Polish Askenazi cooking and seem to be something that is distinctly a New York thing.<br /><br />Another distinctly New York thing is having an opinion on everything and everything and I laughed out loud when Sandy told me that her husband, Alan, now refuses to go there since they started selling the Bialys pre packaged after a change of ownership. <br /><br /><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R55dO4d8q_I/AAAAAAAAEHg/5T8LMM3YKHg/s1600-h/bialy%27s.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R55dO4d8q_I/AAAAAAAAEHg/5T8LMM3YKHg/s320/bialy%27s.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5160664733270715378" /></a><br /><br />I am not sure if my chortling offended her, but Sandy announced that she had to head off to her own life which left me to potter around for a while before heading off for supper.<br /><br />There are, I am sure, for all of you, some foods you just don’t get. I have met people who can’t eat a pork pie or a slab of black pudding without coming over all green. I have met people who go “ugh, fish” when offered the chance to eat something scaly. I have even met people who don’t eat meat but, lets not go there, that way lies madness.<br /><br />I am, thankfully free of most of that silliness, but I do have an Achilles heel and it is pizza. I can’t stand the stuff and for years have bored anyone who will listen and plenty who wont by describing it as “snot on toast”<br /><br />It is just one of those things I just don’t get. Why would you do such a thing to even half decent ingredients? It also seems to be entirely racially based. I could be had up in front of The Anti Italian Defamation League on some charge or other because I eat Turkish Pide like a good un, hell, I even eat cheese on toast, which being doughy and cheesy, is basically the same thing. <br /><br />But, the thing that people love about this “Italian” speciality, its mix of dough, tomatoes, cheese, meat and slicks of olive oil, just turns me off. I know it’s my failing, but I also know I just don’t like them. So sue me.<br /><br />People have tried to convince me otherwise and convert me to their evil ways but, so far, without success. <br /><br />That night, my chums Beth & Peter Pizio were going to take another stab at it and, as agreed, I met them at Beth’s office in time to have a little Dutch courage in the form of a couple of pints of Guinness before heading off to the scene of, what they hoped would be, my Damascene conversion.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R55fmId8rMI/AAAAAAAAEJI/ozbjJ-MMzqU/s1600-h/me+pter+beth.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R55fmId8rMI/AAAAAAAAEJI/ozbjJ-MMzqU/s320/me+pter+beth.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5160667331725929666" /></a><br /><br />Their choice? <br /><br /><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R55f34d8rOI/AAAAAAAAEJY/Px5OSG7fxVw/s1600-h/patsys.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R55f34d8rOI/AAAAAAAAEJY/Px5OSG7fxVw/s320/patsys.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5160667636668607714" /></a><br /><br />Pasty’s located deep in the heart of Spanish Harlem and their particular favourite because of its coal oven as opposed to wood. My suggestion that it would just make it coal oven cooked snot on toast as opposed to wood oven cooked snot on toast seemed to go unnoticed.<br /><br />What can I say? The salad was nice. The pizzas were enormous, well of course they were, this is, after all NYC. On one, Garlic and basil with some anchovies on my bit. On the other, ricotta and sun dried tomatoes. I wanted to like it if only to please Beth and Peter who are excellent fellows and I really did try eating a slice of each, but in truth I was more taken with the cute waitress from New Zealand and chatting to my chums than I was with what was on my plate.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R55f44d8rPI/AAAAAAAAEJg/wBdRd5PSnFc/s1600-h/pizza.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R55f44d8rPI/AAAAAAAAEJg/wBdRd5PSnFc/s320/pizza.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5160667653848476914" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R55fWYd8rLI/AAAAAAAAEJA/VX0PsuMPvLk/s1600-h/me+eating+pizza.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R55fWYd8rLI/AAAAAAAAEJA/VX0PsuMPvLk/s320/me+eating+pizza.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5160667061142990002" /></a><br /><br />Those of you who know me will tell you this is a rare occurrence.<br /><br />Beth and Peter insisted on picking up the tab which was incredibly generous. When they come to London, I am treating them to a Pork Pie and I will be equally as hospitable as they chow down on chunks of lardy pastry and fatty meat (yum!) See how they like them apples<br /><br />After supper, they walked me almost all the way home across town to Sanjoy & Evelyn’s flat before saying goodbye and heading uptown to their own place.<br /><br />So it was another fun day in NYC. Spent in the company of hugely agreeable people. I also got to try two more uniquely American foods, red sauce Italian and NY Pizza.<br /><br />What can I tell you? I just think it is good of New York to take the blame for them.Hermano 2http://www.blogger.com/profile/00317059903586211224noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38215268.post-6113672212360618822008-01-21T09:40:00.001-08:002008-01-21T10:05:08.260-08:00NEW YORK: DAY TWO<br />My first day back in New York had been about family. <br /><br />I had barely left the comfortable surrounds of Sanjoy & Evelyn’s apartment and felt suitably refreshed the next morning as I headed out to visit three places which, to me as a visitor, sum up everything that is special about eating in New York.<br /><br />Continuing the research into my theory that America’s greatest contribution to world cuisine is the sandwich, I headed down to Houston St and the site of one of the great sandwiches on planet earth, Katz’s Deli.<br /><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R5TcUmebnXI/AAAAAAAAEEg/DPU9KiIZZVM/s1600-h/katz%27s.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R5TcUmebnXI/AAAAAAAAEEg/DPU9KiIZZVM/s320/katz%27s.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5157989719729741170" /></a><br />Prone as the people of New York are to hyperbole, it would not be any great surprise if the much lauded pastrami sandwich was good, but not as good as they say. For once, they are absolutely right. It is every bit as good as they say. Possibly, even better. Slabs of moist meat are carved off and piled onto slices of rye bread, topped with a little sweet mustard and served with a plate of pickles.<br /><br />On this journey, there have been moments when I have just stopped for a second and reminded myself, where I am, what I am doing and why I am doing it. The trip is hurtling along and I want to allow myself time to reflect on the whole point of the exercise.<br /><br />I did it on The Great Wall of China as I stopped and thought about my mother who had always thought about making the trip. I did it in Mongolia as I stood by the Ger camp and watched nomadic horsemen shoot by at rapid pace and I did it in Finland as The Princessa prepared a meal in which everything served was grown or caught on their land. <br /><br />Special moments.<br /><br />It may be odd to say, but I had a similar moment sitting in Katz’s deli. It was not just that the sandwich was good. Of course it was. It was exceptionally good, particularly when each bite was alternated with a chomp on a “half Sour” pickle.<br /><br />It was just the realisation that I was in one of the great cities on earth, doing what millions of New Yorkers had done before me and experiencing something that could be copied but never matched. It is a unique experience and that is what EAT MY GLOBE was about.<br /><br />Mind you, I was soon shaken out of my reverie by the sounds of the rapidly filling deli and concentrated on the last few mouthfuls of my breakfast. The only weakness was the bread, which was non descript. I assumed it was just generic white bread, but found out later, from a friend, Sandy, that it is rye bread. The same friend told me that she even mules in her own superior bread and transplants the meat to create a superior sandwich. I laughed out loud when I heard this, but, if you really want to know how seriously New Yorkers take their food, there it is, literally on a plate.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R5TaYmebnUI/AAAAAAAAEEI/-xixRxYFyt0/s1600-h/pastrami.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R5TaYmebnUI/AAAAAAAAEEI/-xixRxYFyt0/s320/pastrami.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5157987589425962306" /></a><br />A pastrami sandwich for breakfast is not something to be taken lightly. That much meat early in the morning sits rather heavily on the tum and, as I had two more meals that day, I decided to head off for a bit of a stroll around the Lower East Side of Manhattan.<br /><br />The weather was lovely, with a slight breeze and I spent the next couple of hours working my way up towards my lunchtime destination with just a few stops to avail myself of the free Wi-Fi that seems to be a common and splendid feature of many of New York’s parks.<br /><br />By 1pm, I was ready for lunch and found myself outside Sushi Yasuda. There are very few times when the feel an anticipatory shiver of excitement before a meal. The times I have a reservation at this Japanese restaurant makes up much of the list.<br /><br />New York is responsible for my love of Sushi. Oh, we have sushi in London and it is getting to a stage where I would even describe it as “good” I would never describe it as “epiphanal” which is a word I would use for some of my sushi experiences in NYC.<br /><br />The first of such came in late 2002, when a friend, Abby accompanied me to a small restaurant called Jewel Bakko. She insisted that we go for the omakase which basically meant we sat there while they plonked stuff in front of us. It was at that point that I first really began to understand how good sushi could be.<br /><br />My first meal at Yasuda, sitting at his station as he placed piece after stunning piece of uber-fresh fish under my nose, raised the bar again. Even now after a trip to Japan, which included some truly extra-ordinary eating experiences, I was still thrilled to have the chance to go again. <br /><br /><br /><a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R5TaHGebnTI/AAAAAAAAEEA/SIcKQecnQjs/s1600-h/yasuda.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R5TaHGebnTI/AAAAAAAAEEA/SIcKQecnQjs/s320/yasuda.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5157987288778251570" /></a><br />They don’t make it easy, however, with lots of reconfirmations required to make sure my seat was ready for me when I arrived bang on time. It is worth all of that nonsense for the experience itself and, twelve or more pieces of sushi later and about $60 lighter, I still have no cause to knock Yasuda from the very top of my own personal sushi table. It is not just the quality of the fish served nor indeed the technique involved in creating the nigiri and maki. It is the man himself, bustling and humerous, attentive to both his customers and to the task at hand.<br /><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R5TZ3mebnSI/AAAAAAAAED4/EYx5Znxa4ac/s1600-h/yasuda+inside.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R5TZ3mebnSI/AAAAAAAAED4/EYx5Znxa4ac/s320/yasuda+inside.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5157987022490279202" /></a><br /><embed style="width:400px; height:326px;" id="VideoPlayback" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" src="http://video.google.com/googleplayer.swf?docId=-7584087170006280485&hl=en-GB" flashvars=""> </embed><br />At one point, as he placed my third piece of uni, sea urchin, in front me and said “better than sex” <br /><br />I looked back at him and said “I don’t know, my memory is not that good” <br /><br />He bent double with a sudden crack of laughter and then placed another piece down on my place setting, saying ‘better have two”. I love this guy and I love this place. If I lived in NYC or we had an equivalent in London, I would be eating there every week.