The Sun Also Rises

Midnight trains from Paris through the south of France. Heading towards the Spanish coast. First stop Hendaye, then San Sebastian, then small Basque towns. The month of June. In love. With questions and drink and time and food to help get some answers.

Sounds like a story. Okay, so it's the plot of Hemingway's the Sun Also Rises, but it's also the story of my life. Really.

Midnight on the first of June my lover and I were out of our berths, heads half hanging out the window trying to catch whatever glimpses we could in the waning moonlight-le clair de lune. Munching a chevre and sun-dried tomato fougasse purchased earlier from another of our favorite bakeries, Coquelicot, we reveled in the night's magic. The magic that comes from silence broken only by the clanking of the train running on silver rails. Magic that can only exist when one is leaving an incredible city like Paris, for the more wild and wooded hills and coasts of the Basque region of Spain. No more metros. No more Louvre. No more streetlights on the Seine. But heading towards...

...Rainy hillsides ten thousand tints of green, dappled with sun-baked tile roofs and stunted horses and fat sheep. No more bustling museum-bound tourists, just the hollow bells hung on goats necks that roam fairly free through the steep hillsides. Bocadillos, Spanish omelets, and pintxos(better known as tapas, but served with heaps of the Basque pride of their local ingredients). My much loved Rose has been traded for txakoli-an INCREDIBLY tasty Basque white wine that is almost ciderlike and, much to my delight-somewhat sparkly as well.

Unlike Hemingway's protagonist, instead of fishing for trout in the hills we stay at a beautiful caserillo in the hills, taking short walks up to a small Spanish church that looks out over fog draped mountains. We take our time.

San Sebastian still beckons, as does Bilbao, Pamplona and Barcelona. I doubt I will fall in love with a bullfighter, and Jay probably won't get into any bar fights, but no two stories are exactly alike. Our story is stranger than fiction, but Hemingway would be proud. Our last evening in Paris crested with a beautiful sunset, but on a midnight train bound for España, we dreamed of what we would find when the Spanish sun rises.

Minuit dans Paris

Merci, merci beaucoup, Woody Allen.

His latest film, Midnight in Paris, is-like many of his site stimulated films (Manhattan, VickiChristinaBarcelona), a tribute to the city and its charms. And let me tell you, a city as charming as Paris deserves tribute. What is most intoxicating about the film is the theme that one always wishes to be in a city during it's most magical time-New Orleans during the bebop era with Thellonius Monk, Dizzy and Clifford Brown, New York in the Jazz era, Chicago in the 20s during prohibition when things got wild-especially the women. Woody Allen's latest is based on a character's desire to not only live in Paris, but the Paris as he imagines it was in the "Golden Era" of the 1920's-Hemmingway, Gertrude Stein, the Fitzgeralds all captured by perfect Paris romance and longing to add their art to the Greatest City in the World.

Don't we all feel like this? Walking through the small streets in Montmarte don't I wish the flashing pharmacy windows were replaced by small apothecary jars and petite colorful advertisements for "cure-all elixirs!"? Instead of ramshackle kebab and frite shops run by hygiene-foregone foreigners, wouldn't it be lovely to see a family run fromagerie? During the film the protagonist-a Hollywood screenwriter turned half-attempted novelist-walks out of the most wonderfully lit brasserie and when he turns back to it, he instead finds a florescent doused laverie-laundromat. An all too common sight in Paris these days I am afraid to say.

One of the best lines of the movie is spat from the most despicable character (played by the usually so darling Rachel McAdams), but I love this line all the same; "ugh, if I have to see another one of those cheap cliche French cafes..." I hear ya sister. The "French Cafe" is on every corner and they-as far as I have bothered to research-sell the same menu: steak frites, croque, mixed salad with potatoes and hard boiled egg. It is not that these foods aren't fine and carb-full filling, but without desire to elevate, cultivate, or distinguish themselves, every one of these brasseries is exactly the same. Ok, that one has a red awning, this one is green. How I long for a "Midnight in Paris" where if I was out late and wanted to have a bite to eat I would not have to choose between the Quickburger, the KFC, or Le Salle de Diamant-an "upscale" bar with white furniture that serves a shot glass sized beer for 12euros.

I guess what I am really getting at is, thank you Woody Allen for pointing out that I am not alone in waxing romantic notions about the Paris of the past. Though, in circa 2011 I have to deal with McDonald's cups blowing into me in the Tulleries, at least I don't have to worry about catching cholera and xanax is a real step-up from snake oil.

Dead Words

The dearly departed's last words. THE last word. Lingering sentiments, fond wishes, the text on a tombstone. Here lies...

