tales from the travels of an unemployed cook (part deux)

on the road again

2010-07-06T03:08:00.001-04:00

It’s obviously been a long time since my last update. I’ll cut to the chase: it’s moving time again.

What a ride it has been to be back in Boston the last few years. Still, it’s not my kind of ride, and so I’m once again calling it quits. Join me as I make my way across the country in my trusty (so far!) diesel Jetta, soon to roll into beautiful Portland, Oregon. After a last-minute impromptu drive up to Montreal, then to New York, and back to Boston, I had about three days to finish packing and get the car loaded for the long trip. But who packs ahead of time anyway? I was certain I’d be fine. The reality turned out dirtier, sweatier, and much less straightforward.

Wednesday morning I crammed what remaining pots, pans, and plants would fit into the car. After a teary-eyed embrace with Sarah, I made a stop at my favorite bakery and was sent off with a hug and a big bag of pastries and breads. I picked up my sister come co-driver at Hartford’s airport, and we bee-lined it for western Pennsylvania, our first stop. Shiri, unable to drive my car’s standard transmission, made herself useful by researching our varied stops along the way using my handy well-connected computer. We slept in Johnstown, about an hour short of Fallingwater (the famous Frank Lloyd Wright house built over a river that I had meant to visit since 2001). Our clean Holiday Inn Express was right beside a KFC branch (mmm…), a beer store (which, thanks to PA law, sold only cases and kegs), and a depressing bar (which filled the beer shop’s gap by selling six-packs and singles of crappy domestic beer).

As we finished our long first day, two things became apparent despite our extensive ongoing research: a general lack of good and local non-chain food along the way (or at least no readily-available information on such eateries), and a severe dearth of biodiesel (along our route I wound up finding two stations that sold a paltry 20% blend of biodiesel, whereas around Boston there were several selling 100% renewable fuel, and in Portland there are predictably many more).

day of reckoning

2009-12-28T23:19:00.001-05:00

Two weeks left to go in Belgrade, and it was time for the much-anticipated pig slaughter. Milutin had been feeding the pigs a diet of acorns, barley, and rye, for the two months leading up to the fateful Sunday, and I had hatched out a plan to turn all of the meat into various cured meats, sausages, and the like. I have slaughtered my share of chickens (maybe I should write about that sometime), and killed a few fish in my life, but I have had no experience participating in or watching the slaughter of a large mammal. I sketched out a rough map, we toasted with some herb-infused rakija, and we lit cigars; the next few hours would be in the trained hands of the butcher and his assistants.

The lighting for the morning event was surreal and perhaps prescient: fog-thickened still air, rays of sun bursting through silhouetted oaks. The trees were long since stripped of their seeds-come-forage, but this morning was unseasonably warm, despite my numb fingertips. The nearby geese heard Milutin’s offer of one of their carcasses; they seemingly wanted nothing of it.

While I saw the butcher’s work on all three pigs, I witnessed the actual slaughter of only one. I will not make it out to be a beautiful thing to see. Put bluntly, it was rather difficult to watch. Instead of a relatively peaceful shot to the head in the pen, the butcher and his men wrestled with the pig to bring it out into the open for the kill. Stress, even just these few minutes, affects the flavor and texture of the meat and is to be avoided to the point of delaying a slaughter if a pig gets too spooked. It was all the sadder since this pig had heretofore lived a wonderful life on pasture and acorns.

When finally out in the yard, the pig was positioned, and a bullet fired into its skull. The death was instantaneous, though the convulsions lasted several minutes. As the heart continues to beat for several seconds, the carotid artery is quickly severed to drain the blood into a bowl. Next the carcass is scalded and rolled in hot water to facilitate removal of the outer layer of skin and hair. The men scrub until most of the hair is removed and then finish by burning off remaining hair and skin with a large propane torch. The pig is hoisted up from the branch of a tree, eviscerated, beheaded, and hacked in half lengthwise. Shoulders for coppa and sausage, loins for lonzino, jowls for guanciale, legs for prosciutto, belly for bacon, and remaining fatback for lardo. Hearts, lungs, and blood would make a blood sausage recipe I learned in France. Liver would combine with some extra belly to make a rich pâté.

As the last of the parts were carried into the outhouse to continue to cool (this would be difficult today, as the sun had broken through the fog and it was 8C and rising), we headed up the hill to the home of Milutin’s parents-in-law for some offal goulash. The variety meats for this stew came from the first pig slaughtered earlier that morning. It quickly became clear why this stew is a slaughter day tradition: we were chilled from the cool air and famished from a lack of breakfast since we had awoken six hours earlier. It was hearty, well-spiced, fatty, and even for me some of the textures were somewhat difficult to handle. Still, I scarfed down several helpings. The ubiquitous cabbage salad, tangy with apple cider vinegar and seasoned only with salt and sunflower oil, was a great counterpoint to the rich goulash. We loaded up over 150kg of pig parts into the car, the bulk of work still ahead of me.

aikido

2009-12-17T22:42:00.001-05:00

When I was younger (much younger), I remember getting signed up for some summer classes at the Northridge Park community center. We’re talking twenty-plus years ago. I remember seeing other kids my age, shouting something (counting?) in unison, doing jumping jacks on tatami mats. They wore white robes. They were learning how to beat up other kids; kids like me, who were instead signed up for piano lessons with the overbearing old man. I reckon that overbearing old man was part of why I would eventually rebel against the ivory, giving up a bright future on my Yamaha keyboard.

Fair enough, I never got beat up, but it would have been so cool to earn a black belt. Whatever: I eventually blocked out the painful memories and picked up the alto saxophone, earning me the respect of all the babes in high school. Hell, I practically dated Winnie Cooper (sorry: perhaps an arcane reference)! I’m all growns up now and in Belgrade, and all but forgot about this episode of my life (well, the piano teacher/karate bit). And then Miloš told me about and invited me to the aikido classes he takes three times a week. As all the memories returned, a puddle of tears collected at my feet. I would earn my black belt, damnit, even if it is too late to regain my dignity. So I tagged along, ironically checking my dignity at the door.

Like most of my time in Belgrade, for every five minutes of instructions in Serbian I got an average 30 seconds’ translation. Still, as awkward as it was to try and join the routine, I got to rather enjoying the classes. I tried to pay for the class but (yes, you guessed it) my money was refused on the grounds of my visiting guest status. My favorite class was when we ran around the room (fast) for 20 minutes before proceeding to do all manner of squat-jumps, somersaults, and the like. I pushed my old out-of-shape body much too far and ended up barely limping home later that night—it was great to have such a thorough workout.

All went well until one class when my foot ended up under Miloš’s. No big deal. We switched sparring partners and then, long story short, my other foot’s big toe made an audible (to me, anyway) snap as his foot came down on it in an awkward way. It got pushed back and mildly fractured. I, expertly playing the part of wimp, buckled down in pain. I limped home that night and, between my toe and my increasingly-busy work schedule, never ended up making it back. Alas, my black belt would have to wait until my return to Boston…

grilled tubes

2009-12-12T17:01:00.001-05:00

“Tubes” are the best commonly understood translation of intestines between me and the cooks. When I need to stuff sausages, I must remember to ask for tubes, not casings or intestines. I have eaten my fair share of such things. Sausages: no problem. “Pig a**hole” in Chinatown: sure. Funky rolled-up lamb intestine stew at a nearby kafana: actually liked it. Tonight, though, I was stumped. Mirko and I, given that we will soon be parting ways, went out for dinner at the oldest restaurant in this part of the world. Named simply with a question mark “?,” it is known for its age and its traditional Serbian cuisine.

I pride myself for eating, or at least trying, anything and everything. So I was actually looking forward to the grilled “tubes” tonight (further down the digestive tract, these were not the thin things one stuffs with fresh sausage: these are thick-skinned, funky-smelling parts of the pig’s digestive tract. Upon first sniff, I knew it would be difficult. The first bite was even more succinct in its message: no way. I tried a second and a third time, with raw onion, with mustard, but to no avail: this was one dish I could not handle. The rest of the food was good: nice sauerkraut and piktija (pig head cheese, Serbian style), and decent “veal cooked under brick.” At the end of it all, while I dug through my pockets for cash, Mirko disappeared and settled the tab: it’s impossible to pay for anything in this country. Next time, perhaps (eating and paying, I suppose), for if at first you don’t succeed, try, try, try again…

lightning round, nagar style (2/2)

2009-12-06T09:52:00.001-05:00

Wednesday evening we drove to Novi Sad for part business dinner for Vlad, and part fun dinner out for us and his girlfriend, Jelena. Though it was technically a day early, we drank Beaujolais Nouveau along with a local equivalent: Portugizer. Both were equally drinkable, though nothing exciting, as is to be expected. After a long, drawn out dinner with few exceptional dishes, we drove to our cute bed and breakfast, a farmstead of sorts, called Salaš 137. Their main attraction at the Salaš is horseback riding and golf. As we arrived quite late, we went straight to our rooms: swelteringly hot thanks to the warm weather and wood-fired stove in each room, but really quite charming. The morning was another lazy one.

The reception lady asked if we’d like to ride horses, I was the sole taker: why not? After waiting around the horse track for the trainer for what seemed like forever, a man finally walked up with a horse. I should follow him, he indicated through pantomime and broken English. We went to the horse run behind the stables, not the horse track where others were riding. Fine, no problem by me, I wouldn’t have to look like a silly novice in front of strangers. I got on the horse, which is about when I realized the trainer must have been told I was a complete moron. He told me to hold on, and took the reins himself and walked the horse around the run a couple of times. We chatted about his fear of flying, and places he liked visiting in Europe. I asked him the name of the horse, Bellissima, and was about to ask if I could take the reins myself and show Bellissima what a real cowboy from the wild west can do. I never got the chance: as I began to speak, not five minutes into my horse ride for toddlers, the man told me to dismount and go back to the reception desk to pay for my ride. Wow—pay for what, I wondered… The reception lady was surprised to see me so soon, and asked if I’d seen the trainer. I told her about my ride, and she looked as mortified as I felt like a special needs child. Good times.

We high-tailed it back to Belgrade; we had tickets for the evening’s game between the two local basketball clubs: Partizan vs. Red Star. The two have a serious rivalry, and I wanted my family to experience sports enthusiasm at its height. We first ate dinner at Zaplet, and were waiting to leave for the game when I noticed on the downstairs TV that a game was on. Our game. Almost halftime. I have not been a model of punctuality in Serbia, and this evening was no exception. We quickly took a cab to the stadium. Only, the language barrier brought us to the wrong Partizan arena. I showed the driver the physical tickets, and we were again on our way. The driver asked if we’d been to a game, wanted to make sure we knew the dangers. Way to heighten the suspense… The suspense and anxiety were largely for naught: the Serbian church patriarch died days prior, and the funeral was the day of the game. Not only that, but fearing the worst of the fans, the game’s attendance was limited. Though our team lost, it was a good game. We sat between two friends who obviously rooted for opposite teams, at one point nearly ending up in the middle of a fight. Good times.