<br /><br />Given that I had already eaten two meals and had one more to go, I decided to walk down from Yasuda’s to Tribeca where I was going to meet one of my dearest friends, Cathy Loup.<br /><br />Cathy (pictured here with a large piece of pork, which is another story all together) may not be a native New Yorker, but she represents everything that is best in the inhabitants of the city. She is fiercely proud of it and living there. But, unlike so many of its residents, not blind to its faults and the fact that there may just be other places on earth worthy of consideration.<br /><br />She also has one of the best hearts of any person who has ever walked the globe. It would take a lot hard investigation to find any person who could come up with a bad word to be said about her and, even then, the most damning thing they would be able to say is that she has a fondness for cheese from Wisconsin.<br /><br />When my mother died, it was Cathy whose regular mails to me as I sat in Washington Airport waiting to fly home from a business trip, kept me going. When I came to New York on my many business trips, it was her kitchen to which we decamped to produce Bengali dinners or unfeasibly large chunks of roasted meat and, when I look to have someone to break bread with, she is one of the first on the list.<br /><br />So, inevitably, on this leg of the journey, she was the first person I was going to dine with and left it to her to choose a place. <br /><a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R5TZWGebnRI/AAAAAAAAEDw/vW7O99KAiIE/s1600-h/cathy.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R5TZWGebnRI/AAAAAAAAEDw/vW7O99KAiIE/s320/cathy.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5157986446964661522" /></a><br />She chose The Kabab Café in Astoria, Queens. Never heard of it? I am not surprised. Unless you are a reader of any one of the food boards, there is no reason why you would have come across this tiny, unassuming place run by the irrepressible Ali. I only got to know it when another friend, Nina, took me there with promises of offal in all its many and varied forms. <br /><a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R5Tdi2ebncI/AAAAAAAAEFI/cUdutTUo0Zs/s1600-h/ali%27s.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R5Tdi2ebncI/AAAAAAAAEFI/cUdutTUo0Zs/s320/ali%27s.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5157991064054504898" /></a><br />She was not wrong. From a kitchen the size of a small shower cubicle, Ali produced plate after plate of food taken from bits of the animal that would normally be let on the abattoir floor. The flavours were revelatory and the atmosphere fuelled by good wine made the evening one of the best I have ever spent in the city.<br /><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R5TclmebnYI/AAAAAAAAEEo/KTST4bH2Tlk/s1600-h/inside+ali.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R5TclmebnYI/AAAAAAAAEEo/KTST4bH2Tlk/s320/inside+ali.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5157990011787517314" /></a><br />I had not been back for three years. A shame, but I was determined to make up for it. So, after collecting Cathy from work we headed over their by subway and wandered in to find Ali little changed and hard at work over the stove.<br /><br />“come here Indian boy” he shouted recognising me even though he had not seen me in too long a time.<br /><br />“have some of this” he added thrusting a battered something into my hand.<br /><br />I bit down and a crunch gave way to a creamy inside.<br /><br />“brains, my boy” he beamed. “gotta have brains”<br /><a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R5Td5GebndI/AAAAAAAAEFQ/MPtPI-NRGjw/s1600-h/ali.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R5Td5GebndI/AAAAAAAAEFQ/MPtPI-NRGjw/s320/ali.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5157991446306594258" /></a><br />I was back at The Kabab Café. Thank God.<br /><a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R5TbrGebnWI/AAAAAAAAEEY/f-QmTM69jro/s1600-h/marrow.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R5TbrGebnWI/AAAAAAAAEEY/f-QmTM69jro/s320/marrow.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5157989006765170018" /></a><br />It was as good as I remember. Course followed course as we devoured every bit of any number of animals. From glands to gonads, from brains to marrow bones. It is, by its nature, a bit one note “stuff in sauce” Cathy said hitting the nail on the head. But, I don’t care. If it is one note, it is a hell of a note to have.<br /><a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R5Tai2ebnVI/AAAAAAAAEEQ/QataHPrO3HI/s1600-h/me.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R5Tai2ebnVI/AAAAAAAAEEQ/QataHPrO3HI/s320/me.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5157987765519621458" /></a><br /><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R5TdHWebnaI/AAAAAAAAEE4/MNpAMiKiRa8/s1600-h/brains.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R5TdHWebnaI/AAAAAAAAEE4/MNpAMiKiRa8/s320/brains.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5157990591608102306" /></a><br /><a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R5TdQGebnbI/AAAAAAAAEFA/Lm9xcaIKXlk/s1600-h/bits.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R5TdQGebnbI/AAAAAAAAEFA/Lm9xcaIKXlk/s320/bits.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5157990741931957682" /></a><br />At the end of the meal and two bottles of wine later, Ali, offered us slices of honey cake to finish our meal off, washed down with some mint tea. A perfect ending.<br /><a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R5Tct2ebnZI/AAAAAAAAEEw/cZqTcUSO7-w/s1600-h/honey+cake.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R5Tct2ebnZI/AAAAAAAAEEw/cZqTcUSO7-w/s320/honey+cake.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5157990153521438098" /></a><br />We bundled out into the cold night air warmed by a last farewell hug from the man mountain himself and smiled our way back into the city. <br /><br />Another great day in a great city and a chance to catch up with some old friends. Yasuda, Ali & CathyHermano 2http://www.blogger.com/profile/00317059903586211224noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38215268.post-90246360149092783432008-01-10T03:14:00.000-08:002008-01-10T03:37:20.829-08:00NEW YORK: DAY ONE, FEELS LIKE GOING HOME<br /><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R4X_SGebl-I/AAAAAAAAD5c/crLZAay2esg/s1600-h/train+station.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R4X_SGebl-I/AAAAAAAAD5c/crLZAay2esg/s320/train+station.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5153806035036379106" /></a><br /><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R4X_aGebl_I/AAAAAAAAD5k/00xHPOT4DEU/s1600-h/philly+sign.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R4X_aGebl_I/AAAAAAAAD5k/00xHPOT4DEU/s320/philly+sign.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5153806172475332594" /></a><br />Compared to many parts of my journey, the trip from Philadelphia to New York City is a bloody easy one. About an hour on the train. Of course, New York being New York, things are never quite that simple and, when I woke up in my Center City hotel and switched on the TV, I found out that there was a strike by the taxi drivers of NYC that very day.<br /><br />Mind you, I am not quite sure how you can tell when NYC taxi drivers are not on strike as they do seem to be one of the more pathologically lazy group of people I have ever encountered. Right up (or down) there with their equivalents in Beijing. Any more indolent than that and they would probably be dead.<br /><br />For a city that offers the amount NYC does, the lousiness of its taxi system is one of the few things that should make it hang its head in shame. But, I digress.<br /><br />As you can probably tell, my relationship with NYC is an interesting one. I have lost count now, but since I first started travelling on business in the 90’s I have been to NYC dozens of times and, since my first visit in the mid 80’s it could be close to a hundred times. <br /><br />The sense of excitement I felt when I first used to visit has long gone. That is no bad thing. It has been replaced by a sense of comfortable familiarity borne out of extended stays in particular neighbourhoods and long weekends, between weeks of publishing work, spent exploring not just Manhattan but other parts of The Five Boroughs in the company of friends.<br /><br />Ah, friends. Having people you know to show you around or host a meal for you is what makes a visit to any city special. Doubly so in New York where the variety of what is on offer is often bewildering.<br /><br />I am lucky that, in NYC, I have many people I consider friends. I also have a number who would not give me the steam of a sweaty pig if I was freezing, but that’s another matter. Over the years they have invited me into their homes, introduced me to their favourite places to eat and given me a view of the city that would have been otherwise impossible for a visitor.<br /><br />They are an odd lot though and, as a European and a Brit in particular, their ability to develop almost child like enthusiasms for people and places and to turn on the same in a short period can be alarming. <br /><br />They work in a binary mindset where a restaurant can go from being the very best example of its kind in the whole wide world ever to being worthless and only producing food fit for pigs all within a matter of months. The same for people ,who can go from being bosom buddies to sworn adversaries in the same amount of time.<br /><br />And, obviously, there is the whole language thing. New Yorkers have a tendency to say what ever the Hell it is on their mind, even if that may not be a particularly good idea and the air is often filled with the sounds of irony whizzing over their heads.<br /><br />This, of course, is a generalisation but, one that I have found to be pretty accurate on my visits. Being a bit that way myself, it will come as no surprise to say that I like New Yorkers a great deal. Not least for the fact they are incredibly easy to wind up.<br /><br />New York City remains one of my favourite places on earth. It is, obviously, amongst the great cities in which to eat and there can be no more loyal friend than a New Yorker. Mind you, if they turn on you, you should probably go and hide in a bunker somewhere for a few years.<br /><br />I had allowed myself a week in the city on this trip. Not only to allow me to fit in as many of the food places I wanted to try, but also to allow me to spend time with my family. For the last forty years, my Aunt and Uncle, Sanjoy & Evelyn have lived on The Upper West Side (well,in fact, The Upper, Upper West Side) and no trip to New York would be complete if I was not able to spend a great deal of time in their company or, as was the case this time, to stay with them for the duration of my visit.<br /><br />After the train shuddered through New Jersey and pulled up at Penn Station, I prepared myself for the trauma of heading up to my relatives’ house on the subway. For those who know me both in London and New York, it will come as something as a shock to say that I have become rather fond of public transportation. I have been forced to given that my limited budget does not extend to chauffeur driven limos everywhere.<br /><br />It was all pretty easy, given that I didn’t even have to change. Although, I was reminded about where I was and about the joys of dealing with New Yorkers the moment I boarded the train with my ever so large rucksack, Big Red, on my back.<br /><br />I am as aware as anyone of the lack of enjoyment involved in having a large rucksack shoved in your fizzog by a young traveller. So, once on board a tube, I always take mine from my back and rest it on the floor between my legs where it can’t do any harm ( there is a joke in there somewhere)<br /><br />This was obviously not enough for one local who made loud protestations to everyone but me about how “thoughtless” and “stupid” it was for someone to try and take the subway with such large luggage. The fact there was a taxi strike obviously had not entered his thick skull not had the fact that he was a bit of a fat lad and was taking up far more room than me and Big Red put together. I was tired and in no mood to listen to it so put on my best Ben Kingsley in “Sexy Beast” shit and turned to him snarling<br /><br />“Do I really look like the sort of person who gives a flying fuck what you think, fat boy?”