Prose, poetry, and proverbs adorn cemetery walls and tell-tales of who rests in towering tombs. Sepulchers adorned with famous phrases bidding sweet sleep to the dead. It has been this way since Pharaohs pontificated and were embalmed with their words wrapped mummy-style and chapters chipped on their caskets in hieroglyphic hymns.

By chance on a bright sunny spring day in Paris, my lover and I visited both the Montparnasse cemetery and the Catacombs nearby. A rather grim day spent, I assure you we topped it off with a rather carb-filled dinner to lighten our spirits. There is mystery and morose mystique in mausoleums. But more than that, a tête-à-tête trail gurgling back and forth along each cell of skulls.

French poets, priests and unknown scribes give voice to the bones brought here from their damaged graves centuries before. "When the trumpet sounds, the dead will rise again", "goodbye does not hold our talent, spirit or legacies", "Ici repose les morts du cimetiere des Innocents". Titles and tender thoughts are woven within the wet walls of the catacombs, and like all forms of graves, words linger long after we have departed this world.

For my part, I plan on leaving strict instructions in my will as to what words must be chiseled on my crypt: "Here lies in eternal repose Dawn M. Pyfer nee Bassett, along with her last secret".

That, or

"Here lies D. Bassett, she was not as fond of clams as she was Gin".

I haven't quite made up my mind.

Naples...

...does the pizza make up for this? Get angry people. Get real angry. It's a damn shame for the birthplace of such a splendid food to be treated like a giant dumpster.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Naples_waste_management_issue

Roman Holiday

Along a river bank during sunset, parrots wing from branch to branch in the trees above us. A meal of deep-fried-in-olive oil artichoke and mozzarella smothered aubergines. Ruins braced by small deli's and gelato shops. Small lizards crawl over sunburnt plaster walls, leading up to paintings of the Virgin and Child protected by glass-enclosed intricately framed boxes.

This is Rome.

A quiet and friendly place, plenty of proscuitto and pasta for everyone. Outside the stampedes inside the Vatican and along the Colosseum you can find the most precious alleys and piazzas with fruit stalls selling melon, small tabacconists selling 2euro 66cl Peronis, and little Jewish panificos selling the best(and cheapest)white pizzas.

All in all, our little Roman holiday was blissful and full of so much beauty that coming back to Paris seemed disappointing-until I remembered that we can see the dome of Sacré Coeur from the street of our favorite fromagerie, and though we may not be able to get a good Italian beer for a few euros, we can get a great bottle of Rose for the change found in the bottom of my purse.

le Liliputian

Petite. That’s our apartment in Paris. That’s everyone’s apartment in Paris. Rather than complain, Jay and I have taken to cajoling and complimenting each other on our tiny Nid d’amour (that’s love nest). Take for example the bathroom, as Jay puts it, one can only wonder at the sheer genius of the French who figured out a way to fit a shower (albeit one resembling your high-school locker but with running water), into an airplane bathroom. This picture says it all really, except you can’t tell from this angle that the water heater is suspended directly overhead of the toilet. Yeah.

One of my pride and joys of our almost-adequate-abode is our very own beer and chevre fridge! While we may not have a freezer that can hold more than 1-2 ice cube bags(amazing blue sandwich-sized bags that you fill a one-way valve with water and freeze then smack on the counter and viola! A bag of little ice cubes!), it does hold 4 very large beers, a big piece of chevre rolled in herbs, and the leftovers from last night’s pico de galo that Jay made(we have really gotten into Mexican food living in Paris-no doubt a side effect from seeing more crepes, croissants and cassoulets then we ever thought possible). Our beer fridge is SUPPREMELY important since, with very few exceptions, you can’t buy refrigerated beer here. Instead it comes straight off the shelf in aisle 4 of the Franprix at room temp. You CAN however buy Mon Cheri candies by the dozen in a box at the 8-a’-Huit for 9 euros with enough boozy liqueur in them to (combined with the sugar), give you a mind bending buzz. These little chocolate gems are contraband in the states which is why before I come back for a visit I will be filling a suitcase with them and strapping as many boxes to my ribcage and thighs as my pencil skirts will allow!

Storage options are limited in our minute-maison as well. I have taken to stacking lamp shades where our TV used to be and the TV now lives behind the cupboard that has become my dresser. We never used the TV since the one time we tried we found French television to be primarily new music videos of artists we thought to be retired or dead, episodes of Friends with French dubbing (believe it or not it does NOT make Jennifer Aniston less annoying), and strange game shows with such loud volume that it makes it difficult for us to hear our neighbor playing the Doobie Bros, “Takin’ it to the Streets”.