And that was that. They left as quickly as they came, and were enchanted by the country and its people: they already want to return. This place has that effect on people. In their place, they left goodies Vlad and I had ordered for the kitchen, including some of Taza Chocolates finest specimens (thanks go to my friend Alex for getting together the order on short notice—if you haven’t tried their stuff, you should: I’m willing to bet that it will pose a hefty and worthwhile challenge to your concept of chocolate). They left behind books, knives, and lots of love. A special thanks to all who made the week such a great time, most of whom will probably never read this.

giving thanks

2009-11-26T15:49:00.001-05:00

I was not planning on a cheesy Thanksgiving day post. Until it was cancelled earlier this week, I had planned to share the special occasion with some friends of Vladimir who spent years living (and raising their kids) in the US. I love Thanksgiving, even on those occasions that dysfunctional family relations come to a head (which for me have usually involved shouting-level arguments with my parents about Bush and their irrational support of the man and his policies), or on the rare occasion that I’m out cold before the party has really begun (though I really, terribly regret being unconscious for the spectacular party at my apartment in Queens, NY, three years ago). I enjoy the planning, sourcing, and cooking of the big feast. Most of all, I live for the point in the day when all the prep work is finished and I get to truly relax with friends and family. First with Rosh Hashannah and Yom Kippur, now Thanksgiving, and next, Hanukkah, I’m spending so many big holidays (in my book) away from home.

I don’t really understand all the fuss about Thanksgiving wines: I find that good wine tastes good with just about anything (maybe that’s just the latent alcoholic in me), and besides, there are usually so many side dishes that the ~~Yellowtail Shiraz~~ Georges Duboeuf Beaujolais is bound to pair well with something. Really, though, I take it as the perfect annual opportunity to open that special wine that has been waiting patiently for the right meal: something to look forward in itself.

I enjoy the somewhat awkward pre-meal recounting of thanks, though I never know quite what to say until I’ve actually said it. Given that I’ve come to let this blog live freer and less-edited, the same applies here. I’m thankful first and foremost for my parents who brought me into this world and have wasted no chance in showing me the true meanings of support and unconditional love. For my sister, cousins, aunts, and uncles, who have unwittingly helped shape me into the self-righteous monster I have become. For my good friends, who have earned their titles with years of dedication, understanding, and loyalty. For my loves: past for the opportunities to learn, screw up, and move on; but present most of all, for loving me despite my ever more opinionated demeanor, and for allowing me this opportunity to explore, bearing with my long absence so patiently. For those terribly special people around the world who have slowly and systematically taught me new and ever more beautiful interpretations of hospitality. For those of you still reading despite this embarrassingly awkward post!

This is, of course, just the tip of the iceberg: I have a lot I am thankful for. I hope all of you are enjoying yourselves tonight. Given that I will eat no turkey tonight, perhaps some of you will allow me to eat vicariously through your cameras? I can’t wait to hear about your latest Thanksgiving feast: bon appétit!

lightning round, nagar style (1/2)

2009-11-24T18:41:00.001-05:00

I have had no time for writing of any kind this past week. Work gave way to my family’s arrival ten days ago, and I was destined for the role of tour guide extraordinaire. They arrived without their luggage, a frequent occurrence in these parts, it turns out. Their airline, however, was kind enough to give them some spending cash to compensate. Cash in-hand, with them I was finally able to explore some of the Serbia I have been too busy to see. Here is part I of a brief recap, to the best of my memory.

We spent the first couple of days getting acquainted with Belgrade proper: a trip to Kalamegdan fortress (a simply beautiful place to stroll around), a walk down the pedestrian-zoned downtown Knez Mihailova street (shop til you drop—literally: you’ll faint at the high prices on anything produced outside of Serbia), a visit to the Jewish History Museum (enlightening) followed by a look inside the only operating synagogue in Belgrade. The weather was highly cooperative—mostly sunny, usually warm enough to eschew heavy coats. We visited some new (to me) restaurants. For the sake of documentation, Lovac, a game restaurant, was largely a disappointment. Šaran, however, an old fish restaurant in the old neighborhood of Zemun, was great. Zaplet (where I work) was the overall favorite, my mom especially enjoying traditional food that reminded her of what she ate as a child in Israel.

Unable, at the last minute, to join us on a trip to Mokra Gora, Vladimir instead arranged for us be driven in a friend’s car. An amazingly generous and ridiculous gesture, an extremely polite man by the name of Ivan drove. Since Shiri, Viktor, and I had gone out late the night before, I was in and out of consciousness for the spectacular drive. The landscape was stunningly beautiful and we drove by numerous small towns and through thousands of acres of farmland. The trip was largely an excuse to relax and be away from the bustling city. We arrived and started a fire in our cozy wood cabin. We napped, ate, and talked about various business and investment ideas (typical Nagar conversation). It was nice to sleep a bit and we all enjoyed exploring the surroundings, hiking down the hill to a nearby village in search of a fabled farmers’ market we had been told to visit, but could not find. So we began the lazy return to Belgrade.

We stopped in Užice to visit its farmers’ market. There, we found some great kajmak and fresh goat cheese from a man selling a variety of dairy and smoked meats. We also stocked up on apples and pears, buying some homemade wine from the same woman. Yes, homemade wine, at an open-air market. Homemade wine sold in a variety of old soft drink bottles. Did I mention I love this country and its lack of regulations? Where else can you buy this kind of stuff? Onward, we stopped at a floating restaurant on the bank of a river. Old men fished from the restaurant’s patio and from nearby boats. Sadly, though the fish was ostensibly fresh, grilled really meant deep-fried to an overcooked dark brown. Indicative of the relaxed Serbian mentality, the wine I had ordered upon first sitting arrived toward the end of our hands-on fish eating contest. Since we were going to have the main course on down the road, we sent it back and got the check instead. The next place was a nondescript house marked with nothing but its address. Ivan heard about it from a friend who lived nearby, and it served only traditional Serbian style veal breast, slowly roasted. An excellent main course, though quite too much food, as usual. Judging by the shape of the car when we returned, Ivan managed to remain awake for the rest of the drive back; none of us were so successful.

Stay tuned for the second part of this exciting tale!

me shoot fire stick

2009-11-23T10:27:00.001-05:00

I recently completed (and passed) a hunters’ education course (in NH) for the purpose of obtaining a hunting license. Passing the course means that I can legally buy a hunting license in any of the fifty United States. Your personal feelings on hunting aside, I think it can be sustainable and humane if practiced with care and by the rules. In any case, though I’ve shot handguns on multiple occasions (~~back in my gang-banging days~~ with my uncle and cousin in Israel), and had to pass a too-easy test with a small rifle for this course, I’ve never used a shotgun. As I have no large freezer and hate waste, when I finally go hunting I will likely go for small fowl rather than larger animals.

When I spoke to Bata (Vladimir’s younger brother) about hunting, he suggested that I join them on their next trip to the shooting range. Excited I was, Yoda would say. So on Sunday I met with the brothers and Bata’s friend/colleague Sima for some trap shooting (shooting at clay pigeons with a shotgun). Upon meeting, Sima handed me a box of cartridges and told me I should play the part of the dumb American if we got stopped by the police. So, after picking up a ridiculously heavy breakfast to go, we embarked on the half-hour drive to a sports park outside of Belgrade.

Crammed into the back seat (as I typically am in this nation of taller and bigger people) of Bata’s car, I fueled up and worked on my game face. Inside the gun shop we loaded ammo into coat pockets, and borrowed a shotgun. We made our way through the misty rain to the range where Vlad and I were lectured about the basics of the task at hand: load the gun, get set, make a loud noise to trigger the release of the clay target, point (one points a shotgun with one’s body rather than aiming down the sights) and shoot (two shots per target), repeat. The important part, they told, was to keep the upper body locked so that the gun would aim wherever you turned your head, and to keep the butt of the gun pressed firmly into one’s shoulder. Yeah, yeah, I’m an American from the wild west town of Los ~~Angeles~~ Angeleeze—we’re born with six-shooters and get our first sawed-off shotgun as a Bar Mitzvah gift—I knew exactly what I was doing.

Bata and Vlad had poor first rounds, so it was time to show these brandy-sipping, gun-toting Serbs how an American handles a shotgun. While the instructor was off chatting with Sima, I made the embarrassing blunder of pushing the cartridges too far into the chambers, preventing the hinge-action gun from closing. I stood fumbling with the gun, trying to get the damned thing closed, until the instructor stopped me and pushed out the cartridges with a long wooden stick. This was not a good start. As the instructor readied the target system I asked another question, my voice triggering a target to needlessly fire—I’m sure they all had their doubts about this American by now. I became one with my weapon and lined up my line of sight with the barrel, my cheek against the cold gun.

I grunted, watched the target fly off and let out a first shot. Nothing. Miss with the first shot and the target is so far off that the second one usually contains more desperation than success. Not this cowboy: my target was destroyed by the second shot. I was on a roll, and hit the second and third targets. By the time I fired at my tenth (end of my first round), I had obliterated at least six fake pigeons. I would have eaten well. Still, the instructor made the note that I was aiming the gun rather than instinctively pointing it, and it was obvious to me by my bruised shoulder that I’d have to work on keeping the butt of the weapon more snugly against my shoulder in the future. Still, I’m glad to see that I might actually have a chance of survival in the wilderness on a diet of shotgun cartridges.

butchering buša

2009-11-10T17:20:00.001-05:00

Though I have experience butchering small livestock, before last week I had never really done any in-depth butchery with beef or veal. Last month, knowing that we would have the opportunity to work with less common animals such as Mangalitsa pigs and Buša cows, I sought out advice on the best uses for their various parts. Mangalitsa pigs turned out to be well-documented thanks in large part to Heath’s efforts at Wooly Pigs’ in Washington state. Buša cows are another story entirely—searching several permutations of the name turned up next to nothing, besides some very basic technical information about the breed. At one point, though, I found an email address for a man named Zoran, listed as the Buša breeding contact in Serbia. I wasted no time getting in touch with him, and he was quick to respond to my inquiries. Not only did he give me further information about the Buša cows, but it turns out he raises Mangalitsa pigs as well.

It seems that Buša were traditionally raised by subsistence farmers in the mountains where the milk, rather than the meat, was the primary product. As such, the cows would typically be slaughtered at an age approaching 15 years—resulting in meat more suitable to braises and stews than anything else. In any case, Zoran promised to be in touch when the time approached to slaughter one of his animals.