<br /><br />He turned an interesting shade of red and whimpered “no” before getting off an the next station. Not the ideal re-introduction to the city, but I felt better when the man next to me smiled and said ‘good for you”<br /><br />By the time I reached Sanjoy & Evelyn’s apartment, I was sweating like a mule from the heat in the subway and from having to lug my rucksack from 110th St. But, the moment, I stepped from the lift into their cool living room, I felt at home.<br /><a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R4YAImebmBI/AAAAAAAAD50/aRw_sDtUggE/s1600-h/sanjoy.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R4YAImebmBI/AAAAAAAAD50/aRw_sDtUggE/s320/sanjoy.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5153806971339249682" /></a><br />In the last twenty-five years, they have become my second parents and their apartment like a second home. I know every nook and cranny of it from the bottles of fine wine that Sanjoy collected in his days with Rothchild’s to the art they collected with such enthusiasm in the 1970’s when Evelyn’s successful career as an opera singer took her all over the world. After a few weeks of hotels, it felt good to be home. <br /><br />I dumped my bag in the room I always use when I am staying there, showered and put on some comfortable Indian cotton trousers and went to sit in the kitchen to watch Evelyn do what she does best of all, cook. The same age as my mother would have been, Evelyn is one of the greatest cooks of Bengali food I have ever encountered. Like my mother, she developed the skill at the beginning of her marriage from her Mother-in-law and damn is she good at it.<br /><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R4X-yWebl9I/AAAAAAAAD5U/0h_stiU0sUU/s1600-h/evelyn.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R4X-yWebl9I/AAAAAAAAD5U/0h_stiU0sUU/s320/evelyn.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5153805489575532498" /></a><br />She knows that, when I arrive, in NYC and at their flat, the first thing I want to do is raid the fridge to see what left overs may be in there. It is always packed to bursting and, I only realised recently that she cooks “left overs” specially so they will be there during my visit. <br /><br />This time, I pulled out some simple vegetable dishes and some plump shingara, a Bengali version of a samosa stuffed with cauliflower and sat at the kitchen table while Evelyn prepared yet more food, this time for a dinner party that evening.<br /><br />A little later, I had a vague notion to head down to Barney Greengrass, a famous deli on The Upper West Side, for lunch, but saw, when I arrived, that it was closed. I made a mental note to visit it later in the trip and went off to do a bit of shopping before heading home to enjoy the fruits of Evelyn’s labours.<br /><br />Sanjoy was home by now and, like all good Bengali men, sitting in his pyjamas expecting the world to rotate slowly around him making sure that his every whim was catered to. As always, he bickered agreeably with Evelyn until the guests arrived and he could bicker with them too. Given their backgrounds, they have an incredibly eclectic collection of friends and tonight saw us sitting down with ethno-musicographers from Columbia University, realtors from New Jersey a hotel manager, some friends of Evelyn’s who were devotees of the same guru and a young Spanish economics student who Sanjoy had accosted on a bus one day because she was reading a book he admired.<br /><br />Evelyn’s food is simple and packed with flavour. Every bite reminds me of my mother, her own cooking and the dishes I would long to try again.<br /><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R4X_jWebmAI/AAAAAAAAD5s/jd0jvsuswUk/s1600-h/bengali+food.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R4X_jWebmAI/AAAAAAAAD5s/jd0jvsuswUk/s320/bengali+food.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5153806331389122562" /></a><br />The atmosphere at the table is incredibly convivial and the conversation loud and raucous. Usually, Sanjoy starts an argument and then sits back to watch the unfolding chaos with a Buddha like smile on his face. A lot of people think I am rather like him. I have no idea why.<br /><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R4YCD2ebmDI/AAAAAAAAD6E/HwyE0zExX9Q/s1600-h/cauliflower.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R4YCD2ebmDI/AAAAAAAAD6E/HwyE0zExX9Q/s320/cauliflower.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5153809088758126642" /></a><br /><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R4YB3GebmCI/AAAAAAAAD58/B2sv_bpBRKI/s1600-h/chicken.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R4YB3GebmCI/AAAAAAAAD58/B2sv_bpBRKI/s320/chicken.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5153808869714794530" /></a><br /><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R4YCT2ebmEI/AAAAAAAAD6M/1QLr53skd38/s1600-h/lamb.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R4YCT2ebmEI/AAAAAAAAD6M/1QLr53skd38/s320/lamb.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5153809363636033602" /></a><br />They did not leave until 1am, by which time, I was bushed and ready for bed. Sanjoy had upset just about everyone, so his work was done too and he retired to bed, happy. Evelyn was busy wrapping up food<br /><br />“you’ll want some leftovers tomorrow wont you?” She asked<br /><br />“It’s a bit late isn’t it?” I replied<br /><br />“What for leftovers?” she looked at me quizzically<br /><br />“No, for a silly question like that” <br /><br />And, with that I went to bed. Jolly glad to be back in New York City.Hermano 2http://www.blogger.com/profile/00317059903586211224noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38215268.post-79716050634772484572008-01-09T05:18:00.000-08:002008-01-09T05:52:02.845-08:00PHILADELPHIA: THE BROTHERLY LOVE BETWEEN MAN, MEAT & CHEESE<br />If my trip to date has proved nothing else, it has shown that, anywhere in the world, people have the capacity to be astonishingly generous.<br /><br />I did not doubt this of the friends I knew already nor did I doubt it of the ones I had not yet met but had offered invitations for me to join them at points on the tour. But, I was and am constantly astounded by the generosity I receive from many of the complete strangers I have encountered along the way.<br /><br />So, my Philadelphia Story may be about food, but it is also a letter of thanks to two strangers no longer, Stan & Lisa Cohen.<br /><br />First of all, however, I had to endure my flight from NOLA to Philadelphia via Memphis. The first leg was not bad at all and I didn’t even mind the fact that I had a middle seat on the next leg as the flight was relatively short.<br /><br />I had not counted, however, on my seat companions. On one side a gentleman of around 300lbs and on the other side a lady of similar weight. I am not going to get into the argument about paying for extra seats or the reasons for obesity, that is for another blog. I can however, go on about fashion sense as both of them had chosen to wear shorts for this trip which meant that the flab from their legs flopped fluidly onto mine when they sat down. I was trapped.<br /><br />It gets worse, believe me, it gets worse. I had my eyes closed as the plane began to taxi but soon felt something slapping against my leg. I glanced down and saw the fat from my fellow travellers thighs beating out a gentle drum march as the plane moved towards take off. It got faster and faster as the plane gathered speed until, as we took off, it was sounding like machine gun fire. I closed my eyes again and wished for death.<br /><br />Once in the air, things settled down and I tried to squeeze my arms out to grab hold of a copy of my favourite magazine of all time, SKY MALL. I couldn’t reach it without causing obvious distress to my companions, so left it there while I tried to go back to sleep.<br /><br />It gets worse. Oh God it gets worse. The man to my left had brought his lunch with him. In fact, he appeared to have brought a number of people’s lunches with him as he produced a burger, a wrap, nachos and a large bottle of diet Coke (obviously on a diet) <br /><br />By the time the short flight was over, he had managed to reduce this feast to nothing but crumbs and, after wiping his lips daintily on an airline napkin, let out a huge burp.<br /><br />The rat-a-tat-tat of fatty leg meat upon mine was repeated as we came into land. The Lunchbox Bandit to my left, prised himself out of his seat and dusted the debris of meal off his stomach and headed off without so much as a “have a nice day”<br /><br />By the time, I had retrieved Big Red and taken a taxi to the hotel, I was not only shattered but hungry as Hell. There is only one thing that can fit the bill when I get to this state and that is a huge fuck off steak. There is, of course, nowhere better to get one of these things that the good old US of Stateside.<br /><br />The nearest flesh available was at the reliable chain option of Smith & Wollensky. I have always quite liked these places when I have tried them. A half decent Martini, large steaks cooked to order and precious little else to worry about.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R4TLJmebl3I/AAAAAAAAD4k/c2ZdrtA59mU/s1600-h/martini.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R4TLJmebl3I/AAAAAAAAD4k/c2ZdrtA59mU/s320/martini.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5153467239426135922" /></a><br />Given that it was Saturday night, the place was heaving but, the staff managed to find a small space at the bar for me to prop against and I sat down to enjoy the first of what became several martinis. I enjoyed my steak too. It is rare that I don’t in the US. They just know how to cook the damn things properly and to serve them in a size that will satisfy even my appetite. In this instance, a large 26oz T-bone cooked exactly as requested, rare with a good char. With some creamed spinach, it was exactly what I wanted.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R4TKameblyI/AAAAAAAAD38/DuL0fw02Xrs/s1600-h/Steak.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R4TKameblyI/AAAAAAAAD38/DuL0fw02Xrs/s320/Steak.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOwhTO_ID_5153466431972284194" /></a><br />What I was not sure was if I wanted to talk to anyone. My experiences of earlier in the day had not made me terribly well disposed towards strangers and I was more than happy to just finish my drink and leave for an early night.<br /><br />So, when the man to my right used a classic opening gambit “you here on business?” I just smiled politely and mumbled something about being in town to try the food.<br /><br />He persevered, thank God and when he said the words “so, are you going to try a Philly Cheese steak?” he had my complete attention. Of course I was there for a PSC (as I had it noted in my diary) I am sure Philly has lots of other stuff, but I find it hard to be tempted by soft pretzels which are as grim as they sound or even The Hoagie which is strictly a Division 2 effort. My only reason for coming to Philadelphia was The Philly Cheese Steak and this man, apparently, was the one to help me in my quest.<br /><br />The man was Stan Cohen and, by now, his wife, Lisa had joined us too. They persuaded me to another Martini, not a hard task I will grant you, and began to fill me in on the origins of arguably Americas greatest sandwich.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R4TKnWeblzI/AAAAAAAAD4E/aM_JYWyWP08/s1600-h/stan+%26+Lisa.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R4TKnWeblzI/AAAAAAAAD4E/aM_JYWyWP08/s320/stan+%26+Lisa.