SAN FRANCISCO: A BRIDGE TOO FAR

I wont go into detail about the rest of my time in Brazil.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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"

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?

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.

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”

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

Bye Bye Brazil and good riddance.

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.

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.

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.



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.

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.

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.

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.





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.



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.





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

“air is free” Alexandra intoned wisely explaining the basic economics of style over substance. Something Californians do oh so very well.

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.

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.







And, with that, I hit the hay feeling much happier than I had the night before.

The next day I did the tourist thing. Well you are forced to aren’t you?

I walked along by the piers to Fisherman’s Wharf, which was as dreadful as I recall.

I looked at The Golden Gate Bridge, which was as unimpressive as I recall.



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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Next stop, Santa Cruz.

NEW YORK: DAY ONE, FEELS LIKE GOING HOME


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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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)

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

“Do I really look like the sort of person who gives a flying fuck what you think, fat boy?”

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”

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.



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

“you’ll want some leftovers tomorrow wont you?” She asked

“It’s a bit late isn’t it?” I replied

“What for leftovers?” she looked at me quizzically

“No, for a silly question like that”

And, with that I went to bed. Jolly glad to be back in New York City.

PHILADELPHIA: THE BROTHERLY LOVE BETWEEN MAN, MEAT & CHEESE
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.

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.

So, my Philadelphia Story may be about food, but it is also a letter of thanks to two strangers no longer, Stan & Lisa Cohen.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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)

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.

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”

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.

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.


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.


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.

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.

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.

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.


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.

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.

“so, when are you planning to go?” Lisa asked

“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”

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?”

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.

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.


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.


“Whizz with” for a steak sandwich with Cheese Whizz

“Whizz with, handicapped” for one you want cutting in half.

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.

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.

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.

“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.


After we had finished, Stan & Lisa drove me all the way back across town to my hotel before depositing me safely around 2am.

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.

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.

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.

I did however, go and see Reading Terminal, which, if I am brutally honest left me feeling quite a long way from whelmed.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Everybody, after me “one whizz with, handicapped please”

Like a native.

NEW ORLEANS: SIMON IS BIG & SIMON IS EASY
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.

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”

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?

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.

“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.

I was in a rush, however, and, despite the huge meal of the night before, I was damn hungry.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

We waddled back out to the car and Chris turned to me and said “now I am going to show you what really happened”

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”

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.


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.

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.

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.

Chris headed off to work and I headed off to do some writing and to figure out my supper.

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.

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.

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.

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.


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.


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.

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.




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

“because, we are still here darlin’ and because we can”

Who was I to argue?

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.

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.

That is New Orleans for you.

One Hell of a city.

AUSTIN TX: WITH THE KINGS OF KEEPING IT WEIRD
Jane works at Central Market in Austin.

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.

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”

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.


As Suvir signed books after the event, I took the opportunity to invegle my way in to the grou photo


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.


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.

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.

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.

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.

God bless him.

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.

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.

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”

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.

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.



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.




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.


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.

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.



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.


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?

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.

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.

No John, Thank you.

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.

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.

It was a shame, but now I have made two new friends, I have no excuse not to return.