Last week, as promised, he wrote me of a Friday slaughter of his Buša bull, 1.5 years old. I quickly replied, and we agreed that Vlad and I would drive out to their town of Vršac to see whatever we could. As the slaughter was early in the morning, we skipped it and instead drove straight to his house, where we were invited in to meet his beautiful family as well as his butcher of 50 years’ experience. This was indeed a family affair, attended by his wife and two engaging children, as well as his mother and father. The butcher, in a fashion I’ve never before experienced, had meat spread out across the wooden dining table, using a small cutting board to do the work.

I cannot say enough good things about the experience. It just struck me as the right way to approach the meat we eat. Here were two young kids, playing with the bones, watching the butcher at work, and helping to take the meat upstairs (where it would be laid out on the floor to rest overnight before being frozen or further processed/cooked the next day). Zoran gave us tastes of his friend’s acacia honey, his father’s two year old bacon, the last of the season local grapes, some grassy fresh goat cheese, and his own unfiltered apple cider. Zoran’s wife, a physician, told us of the healthy nature of the Buša’s omega-rich fats, pointing out bone marrow (love it) and fatty cuts, mentioning the liver as especially beneficial to the kids, with its concentration of iron and vitamins. The event seemed straight out of Barbara Kingsolver’s Animal, Vegetable, Miracle (I recently finished reading it).

While we came for ideas in using the veal we had at Zaplet, we left instead with a warm fuzzy optimistic feeling about family and life. And death: the butcher went on to show us how he kills the animals, with a purposefully-designed gun made by none other than F. Dick, better known for their utilitarian knives. We had to run back to Belgrade before the family had a chance to put me to use in the kitchen, but they have an open invitation at Zaplet. I look forward to our next encounter, and hope that I can provide as well for my future kids.

nice hams

2009-11-09T07:37:00.001-05:00

Sunday night I went for a ‘quick drink’ with Viktor, and almost made it out of Scandal by 1:30. Viktor said ‘one more,’ and I took the bait. Having finished, the server delivered another round, this time on the house. Again, we drank and almost exited, but the Karaoke band said they’d sing another song before calling it quits for the night, and so we of course stayed. Once again, I found myself falling asleep at 4:00, usually not a problem on a Sunday night. I had to meet Vlad at nine, though—we had an excursion planned to visit one of Serbia’s best Prosciutto makers.

Zombie-like, I trudged up the street to our rendezvous point. I, the dwarf American, moved quickly to the back seat when we picked up Vlad’s friend Dragan, a former basketball star—even in the front seat, his knees were up against the dashboard. We chatted and talked about the sights on the way. About halfway through our drive we stopped at a café on the road. Inside was a scene out of an old detective movie, sunlight pouring through thick, smoky air atop red-checkered tablecloths. The large space was occupied by but three old men passing the time. One of them got up and took our order, hot tea for me. Our drinks arrived, and I sipped my Serbian tea—Vladimir had modified my order. No, the Serbs don’t grow tea high up in their mountains; Serbian tea is hot sweetened Šlivovic (plum brandy). Still before noon and slightly buzzed, I picked up a few fallen pears by a well-endowed tree—they’d make good post pork snacks.

We were met by a lead car for the last confusing yet beautiful countryside stretch of road to Mirko’s pršut (prosciutto) plant. The building that houses the prosciutto works is quaint and sparse. We were led on a tour through the wing where the magic happens, up on rafters above the ground floor where a fire pit is used for some gentle smoking a few days each year. Mirko hails from the Dalmatian coast of Croatia, where he first learned his craft in a much more Italian tradition. He searched long and hard for land with just the right year-round breeze and climate, settling finally in the hills of Cajetina. The clean country air rarely climbs above 20°C, making it an ideal spot for this venture.

The extent of our hours-long stay at the house that was translated to English can be summed up in this one paragraph; I did ask lots of questions, but Serbs love to talk, so by the time my question received a long-winded answer, it was either forgotten or just lost in the transition to a tangent. The hams are first salted for several days before being rinsed and again salted, this time pressed between layers of wooden planks for several weeks. They are then finally hung up to begin the two-year drying process, with the occasional waft of smoke (most Serbian pršut is very heavily smoked) and a constant breeze through the windows. They get coated with chalk dust in three monthly stages beginning in April of their first year, first the area where exposed bone meets meat, followed by where skin meets meat, and then finally coating the entirety of the ham. When ready for consumption they are rinsed of the protective coating and packaged as required.

Mirko, at the behest of the German laboratory who tested his products, has begun to experiment with hams that are not smoked at all, and is slowly phasing out smoked products altogether. Still, even his smoked pršut is hardly so. We were invited to sit down to a tasting of all his products, beginning with the obligatory brandy before moving on to a homemade entirely refreshing white wine. Ravenous, we travelers dined with vigor hardly surpassed even by the fabled Oliver Twist. The prosciutto was well-made, but salty to a fault. The pancetta (cured bacon, really), however, was on point and worth every calorie. The culin (a regional smoked sausage spiced with paprika and rather similar to Spain’s chorizo) was very good, though might have actually benefited from some of the ham’s extra salt.

We nearly ate the platter bare before Mirko quietly snuck out to slice another entirely unnecessary round. We broke out more wine to accompany the excess meat, and satiated quickly went the way of bursting. I, frustrated by my lack of ability to understand more than the occasional word, took to the wine with gusto to be sure to completely dehydrate my over- yet still malnourished body. The wine coupled with my lack of rest culminated in my neck going floppy for the three hour ride to Belgrade. Though I slept the whole way, my neck was sore from all the turns. The illness I felt was reminiscent of my binge on wild plums at Crozefond years ago, though this one was decidedly less healthy-feeling. Killer pigs reigned in my dreams that night.

live in 3, 2, ...

2009-11-03T08:42:00.001-05:00

Saturday at 19:30 I made my Serbian TV debut on Studio B. It was not unlike seeing myself in stupid skits and videos I had to make high school: intensely embarassing, made worse by the fact that I knew I was not the only one watching. Who knows how many hundreds of people watched the stupid segment and saw me lie to the camera and make an ass of myself. Still, I will take it like a man, and as soon as I can get my hands on a recording, I will upload a copy to youtube, so that you might join in my self-deprecating laughter.

to facebook or not to be?

2009-10-30T09:31:00.001-04:00

I jumped on the friendster bandwagon when I was in college. When myspace and later facebook entered the scene, I scoffed a younger generation for being so silly. I’ve simply never been one to want to live my life online (hence these fantastic and boredom-defying trips I take every so often). When Sarah set up a facebook account for me, I reluctantly agreed to maintain it, accepting friends, and every so often responding to messages. Still, I resisted: I would not update my profile. Though I occasionally replied to mail, I largely let it get lost in the shuffle. My pictures are out of date, and I’ve done nothing to search out long-lost roommates (though I’m happy some have found me).

So why this now-ubiquitous facebook commentary? I’ve decided to give in. I’ve come around to the reality show of the internet (though I hold fast to my snooty opinions on the television versions). I ~~suppose I~~ see the value now: people are easier to locate, and it’s easier to keep them apprised of my ever-changing life, as if many of them care. Hell, some of my friends don’t seem to reply or even receive my emails, though facebook seems to do the job. I still don’t think I’ll ever get to the point of commenting/tweeting on my warm (not hot) morning shower or the color of my new socks (that reminds me, I should think about buying some new ones), but perhaps I’ll mention life’s bigger events. I mean those facebook addicts among you no disrespect, of course: I comment only on my own values; people should be products of their own values, not mine.

Shall we cut to the pragmatic part of this monologue? Answer the reader’s “so what does this mean to me?” It means I’ll make a real effort to reply to facebook messages, and treat them like members of my email box. It means I might actually seek out a long lost friend or two of my own (hello again). I’ll try to post some pictures worth looking at, and I’ve already linked up my blog so that those of you who can’t comfortably navigate away from facebook will be able to read it within your zone of comfort (this is beginning to read like new year’s resolutions). I still value personal notes and phone calls, though I’ve nearly given up hope on snail mail making a comeback. But mostly, I love being amongst my friends and family, especially cozied up to a domestic dining table drinking good wine and eating simple food.

So, be in touch, as will I. Find me on facebook (I remember back when I was the only Jonathan Nagar I could google—now I’ve found there are others, including one in the political battleground town of Scranton, PA), and if I know you, we will both expand our self-importance by having large numbers of friends in our profile. Best of all, why not drop by sometime with a bottle of wine and enjoy some home-cooked food? Or, I’m sure we could have a virtual dining experience online… LOL!

lazy day ends with fish?

2009-10-28T11:38:00.001-04:00

My day off yesterday was lazy and relaxed. After another late night out with my Kazakhstani friend Viktor (yes, I was originally wrong about him being Russian, though it’s his mother tongue, and he has family from both countries), I again felt a cold coming on, though I set my alarm clock for only six hours of sleep—too many things to try and catch up on. I woke up at 10:30, hit snooze, and brought my phone back into bed with me. My flat gets little natural light, so what felt like a plausible 10:40 turned out to be 2:00pm. Argh!: I had made a mess of my plans.

I spent most of the afternoon with Miloš, lazily making our way around town. I had my brunch finally at 4:30, the Serbian staple of pasulj sa mesom (beans with meat—I’m still gassy J). We visited one of Belgrade’s newest shopping malls. We toyed with the idea of an evening movie, but the choices were sparse and, frankly, awful. I finally got to walk through a Serbian supermarket, and stocked up on muesli for breakfast. The fresh produce section was unsurprisingly thin given the surplus of meat products that are so popular with the locals. The dairy section was surprisingly focused on processed and ultra-pasteurized given the country’s agrarian pride. I couldn’t stomach looking too closely at the meat section: there is sadly not yet any demand for the kinds of meats Milu is traditionally raising, and I honestly eat way too much meat here.