All in all, I am enamored and inspired by how little we need to live a very full and beautiful life: episodes of Parks and Recreation downloaded on our computer, a shelf to hold our baguette and bottle of olive oil, a table to play Scrabble on while snacking on French chocolates, and a bed to collapse in after walking from the 9^th to the 1^st to enjoy a falafel and shop for the perfect pair of seersucker shorts.

le Vrai Paris

Sometimes the best things about a place, are the things never mentioned in a travel brochure. They don’t make the latest Crave guide, and you won’t find them in Eat.Shop books. None the less, you find them and they color your day far brighter than the tulips in the Tulieries, or the less frequented, Cite de Fleurs.

One fine example is the locks on bridges all throughout Paris. Small bridges over quays of the Seine, large famous bridges like that of Pont Alexander III, or just random padlocks left along some water walkway not much traversed. Jay and I stumbled upon this padlock horde near Notre Dame Cathedral-the most famous love locks bridge-Pont de l'Archevêché-and wondered what started it all. From what I could discover, it was a tradition started in China where you leave a lock on a fence and "throw away the key". All in all, the contemporary juxtaposed against the ancient architecture is such a perfect depiction of Paris. The old mingling with the new. The foreboding with the funky. The traditional with the trendy.

One thing is for certain, Paris will surprise you. Even with all the films, poems, songs, photographs, tour books, guides and postcards; until you come spend time here, until you wander, get lost, find a better bakery than the ones David Lebowitz rants about online, you haven’t seen Paris at all. And you will never know all it’s secrets. You won’t unravel it’s mystique. A lifetime would not suffice to crumble away its fromage façade, because Paris is through and through every bit as wonderful as you want it to be, and so much more than you could ever imagine.

Pain et Fromage

I couldn’t live in Paris without devouring an assortment and impressive range of bread and cheese. This, compounded by living here with my lover who loves these two divine delicacies as much as I do, makes for some pretty serious snacking. Our fromagerie is two blocks from the house up Rue Lepic, our favorite in the city and our go-to for when we run out of chevre, comté or gouda vieux at the house. We do make pilgrimages, however, for more provincial cheeses-the 24 month comté, Tomme de Savoie, or the lovely Roquefort-papillion(literal translation: strong casting-butterfly, Dawn's translation:smelly cheese for cracker-snacking goodness).

La Fermette(The Farmhouse) fromagerie is amazing and is my favorite for all those stinky cheeses that most people shudder at but which the French(and I) adore and can’t get enough of. The smell is, in fact, how you find a cheese shop. C’est vrai! Just follow your nose and that funky smell will lead you to small mountains of goat cheese, wheels of Pont l'Eveque, and wedges and wedges of gruyere stacked in piles with baskets of brie. When Jay first arrived in Paris, he couldn’t fathom that smell would ever become an aromatic intoxicant, but now-more than me!- he can’t walk past a cheese shop without lingering with a lustful gaze on herb covered chevres, slices of gouda avec poivre, and delicate portions of d’Affinois.

There is no way to describe how sensational the boulangeries are here, suffice to say I love living in a country where the word Pain means BREAD.

Paques!

Not being religious, having no family here, and not really knowing what traditions to partake in, Jay and I celebrated Easter in a way I hope to model all following Easters on for years to come. We started with a homemade batch of banana blueberry pancakes, followed by a walk through Montmarte cemetery. Looking and lingering at tombs that are petite examples of gothic, Greek, roman, and medieval architecture, we nearly stumble onto the tomb of Alexandre Dumas. It was all too strange timing-just that morning I had finished reading The Count of Monte Cristo. As Jay put it, “have you ever finished a 900page book by an Author and then topped it off that same day visiting their grave?!?” Strange indeed. After that a visit to a secret garden that under a cherry tree-led to kissing-led to walking back home for a roll in the hay(I can tell you that because I am in Paris with my lover and you can assume an awful lot of that is happening no doubt, it is practically obligatory I assure you).

In time for a peach and coral colored sunset, we grab some room temperature beers(they don’t sell them refrigerated) and go out to the boulevard in front of our house to take in a part of Paris not found on a post card. We live near the Moulin Rouge and it makes for some pretty hilarious “site-seeing” at times I assure you. Full of people watching and making jokes about the Porno shops and Sex shows packed in with horrible hallal shops and cheap Chinese import stores selling 3Euro berets and Eiffel tower key chains.

When the sun goes down and the “working girls” head out wearing their best white plastic platform heels and lycra mini-dresses, we head back upstairs to our petite apartment. Easter dinner is a roasted rabbit sausage on fresh baguette, and we top the day off watching Back to the Future.

Paques. My new favorite holiday.

Printemps

Printemps. Spring in Paris. Time to get busy making beautiful things. That is definitely what I have been doing lately. Making memories, picnics, and of course- lamp shades.With parks packed with rows and rows of perfectly manicured lawns and trees trimmed to horticultural haute couture, Paris is the perfect place to get inspired by the spectacle of Spring. Awakened by sunny mornings, the day blossoms into 76deg. bliss. Up near Sacré Coeur or near our apartment in Montmarte, I sew and shape shades three days a week, and spend the other four exploring and eating my way through the arrondissements with my lover, Jay.