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5153466651015616306" /></a><br />In 1930, Pat Olivieri opened the first stand selling Italian rolls filled with chopped steak topped with cheese. They were an instant hit and a few years later, Joe Vento opened another store directly opposite his rival’s.<br /><br />From that day on, a huge rivalry exists. Stan & Lisa explained that you were either a “Pat’s” person or a “Geno’s” person and it was very rare to ever cross over. Stan had been a “Pat-man” until he met Lisa but crossed the line and was now a firm supporter of Mr Geno.<br /><br />“so, when are you planning to go?” Lisa asked<br /><br />“well” I said, draining the last of my third martini. “They seem to be open 24 hours, I was going to head down there tomorrow morning”<br /><br />Stan & Lisa went into a sort of huddle and, when they came up for air, Lisa said the magic words “Why don’t we go now?”<br /><br />I was full of steak, liquored up and, it being past Midnight, shattered beyond belief, so, of course, I said “yes” I said it loudly enough that most people at the bar turned and stared at us. I think I also added the word “fuck” in front of it just for good measure.<br /><br />We tumbled out of the restaurant and Lisa, in her role as designated driver, took the wheel and pointed their convertible in the direction of South Philadelphia.<br /><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R4TK4Webl1I/AAAAAAAAD4U/1sm32EncLPw/s1600-h/Pats.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R4TK4Webl1I/AAAAAAAAD4U/1sm32EncLPw/s320/Pats.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5153466943073392466" /></a><br /><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R4TLYmebl5I/AAAAAAAAD40/g9YStquJMUM/s1600-h/genos.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R4TLYmebl5I/AAAAAAAAD40/g9YStquJMUM/s320/genos.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5153467497124173714" /></a><br />On the way, they began to give me strict instructions on how to order. It is akin to “The Soup Nazi” on Seinfeld. He who hesitates is lost. You need to be word perfect before you get there or your chances of getting hold of one of Geno’s beauties is gone.<br /><a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R4TLm2ebl7I/AAAAAAAAD5E/bzEt7Bd79ic/s1600-h/counter.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R4TLm2ebl7I/AAAAAAAAD5E/bzEt7Bd79ic/s320/counter.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5153467741937309618" /></a><br /><br />“Whizz with” for a steak sandwich with Cheese Whizz<br /><br />“Whizz with, handicapped” for one you want cutting in half.<br /><br />As I stood in line, Stan & Lisa watched from afar. I think, as I turned towards them, my arms laden with our order, Stan gave me a visible nod of approval.<br /><br />Well, given that I was already full, the fact that I polished off a whole sandwich on top of that should tell you how good they are. They shouldn’t be. The ingredients on their own are middling at best. But, they combine to produce a true American classic. The soft bread, the slightly chewy chopped mean and the synthetic saltiness of the cheese combine with caramelized onions to make something that slips down far too easily. It is not hard to see why residents of the city claim to be physically addicted to them.<br /><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R4TNJWebl8I/AAAAAAAAD5M/8oaG_Ejg9Ts/s1600-h/cheesesteak.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R4TNJWebl8I/AAAAAAAAD5M/8oaG_Ejg9Ts/s320/cheesesteak.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5153469434154424258" /></a><br />I almost didn’t make it. In an act of “what can Philadelphia do to me that Calcutta hasn’t?” bravado, I smothered one half of my sandwich in a hot sauce so fiery that it brought tears to my eyes. It took me a good ten minutes before the pain subsided and I was able to finish and to see just how good it really was. My companions politely stifled their laughing as the continued their lesson.<br /><a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R4TK_2ebl2I/AAAAAAAAD4c/3IhMKQ8k-yE/s1600-h/me+%26+sarnie.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R4TK_2ebl2I/AAAAAAAAD4c/3IhMKQ8k-yE/s320/me+%26+sarnie.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5153467071922411362" /></a><br />“It’s the water in the bread” Stan offered between bites of his own sandwich. “it is why they don’t taste the same anywhere else” He is right. On the rest of my travels, I tried versions in other cities and they were fine but, they just did not taste the same. Context plays a part, I am sure, just as it did with the Po’Boy a few days before in NOLA. But, a Philly Cheese Steak is a thing of beauty.<br /><br /><br />After we had finished, Stan & Lisa drove me all the way back across town to my hotel before depositing me safely around 2am. <br /><br />This was exactly the sort of evening I had envisioned when I quit my job to go travelling. Meeting local people who will introduce you to the local food the way they like to eat it. A great evening.<br /><br />If that was a great evening, the next day proved to be a bit of an anti-climax. It may have been a hangover. It may have been the fact that I was filled to the brim with beef or it may just have been that by now, three weeks into this leg of the trip, I needed to stop for a while.<br /><br />I spent the morning walking around the city and doing a bit of the tourist stuff. It is all very interesting and that, but forgive me if touring around the sites of the early USA did not fill me with pant wetting excitement. Before you ask, no I didn’t bother going to see a broken bell.<br /><br />I did however, go and see Reading Terminal, which, if I am brutally honest left me feeling quite a long way from whelmed. <br /><a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R4TKuGebl0I/AAAAAAAAD4M/CaHoVKCZ4zw/s1600-h/readng+terminal.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R4TKuGebl0I/AAAAAAAAD4M/CaHoVKCZ4zw/s320/readng+terminal.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5153466766979733314" /></a><br />Admittedly, a lot of the stalls were closed on a Sunday, particularly those carrying produce from The Pennsylvania Dutch, which was a shame as I had my fatty heart set on a slab of Scrapple. Despite my best efforts, I just couldn’t raise any level of excitement for the rest of the market. I am sure they will learn to live with the disappointment.<br /><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R4TLPmebl4I/AAAAAAAAD4s/69KVt9ELqZc/s1600-h/inside+temrnial.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R4TLPmebl4I/AAAAAAAAD4s/69KVt9ELqZc/s320/inside+temrnial.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5153467342505351042" /></a><br />I treated myself to a large tub of three flavours from Bassett’s, which was not bad, and carried on walking until I was about to flop.<br /><br />I bought a ticket for my train journey to New York the following morning and stopped for a passable lunch of fish tacos at a place called El Vez. <br /><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R4TLfWebl6I/AAAAAAAAD48/iv1EOKK0k60/s1600-h/elvez.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R4TLfWebl6I/AAAAAAAAD48/iv1EOKK0k60/s320/elvez.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5153467613088290722" /></a><br />That, ladies and gents, was about it for me and Philadelphia. I headed back to the hotel and spent the rest of my time in the city in my hotel room writing and catching up on my sleep. The fact I slept from 8pm to 8am the next day was some indication of how tired I must have been.<br /><br />Philadelphia was not a major stop on this leg of the journey. But, I had come, I had seen and I had eaten a cheese steak. I also met Stan & Lisa Cohen as well as Pat & Geno. For that, I am particularly grateful.<br /><br />Everybody, after me “one whizz with, handicapped please”<br /><br />Like a native.Hermano 2http://www.blogger.com/profile/00317059903586211224noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38215268.post-43659651417849073512008-01-07T12:02:00.000-08:002008-01-07T13:52:39.574-08:00NEW ORLEANS: SIMON IS BIG & SIMON IS EASY<br />It was still dark when I finally opened my eyes the next morning. Or at least I thought it was. Then I saw a beam of light shooting in through a chink in the curtains. I stumbled drowsily over to the drapes and pulled them aside to be greeted by bright sunshine and, even more worrying, the sight of Chris McMillan pulling up to the kerb outside the hotel in a large Lincoln Town car.<br /><br />In a panic, I phoned reception and asked them to have him wait for five minutes, threw myself under the shower and was downstairs quicker than you could say “Bourbon St”<br /><br />Chris had promised me a tour of “his” New Orleans today. What could be better than being shown around one of your favourite places on the planet by someone who was born there, raised there and will push up the daisies there? <br /><embed style="width:400px; height:326px;" id="VideoPlayback" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" src="http://video.google.com/googleplayer.swf?docId=5496377156875031768&hl=en-GB" flashvars=""> </embed><br />I need not have worried about Chris becoming impatient, as I ran out of the hotel, he was happily sitting in his car listening to jazz filtering through the speakers of his car, courtesy of WWOZ. <br /><a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R4KJImeblmI/AAAAAAAAD2c/gMicmbgWlpQ/s1600-h/radio.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R4KJImeblmI/AAAAAAAAD2c/gMicmbgWlpQ/s320/radio.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5152831704525411938" /></a><br />“There was no need to rush” he said giving me a laconic wave. “I’m happy here with my jazz” which, all in all, just about sums up New Orleans attitude to life in general.<br /><br />I was in a rush, however, and, despite the huge meal of the night before, I was damn hungry.<br /><br />First thing on the agenda was further proof, if it were needed, of America’s pre-eminence when it comes to stuffing things between bits of bread. We were off to eat a Po-boy.<br /><br />I had been told by a friend, that his favourite Po-Boy in the city was at The Parkway Bakery which sits overlooking Bayou St John. I mentioned this to Chris and he replied “well now, that boy’s got good taste. That’s where we’re heading” and with that, he nudged the car in to gear and we began a sedate drive away from The Quarter in search of the real New Orleans.<br /><br />On the way, Chris gave me a bit of a potted history lesson. I didn’t take much of it in, I was too excited about the thought of the sandwich, but, I suspect it was about the Spanish and The French and how they did not like each other very much and about how they all hated The British more. Plus, as they say, ca change.<br /><a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R4KI6WeblkI/AAAAAAAAD2M/nvWGPJznQ1U/s1600-h/parkway.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R4KI6WeblkI/AAAAAAAAD2M/nvWGPJznQ1U/s320/parkway.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5152831459712276034" /></a><br />By the time we arrived at The Parkway Bakery, it was already full but we squeezed ourselves into a space at a small table and Chris went to order. As with all American sandwiches, you have to be very specific and Chris, of course, was a master. For him, one laden down with fried oysters and, for me, being of the “oysters make me throw up blood” persuasion, one with white fish and shrimp. All dressed to the nines as they should be.<br /><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R4KJC2ebllI/AAAAAAAAD2U/Y0Rvm26DNa8/s1600-h/po+boys.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R4KJC2ebllI/AAAAAAAAD2U/Y0Rvm26DNa8/s320/po+boys.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5152831605741164114" /></a><br />It is hard to describe how good these tasted. I am certain that the context of eating a food in the place of its creation adds to the taste, but these were the best I have ever tried. The shrimp were crunchy on the outside and, when I broke through the coating, the flesh was sweet and firm. The dressing was sharp and cut through the richness of the seafood and the bread gave the appropriate stodge. It is as close to perfect as a sarnie can get.