After some downtime at home I finally met with Vlad for dinner. We went to a Montenegrin family-owned restaurant at a weird out-of-the-way intersection. Inside was decorated like something from centuries past, and the servers wore weird sailor outfits. Their claim to fame is the quality of their seafood, brought in daily and undeclared (apparently the tax collectors enjoy eating here too) from the docks of a small bay in Montenegro. We started with beautiful local (to the Montenegrin coast) clams simply grilled and doused in olive oil. Simple. Wonderful. Alongside was a scallop, gratineed with Parmigiano. A sad thing, and a wasted life, given the dominance of the cheese. Our main course were a couple of small fish, roasted whole in olive oil among fall vegetables. One was a rare Mediterranean fish called Cavala, the other a similar but more common Dorado. It was so simple and so delicious. The vegetables were permeated with the wonderful sweetness of the fish and the olive oil. Everything was perfectly seasoned. The fish was impeccably fresh. The wine was local and perfectly-suited to the food. This was old-school fish cookery, and is what this restaurant excels at. The manager (Vlad’s friend) joined us for a sip of very old Guatemalan rum (Zacapa 23 year old, for those who care) after dinner, and we left feeling wonderfully buzzed with the high of a great meal. Sometimes it’s the simpler preparations that make a meal really work.

a different ballgame

2009-10-27T19:34:00.001-04:00

The football game I attended was fun. Loud, energy-filled, like nothing I’d ever seen. The basketball game Vlad took me to last week was different. Very different. We arrived in the middle of the first quarter, and my pen was nearly confiscated until Vlad sweet-talked the security guard: something about me being a stupid American, I’m sure. The arena was quite compact—everything and everyone felt so close. It probably helped that we had seats close in, and actually stood at court level. The roar of the audience was positively deafening. When a Spanish player from Malaga stood at the free-throw line the crowd whistled with the intensity of a jet engine. I honestly was wishing for earplugs.

Bata, as I’ve come to know Vladimir’s younger brother, explained some of the local traditions to me. Thankfully, judging by the size and intensity of some of the spectators, alcohol is banned in basketball venues too. The songs and chants coming from the black and white-dawning Partizan fans, Bata continued, had more to do with politics and party affiliation than sports. He related the story about how he once arrived at a Partizan vs. Red Star (the other Belgrade team) game, mindlessly wearing a red and white tee-shirt. After the threats and curses thrown upon him, he remained in his Partizan-surrounded seat, continuing to apologize for his lack of sense, watching the game shirtless to avoid any incidents.

Standing on court level, my view was hampered by my short legs. Still, as we were just about 5m from the basket, I was able to catch a few plays. Eventually we moved enough that there were no longer any tall Serbian spectators blocking my view, and that made all the difference. Regardless, the deafening sound of the crowd followed wherever we stood, punctuated by drums and visually assisted by the waving of giant flags. I will try to post a video at some point soon, and perhaps some audio to accompany this entry.

serbian stallion

2009-10-26T16:53:00.001-04:00

Sure, its name doesn’t have quite the ring of its Italian cousin, but what’s in a name anyway? I had heard of it while in Morocco. Had been tempted by the prospect of trying some French cheval. True Belgian pommes frites use such fat as their key ingredient. And here I finally was, the moment of truth: my first bite of horse. Vlad took me to the aptly-named White Horse Club just around the corner from my flat. It was just for a light snack while planning the coming weeks and food ideas. So, after starting with the requisite rakja (brandy), we were delivered our plate of horse tartare. I was excited, but was underwhelmed by the momentous first bite. It was rather bland, and rather than chopped, it was finely minced and whipped into more of a paste than tartare, with no noticeable seasonings at all. Served simply with butter and sliced onion and cardboard-resembling tomato, the jar of salt I carry with me came in handy to liven it up. Like many other firsts, I hope it gets better the more times you try it. Next time I’ll make sure to try some stallion sausage—I’ve heard good things.

not enough time

2009-10-25T11:09:00.002-04:00

I was amused today and just had to mention it before it was fogotten forever. I arrived at the restaurant and asked our butcher if he had the chance to work on some sausage I had worked on with him. He was supposed to marinate it on Saturday, but apparently lost the memo. In any case, this fine Sunday morning I found him sitting at our little cafe table, smoking a cigarette and working on his mid-morning espresso. His answer to me: "no time." He was apparently too busy to work on it. One of those moments I just had to shrug and mutter something like "ah, okay, I guess I´ll do it myself..."

animal of the party

2009-10-21T20:22:00.001-04:00

Those who actually look forward to reading my stories may have noticed a gap of several days last weekend. No, I did not embark upon an adventurous road trip. Nor was I kidnapped and held hostage by the local drug cartel. Less, exciting, I know: I was getting indoctrinated into the local entertainment scene—what else would one expect of a foreign tv commercial star? Yes, two weeks later and I’ve only just begun to party… As a result my bedtime shifted several hours later, and my alarm clock never knew so many snoozes were allowed.

It all began Friday night with something I haven’t done in years. No, this is no reference to any illicit drugs. We skipped the mafia-hosted (and you thought I was joking about the drug cartel reference) Playboy party—apparently everybody was well-dressed anyway, so we didn’t miss much. Instead, Vaja, Vlad, and I went to the opening of a very crowded club called Plastic. After finally leaving the restaurant at two o’clock, we arrived in time to stand in line (Vlad had given away his VIP invitation). As one might guess, the lines for clubs here are much as they were at the football game I went to: everybody vies for first, resulting in more mob than line. Inside was no better. This being opening night, everybody who was anybody was here. So we did what Serbians do at clubs: we made a loop through the place to see who showed up. I hoped I might run into an old friend as Vaja did, or maybe just the odd acquaintance of whom Vlad met fifteen—I was not surprised to have my hopes dashed. He was at a distinct advantage with his extra foot of height—I imagine it was much less claustrophobia-inducing up there to boot. We spent the hour like salmon (the wild kind) returning to their birth place (minus the spawning part at the end), and in that time logged perhaps 300 meters on our pedometers (hmm, fish don’t use pedometers—perhaps this analogy was overplayed). In any case, the cold night was both figuratively and literally a breath of fresh air.

Saturday night found us at another club, this time with a decent dj, though the crowd was, in all ways, less to admire. The watered-down plastic cup drinks reminded me of why I often refrain from any sort of mixed drinks that haven’t been made by one of my trusted bartenders (maybe college kids to play a drinking game to these stories: you know you’re an alcoholic when…). We stayed somewhat longer this time, the bad taste of the prior night all but washed away.

Sunday night I had to pregame with a cup of green tea (no, I still haven’t given in to coffee). Viktor, the ~~Russian~~ Kazakhstani-born grill cook that worked the dinner shift with me that week (I tend to spend service working by the grill cooks, who alternate lunch and dinner shifts weekly), took me to a place he likes: a rock bar called Scandal. Turns out Viktor and I have similar taste. Though it was karaoke night neither of us took the microphone. Instead we drank beer after Montenegrin beer (good stuff), and sang along to the live band’s accompaniments (Viktor knows far more American and British hits than my Serbian repertoire holds, so he would have won any contest between the two of us). The bar itself was a really cool subterranean hideaway, and I can’t wait to go back. You know you’re in good company when you consider it a success that you were able to pay for two out of six or seven rounds of beer (who was counting anyway?). It’s okay: we agreed that I get to buy when he comes to visit in the US.

I’m really happy to be in such great hands out here—everyone is super-friendly and making sure I enjoy my time here. I only hope that I’m able to do the same for my visitors in the US.

ole, ole ole ole!

2009-10-19T20:11:00.001-04:00

I think I’ve been to perhaps three professional-level football (soccer) games in my life. All have been at a high level. The first was in the ’96 Olympic games in Atlanta. When I picked up an official brochure at the grocery store on ordering tickets, I filled it out for all sorts of fun-looking events, figuring that I’d likely only win tickets to a few, since they were assigned on a lottery basis. There was the opening ceremony, the closing ceremony, gymnastics, you name it. I signed the form, complete with my parents’ credit card number (I was still a minor: totally cool for me to use their card, of course). This was the good old days when snail mail was still the primary method to place such orders, and so it wasn’t until a month later that I received a small envelope from the Olympic commission politely informing me that the credit card had been declined, but that I was welcome to try again. I did try again, knowing full well that I had missed the first round of the lottery for tickets, and that most were already in their lucky owners’ hands. Of all the events I checked off, I was awarded tickets to one event: a football semi-final that would be played in Athens, GA, a few hours’ drive from Atlanta. So a potential family trip turned into a solo adventure.

That was a great experience. I flew out to Atlanta and stayed with a friend from school whose family had recently moved there. Sadly, Elizabeth couldn’t come to the game with me, so I drove there with a friend of hers, stopping for coffee and warm pecan (pronounced peekan) pie along the way at some classically southern diner off the poorly lit country road. The game was great, as was my stay. I still have photos buried somewhere at home in Los Angeles. I recall the particular fondness I had for sweet tea, the hot and humid weather of the south, and the great hospitality the area is known for.

My second time at a game was the 1999 Women’s World Cup at the Rose Bowl in Pasadena, CA. Yes, this was the famous game where Mia Hamm tore off her jersey and celebrated victory in her sports bra (gasp!). I remember the sweltering sun, the huge crowd, and the tiny parking spot I fit into, ever trying to save a buck on paid parking. There’s not much more to say—it was an awesome game, and I’m glad I had the chance to be there.

My third game was last week, in Belgrade, Serbia. Fast forward over ten years to an era of European football hooligans who throw bottles, rush fields, and occasionally kill visiting fans (in reference to a French man who was recently killed here in Belgrade by a group of hooligans who apparently forgot the “it’s just a game” credo). Anyway, without going into further detail on that terrible death, it might be obvious why alcohol has been banned in and within 50 meters of stadiums on game days.

So, here I was in Belgrade, walking to the game with Vladimir. Such a different experience than game day at an American baseball stadium, for example. We’re talking throngs of spectators each trying to be the first through the security checkpoints, violating personal space requirements and ignoring the concept of orderliness. We’re talking more riot cops than I’ve ever seen in one place, complete with face masks and plastic shields. We’re talking instead of hot dogs and burgers, your choice of seeds (pumpkin, sunflower, or peanuts). I burned my tongue nibbling at my bundle of salted pumpkin seeds and found a strange craving for one of the non-alcoholic beers others drank. Instead I sucked down the contents of a juice pouch sold by a peddler out of a scraggly cardboard box. Rather than official-looking peddlers moving up and down the major aisles, here they walk across toes on already-cramped rows and look more akin to vendors that invaded various buses I’ve ridden in foreign countries selling strange snacks and chocolate bars. They also have a different-sounding post-goal “ole!” song than I remember from previous experiences. Sort of like the difference between east coast and west coast Jews in how they sing traditional songs and prayers differently (I do love my analogies).

We left the great cultural phenomenon of the game to get back to the restaurant with about ten minutes remaining, and a lead of 3-0. By the time we reached the restaurant, we had won with a final score of 5-0, securing a spot in the South African World Cup next year. It would later become big news that Serbia’s president is being prosecuted/fined for toasting to the victory in his luxury suite. His offense: the glass of Champagne he toasted with. I’ll remember this one.

video killed the radio star

2009-10-14T18:46:00.001-04:00

We all love to poke fun at famous athletes, artists, and chefs for ‘selling out.’ Look at the Andre Agassi Nike shoes of my youth. Or any of the myriad pop singers who have gone the route of singing what sells rather than what they might want to. And in recent memory, especially poignant for me, a cook who years ago drunkenly professed his love and admiration (in person; some of you were there) for Rick Bayless, only to see him appear on Burger King commercials shortly thereafter (I still love and admire him)!