It’s not easy to find time to write when there is so much to imbibe, inspire, and enjoy. To start-Parc Monceau, a natural styled park with many hidden monuments and sculptures enfolded in its foliage. Compared to the Tuileries or Jardin de Luxenbourg, this is a very casual urban respite. Gardens in Paris serve the purpose of allowing our overly-stimulated eyes to find repose and rest for a while. Paris is crazy with architecture, beauty, graffiti, and women’s shoe stores to peruse. It’s a much needed break that comes when-though you are not allowed to trample the grass-you can sit in one of the famous Luxembourg lawn chairs and just space out on marble fountains, topiary trees and…dogs pooping on the perfect lawns. Well, Paris would be far too pristine if not for the occasional gelato covered child careening into you after a soccer ball, dog droppings to dodge, and pigeons to contend with(the huge horse chestnut trees are beautiful, but sit under them at your own risk).

But oh, Spring in Paris. Full of color, flowers, giant-and I mean GIANT-chocolate Easter eggs(joyeuses Paques!). I have yet to unravel the mystery of what fish-shaped chocolates have to do with April 1^st...but stay tuned.

Too bad you can't take a shot of Vin Rouge

Because after the week I have had, yeah, I need a shot. Or three.

Here's how it played out, and NO I am not exaggerating, and YES Paris is perfect, perfect, perfect. But just to get it all out of the way, Paris kicked my ass this week.

First off, week one of having my lover back in town with me was perfect, until we both got horrible colds. (thank you recycled airplane air, French germs like le Colde et le Sniffles). Once we got over our illnesses, we discovered that French brooms are like tiny push brooms and are USELESS AT SWEEPING and what is blue and in a spray bottle is NOT windex- and will leave your windows far streakier than the pigeons that collide endlessly into them.

Twice on trips "out and about" we discovered that there IS indeed an ugly part of Paris, and it exists outside the Metro line at Simplon. Don't go. We promise the rotting fish mixed with dirty water running down the sidewalk into the gutter is NOT "tres jolie ou tres French". It's just tres trashy. Speaking of trashy, want to know what they drink in the ghetto area of Paris? 40's of French biere? Nope. Box wine? Nah. But dirty plastic gasoline canisters of wine SOLD in grocery stores on the bottom shelf? Yep! No joke. Seriously, I couldn't think something this horrific up.

In this same week I survived(barely) an incredibly active bout of what I can only assume to be either food poisoning or le flu. How do you gracefully vomit up your small intestine repeatedly while your lover is 4 feet away in the next(the only) room? You don't. Essentially, as my darling so succinctly put it-the French have devised a way to squeeze a shower into an airplane bathroom, so imagine me cowering between a shower stall 18" x 18" and the pedestal sink while the water heater hovers a mere 3 feet above my head. Now imagine that we live in a studio and my dear one has nothing but the symphony playing out in the bathroom to accompany his slumber at 3am. Well, that and the constant horn blaring from the French drivers in the street below our window.

Side note: THIS I LOVE. I am, and will always be, 100% for blatant and ridiculous use of the car horn. It's flagrant, pointless, and wrathful-and usually initiated by either a man in a pressed suit, or a woman with three kids in the back seat. Completely effective not at speeding up traffic, but sorting out who the real assholes are in this world.

All said and done in a week, I found myself this evening eating a truly wonderful pizza with the man who holds my heart, while watching I Love You Man with French subtitles. This is how I found out that "my jet pack" in French is "mon reacteur dorsale". Told you. Paris is perfect.

San Blas-a Pastry Loving Saint

Nestled in the lush green mountains in the Basque region of Spain is a little town called Eibar. Here the church bells of San Andres ring on the hour and every 15min, all the bars make little pintxos(tapas), and they celebrate a day on the 3rd of Feb. called San Blas. The origins of this day are from a story of a little boy who choked on a fish bone and Senor Blas came along and saved him thus, he was Sainted. Viola-San Blas!

The best part of this day is that you get to eat pastries that have(or have not) been blessed and this will give give you good health of the throat. My family that is from here and I proceeded in a haze of flour and a dusting of sugar to make ten of these such pastries. An aquired taste for some, the main flavor is Anise(licorice taste) and I LOVE IT! I swear these become a quick addiction. I could eat a whole one in a day and they are the size of a plate. And this from a girl who doesn't like sweets.

Here follows the recipe for one San Blas, though, you should tripple it at least because if you don't eat it all, they are wonderful gifts for neighbors who have sore throats. Don't forget the Holy water.

San Blas

(feb. 3rd)

For the pastry:

1 egg

175 g. flour(sorry for the conversions my dears in America!)