<br /><br />The same can’t be said for the root beer. The bottle of Bargs Chris brought back with him carried the order “drink it, it’s good” which should have the owners dragged up before The Advertising Standards Council. It is not good. It is vile. It tastes like Germolene mixed with Deep Heat. Why in fuck’s name would anyone want to drink it? Not me, I pushed my bottle away from me after the first sip in disgust. Chris was obviously made of sterner stuff and downed his bottle in one gulp.<br /><br />It didn’t take us long to polish off our sandwiches, crinkle up the wrapping and throw them in the recycling receptacle at the end of the counter, with a rather splendid hook shot, I might be so bold as to add. <br /><br />We waddled back out to the car and Chris turned to me and said “now I am going to show you what really happened”<br /><br />With that, we strapped ourselves in and Chris pointed the car in the direction of Lake Pontchartrain. For the next hour or so, we said very little to each other. There is little that can be said when faced with the remaining effects of such devastation. As we drove through what had once been a prosperous predominantly white neighbourhood, Chris pointed out that Katrina had been an equal opportunity destroyer. While the 9th Ward was in his words “ the poster boy” for the storm and undeniably took the brunt of the storm, it still did untold damage to other neighbourhoods which received far less coverage and were never mentioned by Spike Lee in his moving but flawed documentary “ When The Levee Breaks”<br /><br />Chris was bitter. He was bitter about the way the local government handled the evacuation, he was bitter about the way the federal government handled the aftermath and he was furious about the way that they had both mismanaged the rebuilding of the city. Huge tracts lay empty, entire neighbourhoods are gone for good as people left and never came back. The city, he though, had the chance to do something really special. To rebuild a true 21st Century City. Instead, he thinks, they have looked to do the bare minimum to cover their backs. Once again, New Orleans has been left to fend for itself.<br /><br />But, if anything, New Orleans and its people are resilient and have the capacity to find something to be happy about in any situation. As we drove, the Jazz stylings on WWOZ proved to be a perfect soundtrack and Chris gave me a perfect example of how the city is evolving to meet its new circumstances. A lot of the young people who prove to be the driving force of NOLA’s extra-ordinary music scene, left the city and many have not returned. It had a big effect on the club scene there until the vacuum began to be filled with new bands playing a fusion of jazz merged with Hispanic music, the music of the workers who had headed to the city to help with reconstruction. <br /><br />As if to prove the point a local band were in the studio playing a session. They were made up of two white guys, two black and two Hispanic. The sounds they produced were defiant and joyous another perfect way to describe New Orleans, which displays these qualities in abundance, whatever nature and the negligence of its government try to do to it.<br /><br />Enough of this though. My trip was about NOLA here and now and about food. Chris wanted to take me for another sandwich. A Muffuletta. <br /><a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R4KGqmebleI/AAAAAAAAD1c/EHobQPqNrKI/s1600-h/central.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R4KGqmebleI/AAAAAAAAD1c/EHobQPqNrKI/s320/central.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5152828990106080738" /></a><br />If the Po’ Boy was derived from the African American legacy of the city, The Muffuletta is Italian through and through. A challenging mix of Italian bread stuffed with two types of meat, two types of cheese and a dressing made of olives and pickles. It is huge and a “half” would be enough for two people easily. So, we ordered a whole one. <br /><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R4KHiGeblfI/AAAAAAAAD1k/HiU_0jYcZDQ/s1600-h/inside+central.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R4KHiGeblfI/AAAAAAAAD1k/HiU_0jYcZDQ/s320/inside+central.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5152829943588820466" /></a><br />Although other places do them, The Central Grocery is the only place to get the real deal. This is, after all where they originated, in the back of this cramped treasure trove of oils, vinegars and all things Italian.<br /><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R4KIUGebliI/AAAAAAAAD18/kloe3syiLok/s1600-h/muffaletta.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R4KIUGebliI/AAAAAAAAD18/kloe3syiLok/s320/muffaletta.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5152830802582279714" /></a><br /><br />It is, as all good sandwiches should be, incredibly messy to eat. The dressing falls out and the oil ,which has not seeped into the bread begins to drip from your chin until it forms a pleasing puddle on the table. Despite the undignified manner of its eating, it is, as you would imagine from the description not bad at all. The ham and cheese are not the sort of things you would write home about on their own and the olives are not top notch, but they combine to a welcome amalgam that makes you eat far more than you planned or indeed thought you could.<br /><a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R4KIBmeblhI/AAAAAAAAD10/Mrjb9emfTJk/s1600-h/me+and+sarnie.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R4KIBmeblhI/AAAAAAAAD10/Mrjb9emfTJk/s320/me+and+sarnie.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5152830484754699794" /></a><br />After our second sarnie, Chris took me on a stroll around The Quarter. First to a gallery owner by a friend of his where I was allowed to see the original prints from Bellocq, the biographer of Storyville and then to another stalwart of The Quarter, Tujaques where we chugged down a last beer before Chris had to head off to man the bar.<br /><a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R4KJfWeblpI/AAAAAAAAD20/ZojueFbVfWw/s1600-h/tujaques.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R4KJfWeblpI/AAAAAAAAD20/ZojueFbVfWw/s320/tujaques.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5152832095367435922" /></a><br />It had been a day I wont forget in a hurry. The food, of course, was tremendous, but it was Chris’s take on the history of the city, both past and modern, and that trip around the lake, that really stuck with me. It made me certain that, of all the places I visited in the US, this would be the one that would be marked down for another visit a soon as I possibly could.<br /><br />Chris headed off to work and I headed off to do some writing and to figure out my supper.<br /><br />When I was in Austin, my new chums, the King’s insisted that I try a small place in The Garden District which had provided a great meal on one of their previous visits. They were people of impeccable tastes so, who was I to argue? That is how I spent my last night in New Orleans sitting next to the owner of Upperline.<br /><br />First though, I felt the need for another Sazerac. Chris had suggested that I try The Column Hotel. He warned me that the drinks were only “OK” but that it was worth visiting as the hotel, the home of a former tobacco magnate, was an incredible building that had been used as the set for the controversial film, Pretty Baby.<br /><br />Well, he was right on one count, the hotel was worth a visit for the building. He was wrong on the other count, the drinks were not “OK” they were bad. Easily the worst I had in the city. I left most of my Sazerac and headed out for supper at Upperline.<br /><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R4KNo2ebluI/AAAAAAAAD3c/WQhVVXsbgaQ/s1600-h/hotel+in+GD.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R4KNo2ebluI/AAAAAAAAD3c/WQhVVXsbgaQ/s320/hotel+in+GD.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5152836656622704354" /></a><br />For the previous twenty-five years, Joanne Clevenger has been running this small neighbourhood joint and, the moment you arrive you feel like you are about to have supper in the drawing room of an old friend. I sat alone at a small table and, as I looked at the menu, she came and sat with me and talked about all her favourite restaurants in the world including my own, London’s own, St John.<br /><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R4KHo2eblgI/AAAAAAAAD1s/K8AMNU03xrI/s1600-h/Joanne+clevenger.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R4KHo2eblgI/AAAAAAAAD1s/K8AMNU03xrI/s320/Joanne+clevenger.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5152830059552937474" /></a><br /><a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R4KKGmeblqI/AAAAAAAAD28/58NX7vWwwLM/s1600-h/upper+line+inside.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R4KKGmeblqI/AAAAAAAAD28/58NX7vWwwLM/s320/upper+line+inside.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5152832769677301410" /></a><br />The room was quite empty so, until more people began to arrive, she was happy to sit with me as I ate the hearty food, which reminded me of how good old school dishes can be when they are done well and with no scrimping on ingredients. Fried green tomatoes with remoulade, roasted duck with port sauce all followed by profiteroles. It was hardly cutting edge, but the better for that. I could not have been happier.<br /><a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R4KNSWebltI/AAAAAAAAD3U/9Vf2KKBQnPQ/s1600-h/duck.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R4KNSWebltI/AAAAAAAAD3U/9Vf2KKBQnPQ/s320/duck.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5152836270075647698" /></a><br /><br />After supper, they called a cab for me. On my last night, I decided I had to brave Bourbon St. I had them drop me off and began to walk its length. <br /><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R4KGh2ebldI/AAAAAAAAD1U/kxgoKr--hG4/s1600-h/bourbon.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R4KGh2ebldI/AAAAAAAAD1U/kxgoKr--hG4/s320/bourbon.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5152828839782225362" /></a><br /> It was as vile as I recalled if less populated because of the season and Katrina. Men stared into the windows of titty bars, bands played for pennies and the stench of vomit filled the air even at a relatively early hour. I had more than my fill after about ten minutes and ducked out onto one of the side streets.<br /><a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R4KKameblrI/AAAAAAAAD3E/SwAhwVEHe3g/s1600-h/band.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R4KKameblrI/AAAAAAAAD3E/SwAhwVEHe3g/s320/band.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5152833113274685106" /></a><br /><a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R4KK-meblsI/AAAAAAAAD3M/U6NoQbUimKY/s1600-h/beer+sign.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R4KK-meblsI/AAAAAAAAD3M/U6NoQbUimKY/s320/beer+sign.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5152833731749975746" /></a><br /><a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R4KJXWebloI/AAAAAAAAD2s/zjkqgzvbt7Q/s1600-h/titty+bar+sign.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R4KJXWebloI/AAAAAAAAD2s/zjkqgzvbt7Q/s320/titty+bar+sign.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5152831957928482434" /></a><br /><a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R4KJPmeblnI/AAAAAAAAD2k/3hv5k_Xuz7Y/s1600-h/temptation.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R4KJPmeblnI/AAAAAAAAD2k/3hv5k_Xuz7Y/s320/temptation.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5152831824784496242" /></a><br />That was better. An impromptu parade was taking place. Music played and people danced as the crowd grew. I asked a young woman in a flowing Summer dress why they were marching<br /><a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R4KIamebljI/AAAAAAAAD2E/L8KG4xtNOVA/s1600-h/parade.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R4KIamebljI/AAAAAAAAD2E/L8KG4xtNOVA/s320/parade.