So, it is with some sense of irony that I report my own ‘sellout’ moment. I swear I did it for the sheer story value, though writing about it here might impact the story’s telling at future gatherings (if any of my friends actually read this). See, I have signed a contract to be the next big Serbian food commercial actor. Okay, maybe I didn’t actually sign anything, but I’m going to be on tv! Serbian tv. Endorsing a brand of knives and cookware I have no respect for. Only for the fame (I’m not receiving any money nor product in return). Yes, I’ve sold out, but I hope those of you I love and care about will understand: I did it for pure vanity (and story-telling rights).

I think, then, that I might be officially classified as an international tv star. In the last two months I will have appeared on Serbian television for this awful ad, on Lebanese television during a television interview at a restaurant I dined at, and on some Rhode Island show for my participation in Kofi’s (of Bay End Farm) farm dinner. So what if I was merely in the background of the Lebanese spot? Or that I was basically just an extra who happened to be filmed/aired for the farm dinner? I still think it’s official. Hell, let me have my fifteen minutes, alright??

of hairy pigs and bloody butchers

2009-10-13T15:51:00.001-04:00

On Sunday Vlad and I awoke early to drive to his friend Milu’s home in the hills near Belgrade. There was a special event: this was the morning one of his prized mangalitsa pigs would be slaughtered and we, at the restaurant, would help prepare and preserve a fair part of it. Sadly we were not early enough: by the time we arrived the blood was already spilled, the pig skinned, and mostly hacked into individual portions. We

managed to salvage a bone-in (but skin/fat-off) loin, a leg and the skinless jowls. The rest that we took with us was already cut into pieces. So, after much stress about nothing, I realized I need not have worried about it: the parts we had left would dictate their own uses. The scrap and leg, I marinated and made into rillettes and sausage (much of it destined for Milu’s freezer). I’ll use some of the jowls’ fat to enrich the sausage, as much of the fat had been trimmed. The loin, we will roast whole tomorrow for Milu and his party of fifteen. The rest of the jowl, we haven’t figured out yet; hopefully tomorrow.

Milu, an investment banker and lover of food, has taken it upon himself to save some of the Balkans’ rarer breeds. He has a herd of indigenous Buša (pronounced: boosha) cows, a breed that is full-grown at 200kg and will eat grass throughout the winter, digging up to a meter in the snow to find ~~vegetation~~ food. He has sheep and goats that are nearly extinct (I lack the details on their breeds).

Both sexes of the sheep grow long horns. And there are, of course, the mangalitsa pigs, one of the most primitive swine family members, with a short, stocky body, and hairy coiffeur (generally dark brown, though I took pictures of a couple he has that are blonde—a recessive gene, Milu explained). These pigs are suited for charcuterie, with 3:1 ratio of fat to meat, I’m told. I really admire what he’s done (though I did not see most of the animals, as they’re tucked away on a mountainside pasture he has purchased to raise them), and we talked for a bit about the logistics (and challenges) of harvesting and selling some of his livestock. Serbia, it turns out, might not be ready for these fancy animals, as they likely would not fetch their true value on the market, so for now, he continues to grow the herds rather than harvesting animals.

In any case, we made the best of our time up in the hills. I had a chance to meet some of Milu’s animals: long-haired mangalitsa pigs, geese, chickens, and turkeys. I ate fruit fresh off his pear and fig trees, and ate the four raspberries I spied desiccating on the vine. We sampled their tomatoes and grapes, and I marveled at their beautiful abode just up the hill from the mini farm/in-laws’ house.

Their home is beautiful: an old 18^th century home transplanted from an old village in Serbia and added onto with some modern touches, yet keeping its vintage charm in the first floor sitting room (photos to come). His wife Mila taught me her ajvar recipe (more on this fantastic food to come in a separate post), as I loved her version, and we drank green tea while snacking on their fruit preserves (straight out of Christine Ferber’s great book, Mes Confitures).

Back at the farm we picked up our still-warm pork, but not before gorging ourselves on the cracklings left from the lard that had been rendering over a wood fire all morning. This country is great. We’ll be returning at the end of November to slaughter four more pigs, this time with more planning, and hopefully some prosciutto by the end of next year if all goes well… In any case, I left mesmerized (and on my way to a full blown cold, which I love complaining about; no shock to those of you who know me), with a new slow food hero to add to my list of people I admire.

Coming soon: I’m officially a tv star and the truth behind wonderful, mystical ajvar!

chickens and veal and pigs, oh my!

2009-10-10T07:37:00.001-04:00

Contrary to what I (and probably many of my friends and family) would like to believe, I am actually working out here. No need to report me to the authorities for violating my work visa, please, it’s just that even I forget sometimes. Still, somehow I’ve managed to have a few stressful days, even with my often short shifts. Yes, somehow 10-12 hours has become, in my mind, a short shift. I digress. In a really cool, flattering way, I have complete freedom to create what I want with whole lambs and pigs. Some of my favorite preparations are old-school methods involving slow-roasting and braising. In fact, I’m often more interested in eating a melting braise than the more toothsome roast.

Four veal heads arrive today. I’ve cooked a veal head before and it came out quite nice, thank you, but have never had the opportunity/challenge of actually peeling the face from the bone. The one time I’ve encountered a veal head was in France, on my previous real out-of-country adventure, and the butcher magically took care of it within mere minutes. Today I get to learn on the fly. Best part about it: five hours into my day, Vlad and I leave for a football match; the lines of work and play ever blurred…

On Sunday I am told we’re driving out to the countryside early to witness the slaughtering of a banker/farmer’s pig (look for pictures next week!). Not any ordinary pig, this is a fatty indigenous black-haired, red-meat animal known as Mangalitsa. I’m to come up with how to use most all of the carcass. In many ways an awesome opportunity, I have my apprehensions. I also find it saddening that I will not be here to sample some of the products that will take months to mature: bacon, cured leg (jamon or prosciutto), cured lard. Another reason for a return vacation, I suppose.

So what’s stressful about this situation? Why am I whining (well, actually, I didn’t think I was whining!), you might be asking? I lack the team and support structure I had back in the US (thank you all). I have learned a lot from my experiences, and have great ideas, but it’s difficult to execute them when the restaurant’s butcher himself uses dull knives and does not speak a lick of English. There’s something I have yet to put my finger on, some sort of hands-off approach to teamwork, where I can be in the weeds, but the guys beside me banter and pour themselves tall glasses of Coca Cola. All day long I hear Serbian, with only the occasional translation. I’d love to learn some, and plan to, but am having trouble with the software I’ve downloaded. Still, I love this sort of challenge. I thrive under this sort of stress and pressure. And, frankly, I love that when I finish my list, or at least my task at hand, that I can go sit on one of the sidewalk chairs by our back door, and take a breather. I suppose that in itself is what makes this all seem like vacation. What an awesome gig: I get to play with my food and eat it too.

cook=hit man?

2009-10-07T05:01:00.001-04:00

We bring an inordinate amount of food to our catered affairs. This is a departure from the large-scale catering I came to know in New York, as well as from my own small-scale side business. A couple of extra portions, perhaps. And reasonable portions, at that.

Back in the day, Vlad explains, when the mafia ran rampant and killed people, they had a particular style about them. Not that mafia killings will ever really end, they’re just more underground (underwater?) now. After the victims were gunned down, he continued, cocking his finger as if pulling the trigger of a gun, they would get one final shot in the head—just to make sure they were dead—bang!

It turns out cooking in this country has some mafia ties, as Vladimir elaborated on the origin of his approach on cooking for clients. After the kebab and the beautifully-roasted lamb, we gave each in this particular group one pork rib. Who knew you could find such symbolism in catering? If the pork rib is the proverbial last bullet to the head, though, then what of the molten chocolate dessert complete with huge ball of ice cream?

silver

2009-10-07T03:36:00.001-04:00

We recently catered a party for the national basketball team’s coach. Serbia recently won silver in the European championships, and for this young team that was a big deal. By American standards, the family lives really well: indoor pool, basketball court in the back yard, a full-on homing pigeon setup. Yes, pigeons! Not only did he take his team to second place, but he’s apparently known as quite the pigeon trainer.

The party was quite the spectacle: a famous Serbian band playing the music, all manner of middle-aged well to do folks dancing and singing and living it up. I was put to use as the raw fish guy. I prepared ceviche and sashimi of a large Mediterranean grouper (Emperor Fish?). Vladimir wanted to put on a show, so not

only was I mixing ceviche every half-hour, but I was also butchering and slicing as part of the show. When I worked at Craigie, it was hard enough to hear my own thoughts, what with the noise and radio and banter, yet I still managed to hear the sound of my knife interacting with the fish. Here, there was a band playing fifteen feet away. I was effectively deaf. The weirdest thing was cutting this fish and not being able to really feel or hear it. It’s a difficult sensation to explain.

Good times were had by all, and Vlad even snapped a photo of me with the coveted silver medal.

belgrade=beograd

2009-10-06T06:17:00.001-04:00

Faced with the choice between editing and uploading photos, or writing, I have chosen to keep telling my tales before they get too stale. I do have lots of photos, so hang tight. Without further ado:

The final flight into Belgrade was on a small (by my US jet-setting standards, I suppose) propeller-driven craft with a tiny, awkward bathroom in the rear. I quickly passed out, the heavy vibration of the plane penetrating my soul. Vladimir picked me up, sporting a bright magenta v-neck under a sports jacket. We loaded ourselves into his Mini, a contrast to his considerable height.

I got a brief driving tour of Belgrade as we arrived, finally plopping into a seat on Zaplet’s patio. I was introduced to the local pear brandy (we’ve become fast friends) and ate a couple of small dishes that would quickly repair my ailing stomach, or so I was told. We relaxed and talked some, sipping on wine and brandy. I was in a zombied state from the flights and my illness, and I was glad to get unpacked into my flat before falling on my bed and sleeping for twelve rejuvenating hours.

Vladimir supplied me with maps and a local cell phone the next day, and I met the staff of Zaplet, promptly to forget all but a few key names. I basically twiddled my thumbs and took some notes as others cooked for lunch service and prepared for our small catering gig that evening. My first full day in Belgrade, and we catered a fancy dinner for two prominent public figures and their wives, one local and one Swiss. We sipped on the wine they drank, deciding in what order they should drink them. Tough job.