75 g. sugar

40g. butter

1 tsp. baking soda

3-4 drops essence of anise

mix all this up real good, kneading it with your hands and flouring your work surface until you get a nicely formed dough. Imagine you are making bread dough, or pizza dough, it's basically that same thing. Roll into a ball and then flaten into an oval with a rolling pin. Pinch the sides to form a decorative border and then put in an oven preheated to about 350deg. Bake until golden brown, approx. 20 min.

For the icing:

50g. powdered sugar

1 egg white

mix the two quickly and very well until you have a smooth white glaze. Once the San Blas comes out of the oven, put a thin coating of icing on top, you don't have to use it all. Move the pastry to a rack to cool, start a pot of coffee, and sit back and relax in your anise scented house.

Albondigas-Spanish Meatballs

Espana! Spain! The Basque country to be specific. Can you say CULINARY CAPITAL?! Si! What a total turn around, from the culinary abis of England with their boiled potatos to one of the worlds true food melting pots. So many inspirations, I don't even know where to begin. Suffice to say, I am here for a month, so will endeavor to report on as many meats, fish, bread and vegetables as one can possibly consume in that amount of time. The first? One of my all time favorites, Albondigas. Meat balls in tomato sauce.

Albondigas are an easy mix of ground beef and pan-very fine bread crumbs. For a lb. of beef add in a bowl half a diced onion, some garlic, (I add an egg for holding-together power), and about a 1/2 cup milk. Then mush it all together very well with some seasonings, I use black and red pepper, and a dash or two of salt. Add enough fine bread crumbs(almost a powder) to give the meat mixture a good consistancy to roll golf-ball sized balls.

In a hot skillet add a tablespoon of olive oil and let that heat well before you add 2 cups tomato sauce, 2 thinly diced carrots, and some spices-I use parsely and garlic and a dash of cayenne. It's traditional NOT to brown the meatballs first, instead you cook them thoroughly in the tomato sauce on a med-low heat well covered. Turn a few times during cooking, and let rest for a good hour on low to really meld all the flavors into the meat.

Tear up a good portion of bocadillo-baguette, spoon at least 4-5 onto a plate and with a fork in one hand and a scrap of bread in the other-enjoy!

Please note: don't skimp on the bread. You genuinely need this crusty loaf to be able to swipe up all that sauce on your plate when you have finished your Albondigas. Trust me. It's good for you.

When life gives you a cold breeze, eat lemon torte

While wandering around through Covent Garden, you may find yourself feeling the nip of the cold London breeze blowing through the buildings, and it is then that you will surely need one thing: a pastry. To be more specific, a French cafe so cute and cozy that the wafting air from the oven keeps all gusts of cold air from even coming through the door. And the coffee tastes like it came from a bean and not the Nescafe instant jar. Oh praise the pastry gods! Thank you France for being so close that your sweet hearted love of butter, caramelized sugar, flaky crusts and decadent fillings could cross the channel and make it to my little table in London.

And so I find myself at a tiny bakery, having climbed a little staircase up to a small room with tall narrow windows. Only a few tables and chairs scatter the floor, but the walls are completely filled(not an inch between) with paintings in intricate frames. It's a designer's nightmare and my dream come true. The waitress is kind and brings me coffee, black, without the usual "are you sure?" and eye brow raise I get for not ordering a cup of coffee, white(read: a cup of warm milk that is slightly coffee flavored).

Coming in the front door, I passed the downstairs window-like a jewel box it was filled with quiche, croissants, marzipan and truffles. So many tortes, I glimpsed a plum, apricot, raspberry and pear just as I walked by. Tiered cakes and little cups of mouse, wedges of sweet cakes and square slices of savory pizza. Cheese and berries and butter and herbs...just stunning to look at, let alone devour. Jay and I read a quote from revered Spanish Chef Ferran Adria, "Could you imagine people eating a painting-if they could introduce a painting into their bodies?" That is exactly what this window of food was. A culinary painting, a masterpiece that you could experience with every sense.

I ordered a slice of the lemon torte. It arrived on a little white cafe plate with a real silver fork, quite diminutive in size-just perfect for a delicate treat for a lady trying to regain feeling in her toes, back from the cold. Creamy buttercup yellow, with a tortoiseshell-caramelized top. The crust had that perfect crinkling, flaking crush that to the ear-is an opus, a movement using only the best notes. The smell was citrus infused with vanilla bean, the toasted sugar on top giving a sweet overtone, that mixed with the seductive smell of my coffee was a perfume. The delicate weight of the slight silver dessert fork, slightly tarnished, felt so special in my hand. You do not wield clunky spoons or dinner forks at something so demure as this lemon slice of bliss. With a slow gesture I took the first bite. Beautiful. How can I convey the way the buttery-ness of the crust laid across my palate? A sip of coffee introduced a bitterness that only heightened the bright citrus flavor and caramel quality of the burnt sugar.