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5152830914251429426" /></a><br />“because, we are still here darlin’ and because we can”<br /><br />Who was I to argue?<br /><br />I never dance. There have been to many people who have requested that I don’t. But, here, at this moment in this time and with this music and this energy, I could not help myself.<br /><br />So, I danced, and I danced, not caring how ridiculous my flailing was, until way into the early hours. I didn’t give a flying damn how stupid I looked. Which, of course, I did.<br /><br />That is New Orleans for you.<br /><br />One Hell of a city.Hermano 2http://www.blogger.com/profile/00317059903586211224noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38215268.post-61823933025389487602008-01-05T08:23:00.000-08:002008-01-05T08:42:33.687-08:00NEW ORLEANS: SIMON IS BIG & SIMON IS EASY<br />Is there any other place on earth like New Orleans?<br /><br />Is there any other city that could go through so much and yet still be one of the few places on earth where you feel the current of life running through it the moment you step off the plane?<br /><br />Is there any other city where the people embrace that life and the inevitability of death with passion, humour and warmth?<br /><br />And, most importantly, well for me on this trip, is there any place where it is possible to eat so incredibly well from the moment you wake up to the moment you finally and reluctantly have to lay your head down on the pillow at the end of the day?<br /><br />This was my second visit to New Orleans. Last time I visited, it seeped into my system and remained there like a benign virus. I could not shake off the feelings I developed for the city and, even if I had not been heading off to EAT MY GLOBE, I knew I would be back one day.<br /><br />Little did I know that, this time when I returned, the city I had fallen head over heals for would have been battered by storms, subjected to a flood that would have made Noah nervous and, shamefully, all but abandoned by its government.<br /><br />It would be fair to say that I was nervous as my plane touched down at NOLA airport early in the morning. The scenes we all witnessed on TV were apocalyptic, more like those you would see being beamed in from deepest, darkest somewhere or other, not from the world’s richest nation.<br /><br />On top of which, internet research showed that precious little had been done to restore the city even in the two years since the storms abated. <br /><br />I had no idea what to expect.<br /><br />What I found, to my surprise was a city that seemed little different from my previous visit. Admittedly, I was staying in The French Quarter, which had not experienced anything like the damage of places nearer the lake and I was not to see the full extent of the damage until later.<br /><a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R3-wAWeblTI/AAAAAAAAD0E/3XRGprVUJmo/s1600-h/hotel.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R3-wAWeblTI/AAAAAAAAD0E/3XRGprVUJmo/s320/hotel.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5152030018814842162" /></a><br />I settled in a large, comfortable room in my hotel, The Le Richelieu in the heart of The Quarter and went out to explore for myself.<br /><br />It was, of course, hot and humid as Hell, and there were constant threats of thunderstorms. Threats which were carried out every ninety minutes or so with a loud cloudburst and a short, sharp downpour. Fortunately, being British, I had been given a brolly the moment I plopped out of the womb, so was better prepared than many.<br /><br />In New Orleans, there are certain things you really must eat and drink if you are to say you have been to the city at all. On the side occupied by Mr Booze, it is, of course, The Sazerac. I had that all planned for later. For now, my plan was to get the Beignet out of the way.<br /><a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R3-vTGeblQI/AAAAAAAADzs/CMdVEO2wne8/s1600-h/beignet.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R3-vTGeblQI/AAAAAAAADzs/CMdVEO2wne8/s320/beignet.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5152029241425761538" /></a><br />A Beignet, to all intents and purposes, is a doughnut with pretensions. I had not liked them on previous visits and I was pretty sure I would not like them now. But, I am out to eat the good, the bad and the sugary, so set off to the one and only, Café Du Monde.<br /><br />It is a local legend and, although now strictly on the tourist trail, one of those things that a visitor really ought to try. Once.<br /><br />I could not bring myself to sit down, so ordered $4 worth and a hot chocolate and sat on a wall behind the café where I could watch the balls of fried dough being made. They were no better or no worse than I recall and, after a couple of bites, I deposited the bag next to someone sleeping on a bench and headed off for a wander sipping on the slightly watery hot chocolate.<br /><br />The local government has obviously worked hard to restore both the city’s infrastructure and its reputation. Large posters for the conference centre were in full affect and there did seem to be an upbeat air about the place. However, the impact of Katrina is still very much in evidence particularly when you see the unused lines, which used to guide the famous trams.<br /><br />By early afternoon, I was both shattered from my 5am start and from my walk in the humid air. I returned to the comfort of my room, switched the TV and the air conditioning on and promptly fell asleep.<br /><br />By the time I awoke, it was dark outside and my liver was telling me it was time for my first Sazerac.<br /><br />A few months before, at The London Bar Show, I had been lucky enough to meet a New Orleans legend, Chris McMillan who is not only a fourth generation NOLA bar tender, currently working the Library Bar at The Ritz Carlton, but also a director of The Museum of The American Cocktail. If there is anything about the history of cocktails Chris does not know, then it is simply not worth knowing.<br /><a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R3-v6GeblSI/AAAAAAAADz8/S_zqYUfUJZM/s1600-h/chris.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R3-v6GeblSI/AAAAAAAADz8/S_zqYUfUJZM/s320/chris.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5152029911440659746" /></a><br />He is also recognised as one of the best makers of Sazerac’s in the world. Not a bad accolade.<br /><br />The Sazerac takes its place in my pantheon of five drinks I order to test any bartender’s chops. Other drinks may be tasty but you can hide a lot with fruits and syrups. The classic five are, The Martini, The Manhattan, The Old Fashioned, The Sazerac and The Daiquiri. With these drinks, it is all about the balance. There is nowhere to hide if you get it wrong.<br /><br />Well, Chris does not get it wrong. Originally, the drink, created by Antoine Peychaud, was made with Cognac. No surprise given the French influence over the city. Over time, as brandy became harder to source and more expensive, the drink was made with rye whiskey as it is to this day. Add the spirit to an Absinthe washed glass, sugar syrup, a slug of bitters bearing Peychaud’s,name, dress with a lemon twist and you have one of the truly great cocktail experiences. New Orleans in a glass.<br /><br />Chris’ version did not disappoint. It was cold and the initial hit was of the spirit. Then the sugar and the bitters kicked in to give balance and the lemon oil from the twist gave the required citrus note. It really is an astonishing experience and one that is all to regularly served without care and attention.<br /><a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R3-y3GeblWI/AAAAAAAAD0c/OR_J1dU8OAA/s1600-h/martini.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R3-y3GeblWI/AAAAAAAAD0c/OR_J1dU8OAA/s320/martini.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5152033158435935586" /></a><br />By the time I had enjoyed my second drink of the evening, an exquisitely made Martini, Chris wife, Laura had arrived and the three of us chatted while Chris also kept an eye out on the busy bar. <br /><br />My stomach was rumbling by now. I had nothing to eat but that doughnut thingy at lunchtime. Chris had to work until later but Laura suggested I join her for supper at Café Adelaide, in the plush Loews Hotel, where chef Kevin Vizard was overseeing the restaurant and The Swizzle Stick Bar.<br /><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R3-zC2eblXI/AAAAAAAAD0k/2O-rh4F6N6g/s1600-h/menu.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R3-zC2eblXI/AAAAAAAAD0k/2O-rh4F6N6g/s320/menu.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5152033360299398514" /></a><br /><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R3-ws2eblUI/AAAAAAAAD0M/DDTQKKFLJiw/s1600-h/soft+shell+crab.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R3-ws2eblUI/AAAAAAAAD0M/DDTQKKFLJiw/s320/soft+shell+crab.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5152030783319020866" /></a><br />The restaurant is named for another local legend, Adelaide Brennan, whose motto for life was “Eating, Drinking & Carrying On” As a set of rules for life go, it is one of the better ones and the food certainly lives up to its NOLA legacy. It reminded me of why I loved the place on my first visit.<br /><br />It could not be more New Orleans if it tried. Oysters come “crispy”, Turtle soup is spiced up with a glug of sherry and gumbo is introduced to fried okra on a regular basis.<br /><br />A NOLA version of dirty rice called Calas came with duck giblets and, thank The Lord, they had soft shell crab on the menu. In the UK, we seldom see these beauties unless you set foot in a Chinese restaurant. However, since I tried my first on an early visit to New York, I have ordered them just about every time I have seen them on a menu. <br /><br />The ones at Café Adelaide did not disappoint although, as is often the case in the US, I did have to deconstruct a tower of food to get to the main event. It was worth the effort though, with crunchy outsides giving way to meltingly sweet flesh. <br /><br />I could not face dessert and, so after saying my farewells to Laura and thanking sous chef, Raoul who presented me with a bottle of local sugar cane vinegar, I set out to walk back to my hotel.<br /><a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R3-vxGeblRI/AAAAAAAADz0/ctfZ6SBJtOU/s1600-h/chef.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R3-vxGeblRI/AAAAAAAADz0/ctfZ6SBJtOU/s320/chef.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5152029756821837074" /></a><br />I decided to give the piss & vomit perfume of Bourbon St a miss. My inevitable visit there could wait until the next night. I walked home along some of the quieter streets of The Quarter and arrived in my room just as the heaven’s opened and the rains poured<br /><a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R3-zNGeblYI/AAAAAAAAD0s/gdeM-H5EolM/s1600-h/street+scene.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R3-zNGeblYI/AAAAAAAAD0s/gdeM-H5EolM/s320/street+scene.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5152033536393057666" /></a><br />The next day, Chris had promised to take me on a tour of “his” New Orleans. I was as excited as Hell, but the booze and the travelling had taken its toll and I was asleep almost before I undressed. Just pleased as a Po’Boy to be back in this incredible city.Hermano 2http://www.blogger.com/profile/00317059903586211224noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38215268.post-42614271565901007452008-01-03T02:38:00.000-08:002008-01-03T17:25:36.410-08:00AUSTIN TX: WITH THE KINGS OF KEEPING IT WEIRD<br />Jane works at Central Market in Austin.<br /><br />It is what Whole Foods wants to be, or perhaps what Whole Foods, which is also based in Austin, wanted to be before it grew into the triumph of logistics over excellence that it has now become.