The next day brought us to the nearby town of Smederevo where we catered again for the wives and friends. The setting: a most picturesque villa overlooking the Danube. Years ago the property belonged to a duke or an earl—nobility in any case. The mansion is enormous, but the vineyards no longer produce anything of great import: the grapes are sold to a local generic winery. The elderly groundskeeper, who lives in a small guest house hidden in the chestnut trees behind the mansion, sat us down upon arrival and poured for us his local grappa-like brandy. Later, as we were preparing the first course, the cute groundskeeper returned with a jar of the acacia honey he produces. I’ve never seen such a sight as Milos and Mirko digging in like bears. Half the jar was consumed within minutes by these friendly medveds, or bears. We all relaxed and chatted afterward, watching the sun descend before speeding back toward town on the fast toll road.

I’m again amazed at how kind, generous, and hospitable these people are. Here I am, this cook from Boston who’s been flown in to help refine and generally step on their toes, and I’m being treated like royalty at every turn. I’m not a threat at all to them, instead I’ve been taken in as a friend, a lucky outsider. Vladimir has shown me such hospitality in putting me up, more than I would ever have expected from any employer (which, technically, he is), and his father adores me, trying to teach me the obligatory lines such as “hello, how are you? Good, thanks.” I am, indeed, great. This town is treating me well, and I’m very excited about the next two months.

onward bound!

2009-10-04T05:36:00.001-04:00

I’m falling seriously behind on blogging, and heard of some anticipation today. That’s flattering, really: I’m glad some of you out there are getting a kick out of this—I welcome and savor comments and personal notes, so be in touch!

I had been meaning to write my last couple of Beirut posts during the twelve hours of travel time I’d have on my way to Belgrade. Obviously that never happened, so the ~~nutshell~~ long version (to be accompanied shortly by photos): four of us (EB, her friend Sammy, visiting from Egypt, Smuggler, and I) piled into EB’s new car for a road trip. We had each looked at maps and guides and come to similar conclusions. There were three main agendas: hike through some nature, visit a winery, and eat dinner before sundown (I fast for Yom Kippur, and it began the evening of our road trip).

We arrived at a small town by a nature reserve feeling rather famished. The ladies ransacked the packaged goods section at a small grocery, and while EB wasn’t looking, I ran off in search of fresh food. Noon was early for lunch, and quick food was surprisingly hard to find given the bustle of people. I avoided the sickly looking schawarma that looked suspiciously dated, and happened upon a man grilling chickens over charcoal. Some puffy bread from next door in-hand, I ran (literally) back to the car to avoid a confrontation over schedules and delays.

We had trouble finding the site, and stopped to ask directions from a man on the street. He turned to his friend, who had just parked his car, when he heard the American accents. So this delightfully cheerful chap greeted us in the most unexpected Australian accent. Not only that, but he got back in the car, and happily led us the fifteen minutes to the site, parting ways as he told us to follow a mysterious dirt road for ten more minutes.

Guidebook moment: it turns out there’s a nearby town in Lebanon that exported many of its finest citizens to Australia during the civil war. Many have since made their way back, and begun importing Australian foodstuffs.

We ate lunch out of the car’s rear under hot sunshine before departing on a two hour hike through beautiful terrain varied with chaparral and cedar woods. I must have tasted a dozen of the wild yellow plums I found occasionally in the dirt before finding one whose sour and bitter notes did not contort my face.

The drive onward to the Bekaa valley for wine tasting and dinner was long and arduous. When planning trips involving mountains and valleys in developing countries, it certainly pays to consider the elevation changes. We went from 1500m down to sea level, only to climb a rocky peak to its peak of 3000m before descending into predominantly Hezbollah territory (Nasrallah is a man of god, and loves his people, the billboards declare). The estimated one hour trip? More than three, it turned out. The winery was surely closed (boo hoo), and the sun was descending ever faster, but we made it to our feeding spot in time for my pre-fasting food fest.

Smuggler parted the sea of pedestrians as we walked to the river-side casino restaurant (Mehanna, in case you’re ever in the area). They were surprisingly accommodating, allowing Smuggler to sit with us (outdoor seating, but still amazing for this dog-fearing country), and even bringing a ~~dish~~ ashtray of water for him. The mezes we tucked into were outstanding, and we hurried out to wait in awful lung-wrecking traffic for the ride back to Beirut.

As I began my fast-culminating meal of leftovers the next night, I noticed a noise coming from the washing machine that EB had just started. It’s moments like these that remind you to hate on America’s litigious society for imposing door locks on washers, for EB had spied her IPod tumbling from behind the glass door. The MacGyver in me came out as I got the door open and quickly set upon fixing the problem. Lacking the proper tools, I used my semi-disposable paring knife to pry open the dripping music box. Into a warm oven went the disassembled machine, and to the airport went I, stomach beginning to churn.

The 3:10am flight was fine, though I’d spent some time chasing my tail in the airport, thinking I had lost stuff that was with me all along. I carried 20kg on my shoulders since my suitcase was overweight and the flight agent was strict (of course I was surreptitiously over the limit on my carry-ons). As my digestive functions were quickly deteriorating, I found myself chilled, achy, and unable to get any real sleep. The airport lounge (thank you, Diner’s Club) in Prague, where I stopped for five hours, allowed me a hot shower, snacks, and internet connectivity, but I was too out of it to take advantage. So I made way for Belgrade, seeing bathrooms in the light that had coined the term “pit stop.”

And here I was, thinking that I would actually be writing about my first few days in Belgrade. When I was younger and creative writing assignments were due I would have killed for this sort of verbal dysentery. I do apologize for the lack of editing, though one must realize this ailment is messy.

yin to my favorite things’ yang

2009-10-02T05:08:00.001-04:00

Remember what I said about the locals here and their lack of cheating? I’ve decided this clemency does not apply to taxi drivers. Most are happy to capitalize on a foreigner’s pocketbook, as there is no official meter. What should be a $2 fare turns into $10. Forget to negotiate the cost at the outset and beware the consequences: one driver followed us into a store and proceeded to argue about the fare (the same we had paid many other drivers on the same route), winning by sheer persistence. Rider beware.

Smuggler is an adorable pup (and fully deserves to have made the favorites list, but for lack of space), but he is still young, and young pups have small bladders and special teething needs. Coupled with his latent anger about the flight here, he makes for fun, yet sometimes stressful diversions. Whether it is chewing on the rugs, stealing shoes, needing to pee at 5am, or making a mess two hours later, he can throw us for a loop at any time.

While puppies are cute, our repairmen are absolutely not. They keep us waiting much longer than the legendary cable guy of the United States. A 1:30pm appointment means they will arrive no earlier than 3:00, unless of course you happen to be out of the house, in which case 1:15 will be when they come and go. There’s no winning. It took ten days and six visits for the plumber (trained in Italy to repair this special instant water heater) to finally provide us with consistent hot water (it would usually last long enough for him to get in his truck and pull away). Best bet: don’t count on anyone. Play it selfishly and live your life—let the repairman worry about his.

The driving in Beirut leaves much to be desired. Gone is the revered orderly conduct of the Sicilians or the gun-toting Los Angelinos. The drivers here are a childish, horn-happy, chauvinistic bunch. Horn honks are more prevalent than turn signals flashing, and tires here are quickly worn bald by middle aged men peeling out for ten meters before braking for the stopped traffic ahead. Time of day is irrelevant: 3:00am is fair game for some horn-happy drag racing in the streets behind EB’s apartment.

Most ‘fun,’ perhaps, is the workmanship. If our track record with the repairmen wasn’t enough, consider when Sammy closed the front door to head out recently: a fifteen kilogram cast iron decoration came crashing down, gouging her finger open, narrowly missing her foot on its way down. I performed some minor surgery that morning, cutting away dead skin and bandaging (thank you, EMT class of ten years ago).

…a few of my favorite things

2009-09-28T10:45:00.001-04:00

Falafel sandwiches here are different than I’ve come to know to the (ahem) south and in the US. I’ve had at least six such meals since I’ve arrived, and will probably have a couple more before I’m gone. They’re a nearly perfect vegetarian snack/meal. In this country they come wrapped in a thin Lebanese pita along with tomato, tahina, pickled radishes, parsley, and mint. By request, mine come with pickled hot chiles, though they’re usually served on the side. The fritters themselves seem simpler than I’ve made and sampled in the US/Israel—they don’t taste as seasoned by garlic, onion, or spices. The accoutrements are very limited: no cucumbers, no terrible shredded iceberg lettuce, no hoomoos, no babaganouj/moutabel. They’re fried here in large, shallow, round iron vats dedicated to the task: no fries are served alongside. And a falafel stand is just that—they typically don’t serve anything else besides the choice of beverages. Still, for $1.50 on average, who would dream of complaining?

The souk (farmers’ market) here is something straight out of Europe. Every Saturday, just steps from our apartment, is a bona-fide organic market offering everything from fresh honey to knitwear to pickles to sandwiches. What is fresh honey, one might ask. The honey folks come with jars, honey in the comb, and a small hand-operated centrifuge. The honey is raw, and filtered through a strainer with only the occasional sunlight to help loosen it enough to pass through. There is labneh, a sort of goat milk yogurt/cheese that’s been rolled up into balls and dunked in the local olive oil, which will keep at room temperature. There are several women making fresh flatbreads (and sandwiches with them) of different sorts, using organic grains and age-old technique. The figs are phenomenal and only $1.33 per pound. The whole vibe is so laid-back and pleasant. Some of the prepared/preserved foods seem a bit expensive compared to local prices, but it’s striking how honest everybody is. No ~~forgotten~~ withheld change, no price-gouging for foreigners.

Beirut (I can’t speak to the rest of Lebanon—I haven’t been yet) challenges one’s preconceptions of Arabs. Bearded men are not spilling onto sidewalks during the call for prayer. Pizzerias offer prosciutto as a topping. I notice church bells as often as I do calls to prayer. When going out in the evening, the women dress to kill: not much different than being around a university on a Friday night. Some decent wines are produced in Lebanon, and the guidebook calls arak (an 80-proof, aniseed-flavored brandy relative) the national drink. French and English are spoken as much as is Arabic, making this an easy city to navigate as a tourist. The people, while typically so very warm and friendly, are not like many of the characters I encountered long ago in Morocco—here there is little to no badgering, begging, or cheating.