Completely forgetting that I am cold, I enjoy the sun coming through the tall window panes, the clinking of tea spoons in porcelain cups, the shouts of bakers and waiters filtering up the stairs...it is a perfect little place. And it makes me so happy that I have this opportunity to visit London, and that soon I will be going home, to Paris.

Nachos? Not here.

If you are prone to food cravings, it's probably best NOT to live in the UK. Alright, I have TRIED to be optimistic. Drinking their white tea, sourcing food flavors from the Turkish delis and restaurants, accepting that on average, everything I eat will need salt and pepper(actually chili powder I carry around in my purse). BUT enough is enough! I have finally lost it thanks to a two day bout of homesickness and rainy day #17 irritation. I decided the only thing to cheer me up would be NACHOS.

Now, please understand that I realize my geographic location is approximately 30 latitude lines North of Mexico City and about a hundred latitude lines away(no really, I checked, MC is like 99deg. W and London is .o7 or some such). But I am NOT requiring an authentic mole sauce or enchiladas in green sauce with a side of roasted-corn-husky cradled tamales, I'm talking nachos-corn chips with cheese on them and hopefully some salsa too. Well, here's how that went last night at 8:45pm:

A bus ride up and down the street quickly confirmed that I was indeed correct that the closest thing to Mexican food in Hackney, Shore ditch and Wood Green was Turkish food(don't get me started on the latitude and longitude between these countries). Turkish food, if you don't read my blog-contains lemon, tahini, pistachios, cayenne or red pepper and lamb. Mexican food is primarily based on corn tortillas, chipotle or habanero or anaheim or poblano peppers, and lime. I am aware that they both make use of tomatoes, garlic, onion and that they both serve food with rice, but the flavor profiles are NOT close enough to quell a craving.

So I turned to the supermarket.

About 23min. into the hunt: (it's hard to say because I began to black out for whole minutes due to hunger/strange grocery store/can't find what I'm looking for RAGE. After looking through TWO AISLES of crisps(read Potato chips if you are American)-including shrimp flavored, Marmite (yeast) flavored, Welsh Rarebit, Scottish Haggis and Garlic Baguette-I stormed around the corner saying OUT LOUD "fuck this fucking country and its spiceless, seasonless weird food!" (because garlic baguette and Marmite are synthetic flavors NOT actual spices). Not to my surprise the proper British took no notice of one more American having a tantrum in their grocery stores that sells vegetables shrink wrapped in plastic, and have an endless supply of candy bars that EXCLUDES the most holy of holy: Snickers.

So, my search for tortilla chips only succeeded in turning up a giant bag of "Roast Chicken and Mash(potatoes) Doritos". Next on the list was salsa. NO salsa, so enchilada sauce, no canned tomatoes and jalapenos, not even any fresh peppers or packaged chili powders I could mix with fresh tomatoes to MAKE salsa.

Onto the meat. Pre-made, prepackaged meat products including Scotch Eggs, beef stew, beef wellington, or two small packages of the fattiest grayest ground beef I have ever seen. No. Thank. You.

No beans unless you count the endless aisle of baked beans the Brits like to put on their wretched toast.

Like I said no fresh peppers, scallions, chives, etc. Oh wait!!!! A bag of 3 tiny sad onions for 4 British pounds!($5.50).

No sour cream, but I do score a lovely block of English cheddar that I can shred and melt on top of the "Steak and Ale pie" flavored air I will be making my nachos out of.

No olives or pickled jar of jalapenos

So. The moral of today's story is, unless you live next to the one organic, ethnic, large scale grocery store in London- you better not get any food cravings. And next time you are in a bad mood, be endlessly grateful you can walk to your nearest gas station and buy a bag of Tostitos and a jar of salsa.

*this is a rant. Please do not respond with comments of "when in London eat cod and chips" or tell me when you lived here 18 years ago you could find such ingredients at the Holborn Street Sainsbury's. I don't care. The craving is over(not really), and I will in fine spirits eat an under seasoned portion of meat pie. Now, where did I put my secret stash of chili powder.....