<br /><br />Central Market is, quite simply, a good store. The sort, I would kill to have near me in London. Decent ranges of good quality food, well displayed at prices that don’t make you go “ouch”<br /><br />As well as the food, they also have regular events and Jane had invited me along to one of the cookery demonstrations the following morning which was being given by someone who I call “The acceptable face of Indian cookery in America” Suvir Savan<br /><br />Now, I am pretty dismissive of the food from the sub-continent I have tried in the US as it tends towards the homogenous curry slop that was the blight of many places in the UK throughout the 70’s and 80’s and still is, if I am being honest. <br /><br />It is getting a lot better and, at the front of this improvement has been Suvir and his chef/partner Hemant. Their own restaurant, Devi in NYC is easily the best of its kind in the city and one of the few places I consider on a par with places of a similar higher end disposition in London. <br /><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R3y_4meblGI/AAAAAAAADyc/qF4gNRYwoHE/s1600-h/suvir.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R3y_4meblGI/AAAAAAAADyc/qF4gNRYwoHE/s320/suvir.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5151203052926768226" /></a><br />I had met Suvir a number of times over the years, but I think it was a shock for both of us to suddenly meet again so far from our normal circles.<br /><br />The joy of being the only Indian in the room sometimes is that you can tell people whatever you like about the food and they will believe you. They will lap it up when you tell them that your granny used to stand on one leg and drain buffalo milk through muslin at midnight to make paneer. They will look on in awe as you tell them that it takes twenty servants ten hours of solid labour to make a proper dhansak and they will almost be pushed to tears when you say that stealing the last poppadum off the plate is an offence to the gods.<br /><br />Unfortunately, with a real expert in the house, I could not get away with any of this (although I am sure Suvir has got away with plenty) and so would just have to shut the fuck up.<br /><br />I didn’t, of course, I never do. Neither did Jane and between us, we interrupted Suvir’s demonstrations more times than was probably necessary. He took it in good part though and the food he produced was good, rich in flavour and with the depth that only real Indian cooks, of which I am most definitely not one, know how to get.<br /><a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R3zCG2eblII/AAAAAAAADys/hMkRcqQvTi4/s1600-h/curry.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R3zCG2eblII/AAAAAAAADys/hMkRcqQvTi4/s320/curry.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5151205496763159682" /></a><br /><a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R3zAC2eblHI/AAAAAAAADyk/4xT-IBeP1RA/s1600-h/we+three.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R3zAC2eblHI/AAAAAAAADyk/4xT-IBeP1RA/s320/we+three.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5151203229020427378" /></a><br />As Suvir signed books after the event, I took the opportunity to invegle my way in to the grou photo <br /><a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R3zCg2eblKI/AAAAAAAADy8/R1ASfXYCZ2Y/s1600-h/team+picture.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R3zCg2eblKI/AAAAAAAADy8/R1ASfXYCZ2Y/s320/team+picture.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5151205943439758498" /></a><br /><br />and to harass some poor local food writers about the inadequacy of Indian food in the former colonies until Jane gently told me to “shut up” because it was time to head off.<br /><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R3y-pWeblDI/AAAAAAAADyE/_cqqbeCLiIc/s1600-h/me+pontificating.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R3y-pWeblDI/AAAAAAAADyE/_cqqbeCLiIc/s320/me+pontificating.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5151201691422135346" /></a><br /><br />I had offered to do some cookery of my own that night. When it comes to doing Indian food for friends, I have about twenty-five recipes on rotation. There are some I do every time I cook for someone for the first time to show them how easy they are. Crunchy onion bhaji, thin, citrus dahl and rich, creamy Kormas. It is a pleasure to cook for them and even more of a pleasure when they allow me to boss them around in their own kitchen.<br /><br />Austin was better than I imagined when it came to sourcing ingredients for our night’s supper and, by early afternoon, we were pretty much set to prepare a simple meal of Bhaji, Tandoori chicken, vindaloo and a Bengali speciality of cabbage & shrimp.<br /><a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R3zCT2eblJI/AAAAAAAADy0/pxYUaZ6YF9M/s1600-h/shopping.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R3zCT2eblJI/AAAAAAAADy0/pxYUaZ6YF9M/s320/shopping.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5151205720101459090" /></a><br />But first, I had to have a nap. Not because of the over indulgences of the night before and not because I had over exerted myself in any way that morning but more because Jane had given me some hard core drugs to deal with an insect bite and they knocked me six ways from Christmas. I staggered to their porch, flopped on a comfortable sofa and slept solidly for two hours. Jolly nice it was too.<br /><br />If the supper was unremarkable for the food, it was hugely enjoyable for the company and for its leisurely pace. It was also the point at which John announced that he would like to accompany me on my trip the next day, my original mission for visiting Austin. BBQ.<br /><br />God bless him. <br /><br />So, the next morning, bright and early, John came to pick me up. I was sitting in Jo’s, a small café next to the motel and sipping on a thick hot chocolate when he walked in straw Stetson very firmly in place on his head and beckoned me to join him in his car as we headed off in search of ‘Q.<br /><br />Now, as if I needed any persuading at all, John spent the time of our drive to Lockhart explaining why Texas Q is better than any other. I could not disagree with him. I love Kansas City BBQ with its sweet sauces or Carolina BBQ with its vinegar bases. I like pork BBQ from Memphis or even some of the mutton BBQ I have tried in Kentucky.<br /><br />But, when it comes to real BBQ and I mean the “if they have BBQ in heaven” sort of BBQ, it will come from Texas and, more than that, it will probably come from Lockhart or Lulling. It is the sheer confidence in the quality of the meat that does it. As john put it, poetically “if you need sauce, there must be something wrong with your BBQ”<br /><br />We had set our sights quite high. Four BBQ joints in three hours. I knew I was man enough for the job and, looking at John, I could see that his loins were very much girded. Not that I would ever knowingly look at a Texan’s loins, I want to make that abundantly clear.<br /><br />First stop, Kreuz Market. The first family of Texan BBQ now in their “new” location following familial struggles after the death of the original owner. It looked the part and, certainly it was better than anything I get back in London, but it was not as good as I remember it.<br /><a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R3y-R2eblCI/AAAAAAAADx8/p3cHzD8NnTk/s1600-h/kreuz.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R3y-R2eblCI/AAAAAAAADx8/p3cHzD8NnTk/s320/kreuz.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5151201287695209506" /></a><br /><a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R3y-A2eblBI/AAAAAAAADx0/p8vYixMiBwY/s1600-h/kreuz+2.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R3y-A2eblBI/AAAAAAAADx0/p8vYixMiBwY/s320/kreuz+2.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5151200995637433362" /></a><br /><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R3y_kmeblFI/AAAAAAAADyU/lze8l1bnFek/s1600-h/john2.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R3y_kmeblFI/AAAAAAAADyU/lze8l1bnFek/s320/john2.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5151202709329384530" /></a><br />So, we soon moved on to Black’s. This was more like it for me. Black’s was the working folks BBQ pit and it showed. A down home style dining room proved the perfect location for more brisket and some fabulous links.<br /><a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R3y7c2ebk4I/AAAAAAAADws/73J0TxYNdvU/s1600-h/blacks.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R3y7c2ebk4I/AAAAAAAADws/73J0TxYNdvU/s320/blacks.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5151198178138887042" /></a><br /><a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R3y7jGebk5I/AAAAAAAADw0/U6AOjW3arZg/s1600-h/blacks+2.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R3y7jGebk5I/AAAAAAAADw0/U6AOjW3arZg/s320/blacks+2.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5151198285513069458" /></a><br /><a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R3y7rGebk6I/AAAAAAAADw8/nMArAgsawK4/s1600-h/blacks+meat.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R3y7rGebk6I/AAAAAAAADw8/nMArAgsawK4/s320/blacks+meat.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5151198422952022946" /></a><br /><br />I could have gone back for seconds, but John had other plans, we had to head 50 yards across the road, by car of course this is Texas after all, to Smitty’s. Now, this is the oldest of the lot and the smell of smoking is ingrained in the walls as well as the meat. On my last trip, this had been my favourite and it was still right up there. Heart stoppingly good, in fact and arguably the brisket of the day.<br /><a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R3y9QGebk_I/AAAAAAAADxk/DoZcqo7YrjU/s1600-h/john+smittys.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R3y9QGebk_I/AAAAAAAADxk/DoZcqo7YrjU/s320/john+smittys.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5151200158118810610" /></a><br /><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R3y_UmeblEI/AAAAAAAADyM/wSVeLXC_Syg/s1600-h/smittys+3.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R3y_UmeblEI/AAAAAAAADyM/wSVeLXC_Syg/s320/smittys+3.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5151202434451477570" /></a><br />I was fading a bit by now and, after links, ribs and brisket, I was already beginning to come out in meat sweats. John however, the ‘Q professional, had paced himself nicely for our last stop. A fifteen minute drive saw us arrive at City Market in Lulling.<br /><br />New to me, this is generally considered to be one of the top pits not just in Texas but in the country and on this evidence, it is a richly deserved reputation. The brisket was smoky, but not over done. It was moist and fatty but had bite. In short, it was perfect.<br /><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R3y8Rmebk9I/AAAAAAAADxU/Umtd6WiONDI/s1600-h/city+market.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R3y8Rmebk9I/AAAAAAAADxU/Umtd6WiONDI/s320/city+market.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5151199084376986578" /></a><br /><a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R3y8B2ebk7I/AAAAAAAADxE/BbwfsFuWpvE/s1600-h/city+inside.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R3y8B2ebk7I/AAAAAAAADxE/BbwfsFuWpvE/s320/city+inside.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5151198813794046898" /></a><br /><a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R3y8J2ebk8I/AAAAAAAADxM/0egi5W57iLU/s1600-h/city+links.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R3y8J2ebk8I/AAAAAAAADxM/0egi5W57iLU/s320/city+links.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5151198951233000386" /></a><br />John, at this point, had decided to let loose and showed me how to make a brisket sandwich. That too will enter the pantheon of top dishes when I compile a list from around the world. I can taste it now, when I close my eyes. It really is that special a beast, or bit of a beast.<br /><a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R3y8pGebk-I/AAAAAAAADxc/oxcWiv4TLHs/s1600-h/john+city+sarnie.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R3y8pGebk-I/AAAAAAAADxc/oxcWiv4TLHs/s320/john+city+sarnie.