The climate here is spectacular. We live a short walk to the Mediterranean, and have the beautiful days and nights to prove it. Aside from the freak thunderstorms last week, it’s been a pretty steady 80F during the days, and perhaps 70F by night. The humidity quickly turns on my sweat ~~glands~~ faucets, but keeps our skin healthy. Sure, the summers get hot, but right now it’s absolutely gorgeous, and will probably remain so til Winter, when they’ll undergo a frost-free mild, but cooler winter.

getting settled

2009-09-26T10:29:00.001-04:00

Weary-eyed and physically torn, we dragged our baggage the last hundred meters. EB pushed the dog-laden luggage cart while I alternated between

two others packed with luggage. We got to be those people with their names on a drivers’ placard. We found our driver and headed for the door. EB took the chance to walk Smuggler and clean his miserable kennel off in the shadows. I was posted just outside the sliding doors and was charged with fending off the vultures in taxi driver clothing. I swatted the scavengers away as I got into it with our driver in pantomimed French/Arabic (Frerabic?) about whether all our stuff would fit in the truck. Of course it would, thought I, after all EB’s broker had arranged it all: “I will organize the pick up car for you and will confirm (since you are a very nice client); a seven seats car would be ok?” Not so. After much deliberation, translation by phone (EB’s broker was awaken between 3:30-4:30 multiple times to deal with the consequences of his lack of foresight), we finally pushed the carts yet again to the dark corners of the parking lot where the driver had parked his compact SUV rental. Though challenging, I was in my element again fixing problems, rearranging the pieces of a puzzle to make it all fit. It took two tries, but we were finally able to pile ourselves into the car.

The broker had booked us the one hotel he could find that would accept a bribe in exchange for housing a dog for the night. I went to check in while EB tended to the dog’s needs and the driver unloaded the truck. “That is not small dog,” declared the hotel manager. I shrugged: “who told you it was a small dog? WE did not tell you that—don’t know what to tell you… could I have the key please?” And so as the hoteliers glared and the sun began to poke up, I nearly singlehandedly loaded the tiny elevator and shuttled up the four loads of luggage to the smoke-staled room. EB washed Smuggler, his crate, and herself, before I took my own turn in the war-torn bathroom. My five hours of sleep that ensued were glorious. EB’s three hours were less so, but she did the productive tasks of procuring a bed and arranging the move to the apartment.

So after a six hour break we again piled our belongings, this time into two very old Mercedes taxis. We weaved the city streets, and before we knew it, the ‘concierge’ at EB’s new apartment had lugged everything the two flights up into our spacious, marble-laden domicile. The landlord was still working on the place, and it was hardly clean. Again, the broker: “apartment is ready to move in; we called [the landlord] couple of days ago.”

No furniture, save for a mattress on the floor. Hot

water for showering, check. Fridge was operating, though beeping obnoxiously at 90-second intervals. But we were home with falafel sandwiches in hand. Full stop.

it felt like home

2009-09-25T03:52:00.001-04:00

Airplane landings in the middle east are among my pleasant memories from childhood. As far as my history is concerned, the pilot invariably lands the plane beautifully and, assuming there are predominantly natives (of whichever religion) onboard, the applause is unanimous (and would likely be a standing ovation were that a realistic option). It’s a beautiful way to celebrate flight, and life thereafter.

Deplaning is a different story entirely. Middle easterners (again, of any religion) are anything but polite. Courteous, perhaps, if dealing with immediate family. Politeness as a concept seems to be darwinistically chewed up and spat out as chain-smoking glass-eyed toughness. I am well-accustomed to the attitude, and adjust my own when in the region. So, when push came to shove, I was (and am) not in the least embarrassed about my behavior when retrieving the last of our bags from the overhead bins. It took a moment for the animal in me to awaken, but I shoved right back, not even feigning apology.

Happily, what I imagined (at length) to be a scrutinous entry process, replete with strip search and questions about my origins and business in this very non-Jewish country (there are said to be about 100 living in the country), was as simple as a squinty-eyed comparison of me to my passport photo and the international sound for “welcome to our country”: STAMP!

We had not believed the Lebanese baggage agent when he told us Smuggler would come down the baggage carousel along with the rest of the luggage.

Until we saw (and smelled!) his kennel come through the passage. I fumbled for a snapshot before helping EB remove the kennel. People around us

were in what must have been shock: nobody moved, and I again needed to use my superhero shoving skills.

As long as this post is, it was only about 3am at this point. It would prove to be one of the most unpleasantly long days in my recent memory.

of german hospitality

2009-09-24T08:54:00.001-04:00

As I fell asleep plugged into a saxy, airplane-supplied Branford Marsalis CD, I woke up courtesy of the captain’s PA come morning. The yogurt drink was all I dared try of the breakfast to-go offered by the flight crew. Besides, I was still working on the bag of pastries generously sent with me by my friend Nikola at Iggy’s bread.

Arrived in Frankfurt, we had a whole day to spend exploring. First stop: hot shower. It took us thirty minutes to find the well-hidden arrivals lounge, but it was a welcome place to put down our ~~carry-~~drag-ons, clean up, and relax. The food was simple and welcome: perfectly-boiled eggs, olives, and soft cheeses, among others. A nearby baggage storage facility took our bags for the day as we went into town.

Note to the uninitiated: if two or more of you are going into the city for a day trip, splurge the extra euro on the Frankfurt Pass. It wasn’t even presented as an option to us, but would have saved us money later on our museum visit. We went first to the Staedel Museum and then onward to feed our grumbling stomachs. We walked down a long stretch of storefronts looking for the right place, occasionally asking the brusque locals for suggestions. We ate first at a chain-like though redeeming-looking currywurst joint, armed with an array of sausage-saucing squeeze bottles ranked from 1-10 based on the underlying chiles’ hotness. There was no redemption to the bratwurst we shared: it just wasn’t very great. Onward to greener pastures.

Wagner was our next (and final—I just can’t eat the way I used to in my youth) stop, where I started with my first taste of appelwine. Great beverage! Everything apple cider should be (and sadly usually isn’t), but without bubbles: funky, dry, acidic, appley. The meal that followed was, as a whole, good but not great. I did really enjoy the sauerkraut that came with the sausages.

Back to the airport, where we waited only a short while as we learned of our fate in Beirut and I helped myself to some bubbly.

In parting, another note to the uninitiated: if you

see a couple of sweaty folks lugging enough bags for four travelers when going through airport security, avoid that queue no matter how short it may seem. They’re going to take (and I quote from The Sandlot) for-ev-er.

new york shenaniganos

2009-09-23T04:57:00.001-04:00

After a morning of frantic last-minutes parking my car, buying bourbon for gifts, and saying goodbye, I was short on time. I splurged for a taxi ride to the bus depot, and got to the gate within five minutes of my New York-bound bus departure.

The ride was productive and, though we got caught in traffic, was tardy by only fifteen minutes. EB shortly thereafter arrived to pick me, and what I saw was horrific.

Her huge truck was nearly exploding with her chaotically over packed bags. Whitney was riding in back among the puppy and the suitcases. It was a disaster. We spent the next few minutes repacking

and redistributing items that hadn’t fit in EB’s original packing extravaganza. It was truly a sight to see. Quickly, we crammed everything and everyone back into the Ford Expedition, this time with two additional passengers: Logan (a friend of theirs) and myself. I may have been the

only one able to fasten his seatbelt; I don’t know what EB was thinking.

Jane (the third and youngest Harper sister) heroically gathered our dinner from Shake Shack while we zigzagged uptown and Warren (their dad) laid in the street saving us a parking spot. As we shoveled in the sustenance all sorts of characters couldn’t resist lauding Smuggler: one batty woman went so far as to start munching on his fluffy ears.

Our goodbyes behind us, EB, Smuggler, and I hurried up to wait in traffic to the airport. Once there we were the TSA’s nightmare: a heavily-

loaded SUV parked for 25 minutes. Sure, we were unloading it for part of that time, but the security guy became skittish after we were through unloading and the truck remained parked as EB and I tended to the dog and the baggage. Threatened with a ticket, I first faked, and after playing all my bluffs finally actually moved the car, returning it to its rental home. By this time the security guard had down our plate number, and given his furious scribbling, must have had a good sketch of me too: “if you see something, say something.”

After some more last-minute repacking, dog-feeding, and excess baggage-paying, our bags were gone through security, with only 45 minutes left before our flight departed. We were stopped just short of boarding for our excessive carry-ons. EB handled it like a pro, declaring we were in business class, at which point they unrolled red carpet down the jet bridge for us. We were without a doubt the riffraff of business class, with dog bowls strapped to the outside of my oversized backpack, and a heavy Trader Joe’s bag full of dog toys. Through the commotion my corkscrew must have been overlooked by security—it would be nice not to have to buy a new one. All aboard and situated, we reclined our seats and promptly fell asleep.

Summer’s end, two years later

2009-09-22T04:56:00.000-04:00

Let me begin by addressing the obvious: it’s been a very, very long time since I’ve last written. The theme being the travels of an unemployed cook, I felt it dishonest to write while I was actually working—well, that’s the easier to mutter version anyway. Back in the US, I had so much to catch up with that I just couldn’t/didn’t make the time. I’m sure I failed to cover some important aspects of my return to the states two years ago, and hope that we can all move on.

My recent time off has been fantastic. I’ve had a chance to try getting a life, to visit friends, and to get some thoughts in order. Thanks in no small part to Sarah’s help, we somehow managed to can and preserve over 100 pounds of Massachusetts’s finest fruit in advance of my departure, even with the fiasco of moving into a new place on September 1.

Which brings me to the main event: Though I remain unemployed (by choice, lest you worry), and my finances are still somewhat a mess after the latest market crash, I’ve gone boldly where no Jew in my family has gone before: Beirut, Lebanon. Serendipity hit twice this time, in rapid succession. My friend Pedja, hearing of my (temporarily) aimless attitude suggested I meet his friend, Vladimir: perhaps I could work out something with him whereby I’d fly to work in Belgrade, Serbia, for a few months, he suggested. Never one to dismiss ideas out of turn, I listened, and when I met Vladimir, the ideas became a plausible way to spend my Autumn. Fast forward to Autumn, and I have been sold on the idea of a workcation in Eastern Europe.

Meanwhile, EB, planning a move to Beirut, called and asked if I’d join and help her in the move (those of you familiar with the first part of this blog may be sensing a theme). Opportunity, again! How could I possibly resist a free flight to a country (countries, really) I’d otherwise never have the opportunity to visit? My family, of course, balked at the idea. Not an hour after casually mentioning the possibility to my cousin by phone, my parents had respectively called me to voice their concerns (and by voice their concerns, I mean yelling and fear mongering—sorry Mom and Dad, but it was). I don’t mean to paint them in a bad light: I’m their son, and they are genuinely afraid of losing me out here. I let them cool off before I calmly explained my rational take on the situation, reminded them that I’m now thirty, and of course vowed I’d be careful.

And so I booked my travel (making sure to book a return in time for Sarah’s blockbuster birthday party on the first day of winter), and the adventure is now upon us.

(Those of you out of the loop, I am already in Beirut. It’s great, and I have stories to tell. I will post them, along with photos, shortly: look for these in the days to come.)

spain

2007-08-09T14:28:00.001-04:00

This was not my first visit. My freshman college spring break, rather than gawking at drunk and uninhibited coeds on Daytona Beach, Florida, I came out to Spain and France (with three generations of Harper women) for a short trip along the Mediterranean. Those two days in Barcelona were my first, but I didn't appreciate them nearly as much as these (this time with my own family), nine years later.