** YES. That flavor of crisps DOES say "Cajun Squirrel"

By Victorian Standards

Wanderings on a cold, windy, London day will lead you to popping into the pub at a rather early hour-just to warm up and begin to feel your toes again. I started my day at the British Museum-in which I skirted the largest Egyptian exhibit in the world and passed straight through a large collection of Roman metal work, to get to my real destination: the room of clocks! A whole assemblage of old-OLD pocket watches, cuckoo clocks, pendulums and grinding gold gears a plenty! My favorite was a golden ship worked with the tiniest details of sail rigging and miniature men, along the bottom were scalloped waves and sea monsters astride fanciful foam- all this just to tell you that it's tea time! I couldn't tell you how old it is, or who made it, or really anything about the rest of the Museum exhibits because I am a famously bad gallery goer. When looking at paintings, I have a hard time not fixating on the choice of frame, a glass shrine of Aztec beads will only make me think that Versace was doing something very similar last year. I never look at the little title plates and dates and could care less. I wish I had never taken art history so when I saw a Picasso sketch I could think, "oh! I wonder what this man did to support himself while he tried to make a living selling beautiful charcoal drawings. Did he work at Jiffy Lube?" If you didn't know that the Mona Lisa was famous, wouldn't it just be nice to look at it and say, hmm. Wonder how long that less-than-average looking girl had to sit for that before he was finished".

But I believe I was discussing pubs.

I was blown in, by a strong gust of wind, to the Princess Louise. A FANTASTIC spot! Cheap pints and the best part is it is divided into all these little brightly mirrored and adorned nooks with fire places, gorgeous tile work, amazing rich wood and a ceiling to die for. A very well kept Victorian era masterpiece that is better(some would say) than some Victorian works you could see in a gallery. And good luck getting a pint in one of those.

Treason-served with pilav and yogurt.

I feel like I need to make a confession. I have been in London now a week, and have committed treason to the Queen's England the likes of which have not been seen since we opted for lattes and threw a bunch of tea into the harbor.

What pray tell is my treacherous act: kebabs. And kofte slathered in yogurt with dill and cucumber. And gozlem. And kisir. And strong, strong, turkish coffee!

Sorry gentle Brits, there is just no going wrong with garlic, onion, lemon, red pepper, lamb, mint, tahini, pistachios, tomatoes and flat bread to wrap it all up in! Why my obsession? Well, it's a far drive to get any good Turkish food in Seattle, but in London- it's everywhere!!!! The little Italian place on the corner? It's actually Turkish! The "Mexican" food stand-yep, Turks there too. The little groceries on all the corners in Hackney? Turkish ingredients abound!

Here is a little Turkish dish you can make at home easy with ingredients you can find anywhere, in case the grocery store on the corner doesn't have red pepper paste from Adana.

Menemen- Turkish scrambled eggs

ingredients:

4 eggs

1 tsp. very cold shaved butter

dash of salt and cayenne pepper

4 small ripe tomatoes(yes, this is a tomato heavy dish)

1/2 small yellow onion

1/2 a green pepper

olive oil

2 oz. feta cheese

half a lemon

toast! (how ever many slices with whatever kind of bread you have on hand)

Dice the onion and tomatoes and set aside. In a skillet on medium heat, add about a tablespoon of olive oil. Throw in the tomatoes, green pepper and onion and let the tomatoes start cooking. In a bowl, scramble eggs well with a fork. Add very cold shaved butter to eggs(this may not be too authentic but I promise you the fluffiest, creamiest eggs you will EVER have). Pour into the frying pan and season with salt and cayenne pepper. Stir with wooden spatula. Add feta and turn heat off. Let finish cooking on burner. The menemen should not be dried out-in fact the moisture from all the tomatoes will make this egg dish a little "watery" and is a little less "done" than you are used to in a diner-but don't fret, those eggs are finishing cooking-and when you spoon it onto your toast you will see how it all works out juuuuust fine. Serve on oven-warmed plates(please always warm your plates when serving eggs since eggs cool FAR too fast), and garnish with a squeeze of lemon. Whether you fork it in bites onto your toast or munch it down separately, it's just a little Turkish flavor blast.

Do it right with a Turkish coffee or make a compromise and have tea-white, like the Brits do. For my part, I promise to enjoy a steak and ale pie before I leave the UK, most likely to find it just as satisfying as a plate of peyirli borek.

for other Turkish recipes, here is one of my favorite sites: turkce.turkishcookbook.com

Pain grillé avec la Tartinoise

It's a Saturday morning, and a day at the National Gallery, fabric buying and metro bustling awaits me. Before we set out, my sister Jone and I, we will need a proper brunch, and if we can't go round the corner for a beautiful French brioche (I am in London 2 more weeks), I will just have to make something a little delightful for the two of us. What could be more indulgent then nutella? Jone's favorite thing, I decided to whip up a little nutella stuffed french toast with bananas. That's about it. Not entirely creative or exotic, just a sweet little brunch for two ladies about to go look at some expensive picture frames.

the Cure, born in the UK

A drizzly damp, cold, gray London day. The perfect place for when all you really want to do it take a searingly hot bath with an silly book(read:the Extra Man by Jonathan Ames)and drink tons of tea-there are actually billboards here touting- TEA! YOU NEED IT!