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5151199488103912418" /></a><br /><br />As John was chauffeur for the day, I insisted on paying. It was only right and proper. In return, when I popped to point Percival at the porcelain, he sneaked off and bought me a City Market Baseball cap. Now, I look ridiculous in all hats. It’s the big ears you see, in case you had not noticed. But, I shall treasure this one for as long as I draw breath. A hat from arguably the best BBQ pit in the world. Not too many balding Anglo-brits can say that now can they?<br /><br />We took a leisurely drive back to Austin and by 4pm, John was dropping me off at the motel. He parked and walked me up to my room to say goodbye. I would not see him again before I left. This really is a very special man indeed, for all sorts of reasons and I feel fortunate to have met him.<br /><br />As he walked away, his curvy shape silhouetted in the Sun, he turned and said in his laconic drawl “and by the way, thanks for the BBQ” and with that, he put his Stetson back on his head and walked slowly back to his car.<br /><br />No John, Thank you.<br /><br />That evening, Jane came over to the motel to meet me one last time. We strolled across the street to Amy’s Ice Cream and, after buying a tub each, went back to sit on the benches at Jo’s.<br /><br />It was a balmy evening and the music was playing gently in the background. It was at that point, just as I was leaving, that I felt I really began to understand Austin.<br /><br />It was a shame, but now I have made two new friends, I have no excuse not to return.Hermano 2http://www.blogger.com/profile/00317059903586211224noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38215268.post-34552751308750512252008-01-02T14:48:00.000-08:002008-01-02T15:14:17.906-08:00AUSTIN TX: WITH THE KINGS OF KEEPING IT WEIRD<br />If Ann Arbor had been about spending time with old friends then Austin TX was going to be all about meeting new ones.<br /><br />An early flight from Detroit had me arriving in Austin’s small but rather fun little airport around Midday and, within about fifteen minutes of arriving, I had picked up my small hire car and pointed it towards my accommodation, the utterly fabulous Austin Motel whose sign evokes an extended middle finger giving it to “the man” and whose motto reads “So Close Yet So Far Out”<br /><a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R3wVE2ebkrI/AAAAAAAADvE/fpUlaq6xOEE/s1600-h/motel.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R3wVE2ebkrI/AAAAAAAADvE/fpUlaq6xOEE/s320/motel.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5151015246891815602" /></a><br /><br />The only other time I had visited Austin with my brother, Robin, it was to hunt down good BBQ. I had pretty much the same intentions this time, but was resigned to the fact that I was going to have to make the journey alone. When she heard this, my NYC chum, Cathy insisted that I get in touch with another food board stalwart, Jane King who lives in Austin and who, she was sure, would be more than a match for any food obsessive.<br /><br />So, I did and, what a good thing I did too because the extra-ordinary hospitality of Jane and her husband, John, before then, complete strangers, turned my time in Austin from being one that I knew was going to be good to one that was up there in the highlights of the trip so far.<br /><br />On my last visit, I rather fell in love with Austin. I liked its quirkiness, the conscious attempts of its locals to “keep it weird” and the laid back vibe which meant that everything happened at its own steady pace.<br /><br />It had changed a bit some five years later. There were more signs of chain dominance with the inevitable Starbucks across the street from the motel and a Chipotle Grill just up the street. But, it still had the same spirit, which I noticed immediately I checked in and headed out to lunch.<br /><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R3wZhmebk3I/AAAAAAAADwk/5RH_HAsdHKg/s1600-h/t+gills.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R3wZhmebk3I/AAAAAAAADwk/5RH_HAsdHKg/s320/t+gills.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5151020138859565938" /></a><br />The people behind the desk suggested Threadgill’s ,another local institution for a meal and, as it was Sunday and the place was packed, I squeezed myself into a small space at the bar and ordered a welcome Shiner Bock.<br /><br />Their speciality, the man behind the bar told me, was a Chicken Fried Steak. I had heard of these things and knew the origins came from German immigrants who used cheap cuts of meat which they pounded, battered and cooked in shortening. It sounded just my sort of thing, particularly when served with a mound of collard greens and another cold beer. In truth, however, it was a bit grim. But, I liked it. I asked a fellow diner on a neighbouring stool if this was a good example.<br /><br />“best in the city” he declared ‘best in the city”<br /><a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R3wVxGebkuI/AAAAAAAADvc/XzQImz6OlZs/s1600-h/chicken+fried.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R3wVxGebkuI/AAAAAAAADvc/XzQImz6OlZs/s320/chicken+fried.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5151016007101027042" /></a><br /><br />If that is, indeed the case, I suspect I just have very low standards. It is one of those times when you question your own foodie credentials and come to the conclusion that you are actually just a greedy person or at least I did as I mopped up the gravy on my plate with one of the soft, scone like biscuits they gave me for just that purpose.<br /><br />Anyway, it sat heavily enough in my stomach that, after a short walk to see the entirely grim Sixth St with its shabby titty bars and dreadful restaurants, I was ready for a bit of a nap in my well air-conditioned room.<br /><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R3wVMWebksI/AAAAAAAADvM/g_K6lb6LXPY/s1600-h/bail+bond+car.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R3wVMWebksI/AAAAAAAADvM/g_K6lb6LXPY/s320/bail+bond+car.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5151015375740834498" /></a><br /><br />My wake up call came about an hour later courtesy of my new chum, Jane. <br /><br />Not only had she agreed to meet me, a feat in itself, but she had also arranged a bit of a get-together with some other local food board habitués which would involve, I was promised, lashings of Tequila and some prime examples of Tex-Mex cooking.<br /><br />I was dog tired, but how could I turn down an offer like that. I could not.<br /><br />So, half an hour later, I was standing by the entrance to The Austin Motel, showered and shaved as JK’s pimped up ride pulled into the driveway with the top down and the wind in my hair, ok work with me on this one people, it was easy to see why this city gets under your skin and why people who come here seldom leave.<br /><br />As we arrived at Jane’s house, husband, John was busy unloading beer from his car into the porch. I liked him already. Mind you, dressed in shorts a T-shirt and a Straw Stetson worn without a hint of irony, he is a man it is almost impossible to dislike. This attraction was re-enforced when he handed me the first of too many shots of tequila.<br /><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R3wXOmebkzI/AAAAAAAADwE/lGOqia2Pkfs/s1600-h/john.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R3wXOmebkzI/AAAAAAAADwE/lGOqia2Pkfs/s320/john.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5151017613418795826" /></a><br /><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R3wYKmebk1I/AAAAAAAADwU/IWHPL6h_kBM/s1600-h/tequila.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R3wYKmebk1I/AAAAAAAADwU/IWHPL6h_kBM/s320/tequila.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5151018644210946898" /></a><br /><br />I have to be honest and say that I knew almost nothing about proper Tex-Mex cookery. I assumed it was very different from Mexican, but since I knew nothing about that either I could not have told you how. My experiences of it in London have always verged on the disgusting and I assumed that it was basically just an excuse to use up residual amounts of bad cheese that may have been laying in the back of the fridge.<br /><br />Well, it is certainly meat & cheese dependent and there is no way you would ever call it a refined cuisine, but, on the evidence of what was put in front of me, it is entirely delicious.<br /><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R3wYeWebk2I/AAAAAAAADwc/yeXVJrvVgtc/s1600-h/tex+mex.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R3wYeWebk2I/AAAAAAAADwc/yeXVJrvVgtc/s320/tex+mex.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5151018983513363298" /></a><br />“Armadillo Eggs” were a particular favourite. Made of jalapeno peppers stuffed with cheese and wrapped in bacon, I shovelled down about six of them before I realised that everyone else in the porch was staring at me with a look mixing horror and disgust in equal measure.<br /><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R3wWTmebkwI/AAAAAAAADvs/CxFO-s7JgbA/s1600-h/chillies.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R3wWTmebkwI/AAAAAAAADvs/CxFO-s7JgbA/s320/chillies.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5151016599806513922" /></a><br />So, I moved on to the chilli con queso, a dip made with ground beef and yet more cheese. If they would have had the chance, I am sure that The Kings would have told me not to stand on ceremony. I did not give them a chance as I stood right by the table with all the food on it and helped myself until they began to stare again. This time, I am pretty sure I heard an “eeew” noise from one of them.<br /><a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R3wWAGebkvI/AAAAAAAADvk/xqERcVrnBd8/s1600-h/chilli.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R3wWAGebkvI/AAAAAAAADvk/xqERcVrnBd8/s320/chilli.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5151016264799064818" /></a><br /><br />These were just the starters and soon a huge dish of enchiladas stuffed with pulled pork and a large bowl of beans appeared. Jane produced a pico de gallo in a vain attempt to keep things on the healthy side of heart attack, but it was too late. The enchilada were so good it was all they could do to stop me stripping off and taking a bath in the dish. <br /><a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R3wWlGebkxI/AAAAAAAADv0/Jy3pBfqX-74/s1600-h/enchilada.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R3wWlGebkxI/AAAAAAAADv0/Jy3pBfqX-74/s320/enchilada.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5151016900454224658" /></a><br /><a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R3wVgGebktI/AAAAAAAADvU/WIEYuPjIrW8/s1600-h/beans.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R3wVgGebktI/AAAAAAAADvU/WIEYuPjIrW8/s320/beans.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5151015715043250898" /></a><br />I am also slightly ashamed to admit that I may have knocked over their charming daughter Natalie in my rush to get to the crispy bits at the edge of the bowl. I apologised, of course. Mind you, I like to think that it taught her a useful lesson she can take with her into later life. You’re welcome.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R3wW9mebkyI/AAAAAAAADv8/ZxEfvjam0SI/s1600-h/group.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R3wW9mebkyI/AAAAAAAADv8/ZxEfvjam0SI/s320/group.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5151017321361019682" /></a><br /><br />After making a considerable pig of myself, I flopped down on a rather pretty pink rocking chair and helped myself to yet another glug of tequila.<br /><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R3wXfmebk0I/AAAAAAAADwM/JmRmn0aWJr0/s1600-h/me+in+rocking+chair.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_i-zAYejCn54/R3wXfmebk0I/AAAAAAAADwM/JmRmn0aWJr0/s320/me+in+rocking+chair.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5151017905476571970" /></a><br /><br />They say, I believe that Texas is just “a state of mind” <br /><br />Well, I was in a hell of a state and no one seemed to mind.<br /><br />I had two more days left in Texas and, thanks to my newest chums, I was pretty sure I was going to enjoy them.Hermano 2http://www.blogger.com/profile/00317059903586211224noreply@blogger.com1