Tea in the UK is a religion not unlike coffee in Seattle. For most Londoners I have found they take it sweet and white(sugar and cream) and with any chance a biscuit. (Biscuits are animal cookies except larger and flat). I finally folded, and bought a french press for making coffee since it is also quite common to have freeze-dried instant on hand in the house I am staying at. Thank you, really thank you, but NO. Biscuits on the other hand? Yes! They come in about a thousand different types and flavors and it is perfectly acceptable for a grown woman to eat a biscuit(or 3) with her tea or coffee, where as in Seattle eating 3 cookies with your coffee would seem a tad, well, indulgent?

I digress. On this cold rainy day, I made a bit of coffee, went out and rode the bus-sitting in the upper deck in front-I rode around dry and caffeinated and saw some rather pretty buildings and just got a little lay of the land. In Paris I take the metro for efficiency and miss all the sites, may have to seriously rethink my priorities...

So now, I am back at Jone's flat and have made some lentil soup, and will take that scorching bath while I practice my French vocabulary. After that, it may be round two for coffee and biscuits. :)

English reminder of Spanish Peas and Potatoes

Back when I was 17 and staying in Spain with my wonderful Basque sister, Jone, we would make this dish due to lack of spare change for food(I believe all of it was spent on train tickets and surfboard rentals at the beach and, well yes, red wine and Coke-a-Cola cocktails). Really though this is a healthy and comforting dish. Simple:peas, potatoes, bit of olive oil and onion. I have reinvented this back home for Jay as a comfort food by adding thinly sliced leaks and rosemary. The dish shown here is the English version! I'm in the ol' Queens England for a few weeks and the first thing I had was this adorable cozy dish. Served here as a side, and with boiled potatoes and peas with butter instead of the Spanish recipe, its still a warming bowl of real food.

Spanish Peas and Potatoes:(English style-substitute butter for oil and boil everything-not recommended):

2 cups fresh shelled or frozen peas

2 small yukon gold or waxy potatoes

half a small onion

2 tablespoons olive oil

generous salt and pepper to taste-sea and fresh cracked much preferred.

*some add Spanish ham, jamon, prosciutto or bacon-render the fat in a pan and then add onion and continue with the rest of the recipe if you like a little pig with your peas.

On med. heat in a frying pan-preferably non-stick, add diced onion to one tablespoon of oil. Clarify and add potatoes and 1/2 cup water. Cover. Once the potatoes have softened add the peas and stir to heat through-don't boil them or they will go gray on you-the water should be mostly evaporated and soaked up by the potatoes. Once fully cooked but still bright green, transfer to serving dish and drizzle with table spoon of oil and salt and pepper. Ahhhh....cozy!

-For other varieties:

Leaks: add 1- 1 1/2 cups thinly sliced leaks and 2 sprigs fresh chopped rosemary.

Dill: throw some in-what more can I say? Exchange the onion for red onion.

Turkish style: make same as above, add a dash of cayenne pepper and drizzle with the juice of half a lemon. Let cool in the fridge and serve cold.

Croque Madame-all about the Egg.

The egg. Simple? Yes. But also intoxicatingly complicated. So nourishing, rich, decadent, while also simply satisfying. The beautiful yolk in contrast to the snowy white, cooked so many ways but never better prepared than over easy on a bed of gruyere and ementhal, farm bread-rustic chewy with a soft brown crust-sandwiching salty cured jamon and tart mustard. Yes, the croque madame. Those that know me know I am a sandwich connoisseur. The reuben? A favorite. Heirloom tomatoes with buffalo mozarella and ground pepper? A summer devotion. The ever so consoling grilled cheese and tomato soup? What good that does the soul! But the croque monsieur is a sandwich that perfectly balances the gourmet palate and the simple pleasure of the grilled cheese. Add to that my most cherished of ingredients-the egg and viola! The croque madame in all her perfection! I bring to light the egg because the first thing I noticed apon ordering this sandwich in a unsuspecting cafe in the 11th Arrondissment in Paris-that and a blond beer-was that the yolk was a deep golden orange. Not the anemic yellow with wobbly clear white that we are so often served in the states. A yolk so deep and gold it sat pert and held its form in a perfect little sea of swan white. Oh how I sighed in great anticipation of dragging my knife through the yolk, that first break, watching as it spilled slowly over the white onto the melted cheese on the crusty bread. Perfection. That brings me to my other note on why this sandwich is one of my all time most cherished: you NEED a knife and fork to eat it. Detesting the act of touching my food (AFTER it has been prepared, I am a firm believer in preparing food with ones hands but not eating it that way), a simple place setting of folded linen napkin, tarnished silverware, and a small pot of pepper will do just lovely by me. If you ever find yourself harried and over run by work or worries, find time to enjoy a sandwich, especially one topped with a truly beautiful egg.