Unsurprisingly, this trip was about eating. The region is known for its food, and we discovered just why. We spent the first few days in Barcelona, then making for the Basque region along the northern coast. We spent our few nights among Zaragoza, Bilbao, and San Sebastian, and dined in a handful of picturesque small towns along the way (detailed reviews to come). Zaragoza, where we simply rested the night, was bigger and livelier than expected. Bilbao seemed a fun place to end up to study abroad—a hip town with great museums . San Sebastian is a town for a couple of simple activities: beach going, and pintxo bar-hopping. Pintxos, the local term for tapas, are the force behind the region’s food scene. A late-night visit to one such local bar ran circles around (and was a tiny fraction of the price of) the three-starred restaurant from the night before.

I reminded myself why I hate driving in big European cities: traffic is awful, and it’s just as cheap and ever more convenient to use taxis. Once out of the city, as the designated navigator, I pulled out my hair trying to figure out why the motorways couldn’t be better-labeled: just give me a direction and a clear road name. Instead, we navigated twisty mountain back roads that called themselves one thing even though our directions told us another. We got there, but not without some yelling, frustration, and confusion.

Still, if one is going to get lost avoiding the toll roads (about $75 in tolls for the six-hour drive from Bacelona to San Sebastian!), the mountainous region between Bilbao and San Sebastian is breathtaking. All is lush and green, and when it gets warm, the coast offers secluded cliff-backed beaches. Stopping to peer down to the rocky beach, I imagined an ideal summer afternoon: bathing in the cool water, eating jamon and drinking ocean-chilled beer and wine. Plans were for us to get some time on the beach in San Sebastian. The weather thought nothing of our plans: it scoffed, blowing cold air and raindrops our way, in the middle of July. Bygones: our time in Spain was quickly gone, and there would be plenty of time for the beach in Israel, our next stop.

bread and cheese to come

2007-07-30T09:56:00.003-04:00

I'm not done writing up all of my French experiences, but in the spirit of keeping this blog at least somewhat up-to-date, I'll leave this as a placeholder, and promise to come back and fill it in. In the meantime, it's time to go on to Spain and Israel...

chers francophones

2007-07-30T09:56:00.001-04:00

Chers tous mes amis français (ou francophones). D’abord, je suis désole de prendre si beaucoup de temps à vous écrire quelques choses. J’était avec ma famille toujours—j’était leur guide et traducteur. Alors, en addition d’avoir la (bonne) stresse d’être avec eux toujours, c’était moi qui avait les responsabilités de chercher les restaurants (naturellement), naviguer tous les petits chemins (pour voir un peu plus de la campagne et pour éviter les grands péages), et trouver des hôtels agréables. Evidemment, on n’avais pas de chance à faire des petites siestes, mais on à manger (sauf un ou deux repos) très très bien.

Je suis arrivé à Barcelone en retard (chacun de mes trois trains sont devenus plus en retard), et très fatigué d’avoir trainer mes 60kg de bagages partout les gares qui je suis visité. Il restaient quelques petits morceaux de jambon et de chèvre, de melon et des fraises du frère de Papi. Ma sœur à commenté qu’ils étaient les meilleurs fraises qu’elle a déjà gouté. Normalement, il ne restaient plus de fraises.

On a mangé en plusieurs bons restaurants, et assez des bars de tapas (pintxos, comment ils s’appellent au pays Basque). Normalement, les meilleurs repos étaient aux restaurants plus simples et moins chers, mais il y avaient quelques hauts restaurants qui étaient aussi hyper bons que chers. En tout cas, les Basques ont de la vachement bonne cuisine. De plus, il est une région super belle : des belles plages, des bois, des jolies villes isolées. Est-ce que j’ai mentionné qu’on a mangé bien ? Quand quelqu’un est prêt à voyager là-bas, je serai très content de donner des noms et adresses des restaurants, etcetera. Dans les prochaines jours et semaines, je vais écrire quelques critiques dans mon blog.

Israël est vachement chaud, 35-40°, mais même très humide, alors, je deviens moelleux immédiatement quand je vais à l’extérieur. Je me suis bien amusé, et demain une copine va me rencontrer avant qu’on départ en Jordanie à plonger sur mer et explorer un peu. Et bien sûr que je mange (et mangerai) très bien. Ma famille a gouté et a aimé les fromages et viandes de Crozefond—particulièrement la pâté de ragondin (merci Vincent !).

Bon, il y a plusieurs des photos dans mon album et je vous invite a continuer de lire mon blog en anglais (vous savez qu’il faut pratiquer !), parce qu’il serais trop difficile de traduire tout en anglais… Vous me manquez trop. J’espère à vous visiter très bientôt. Passez mes saluts à Mami et Papi, les enfants, Vicky et Spot, et tous les autres qui je manque. Pensez de moi de temps en temps, comme je pense de vous, et m’envoyer des nouvelles quand vous avez des fois.

going to market

2007-07-22T08:30:00.001-04:00

The weekly markets are butter to Crozefond’s bread. No fewer than three weekly markets are attended during the warmer months. The markets begin at Villeneuve-sur-lot on Wednesday morning. The marathon continues Thursday morning at Bordeaux before climaxing at an evening market on the way back to the farm Thursday night. Each market has its distinct dynamics.

Thirty minutes away from the farm, at Villeneuve, Mami and Regine lend a feminine sensibility together with a couple of the granddaughters. The market (what few minutes I experienced) has an altogether laid-back feel, though it has a fair number of producers. Papi’s brother, along with several other produce stands, sell fruit and vegetables. There’s a guy who makes great chevre (goat cheese), a fishmonger (if I remember correctly), and the occasional staples-peddler (salts, vinegars, etc).

Bordeaux is a much larger town, and is three hours away (meaning getting up at 3:45 to load up the cold goods and get the camion rolling). This market, at least when stagiares are around, has a different, more intense feel, even with fewer vendors. Bordeaux is where Vincent tends to take the stagiares, and is the market I became most familiar with. It’s full of characters. Before we’ve even arrived, groupies are gathered at our parking spot. Sweet arthritic women and flamboyant old men know the stand’s workings better than do the stagiares, and get down and dirty helping us set up. They do this for nothing tangible in return. Julie, a psychology student at Bordeaux, works weekly to earn some extra euros. She’s quick on her toes: she seems comfortable dancing around the occasional harmless chauvinistic banter.

Then there’s her occasional patient-to-be, like Chella, who announced her distaste for Americans upon meeting me. When she learned my ethnic background she tried to redeem herself, but ultimately seemed confused that I consider myself an Israeli despite Arab roots. The next week, before any greetings or pleasantries, she chastised me for improperly returning her bicycle after borrowing the previous week. It turns out I left the seat lowered (my fault, yes, though the quick-release fastener should have rendered the adjustment easy as riding a bike) and for breaking her brakes (this one an unfounded accusation). Alas, some people, one learns, are best just left alone.

At 10:30am, our halfway point, we join forces with the winemakers to our side and set up a snack table behind the scenes. Wine glasses fill up, bread sliced, cheese and ham brought out. A couple of bicycle-mounted policemen and -women are regulars, but mostly older men show up, talk trash (in French the expression literally translates to “make the mayonnaise”), and get their morning buzz on. It’s very convivial, and poles apart from anything we’ll ever see at the Union Square market. Around two o’clock, we eat again, picking at leftover pizzas and quiches, rinsing with more wine (or coffee). Then we pack up and head to the second market of the day—an evening market complete with entertainment, booze, and lots more to eat.

Having spent the last twelve hours on the road and at the market earns one the privilege of relaxing a bit—walking around and sampling the fare. Mami introduced me to her cousins and various townsfolk. I chatted a fair bit with Serge, the mayor of Savignac who, along with the Pozzers, is entertaining and entertained by the possibility of me someday settling down in the area (have I mentioned I love it here?). There’s altogether too much food to go around. Working with one of the vendors has its privileges, such as grilled skewers of foie gras-studded duck breast, and pretty much all the wine one can drink. The British invasion in the area makes for a number of people with whom to practice my native tongue. And there’s the evening show—sometimes rock, sometimes rather awful folky stuff. Turnout reaches 1000 on busy weeks, creating another amazing scene that brings out my American’s jealousy. All of this is picturesquely set on the Lot river, and brings one to dream of living on its bank (Mami’s keeping her eyes out for a suitable piece of land for me).

At midnight commences a communal drunken chair-stacking, table-dragging orgy. We finally make it to sleep, a full twenty two hours after waking for the long day.

fires and booze

2007-07-10T13:20:00.001-04:00

Since arriving, by my count (even counting sometimes gets fuzzy) I’ve attended four outings, for lack of a better term. Two were for St Jean’s day, two were festivals local to southwest France, called Bodegas.

St Jean’s day technically falls on June 24^th, but is celebrated whenever the local towns decide to celebrate it. I’m hopefully not stepping on too many Catholic toes by calling it a pretty pagan celebration. I compare it to Sweden’s similar bonfire holiday in late June. St Jean’s has the obvious religious connotation; Sweden’s is pretty outwardly-traditional/pagan. In any case, as it goes, it involves food (whether as simple as Savignac’s sausage grillade or as elaborate as St Aubin’s more intricate plate including pâté, grilled pork, veggie sides, and dessert), followed by a bonfire at nightfall (a late 23:30 at this time of year). St Aubin’s was rather tame while Savignac’s (Vincent’s) left me with a headache the next morning. Vincent corralled us up for the walk to his house, where he broke out his own pear eau-de-vie, prunes soaked in armagnac, along with a medley of beers and cognac. A cool bit of slang I learned for the post-drinking phenomenon (it sounds cooler in French than in English) literally translates into a “hair ache,” or “my hair is growing inward.”

Bodegas are an altogether different beast. The term is Spanish, but it refers to a township’s summer block party, if you will. Like the bonfires, they range from a smallish couple-hundred people dancing to bad ‘90s remixes and eating mediocre food (as we did outside of Monflanquin, to the much larger summer spectacular we at Issigeac (Bendicte’s hometown). Here, we started off with a hearty white bean soup slowly stewed with lots of pork skin, moved on to crepes stuffed with sautéed onions, crème fraiche, and ham, followed by a grilled brochette of duck breast. There’s no shortage of beer on tap and very drinkable box wine sold for less than a coke (1 euro). Throughout, we grooved to various bands playing throughout the picturesque village, from French marching band to contemporary French fare to a good blues cover band.

In any case, small or large, elaborate or simple, I can only think of one event I’ve attended (alas, I wanted to USA-bash with an honest zero) in the States that would begin to match the experience: Danny Meyer’s Madison Square Park BBQ spectacular (the queues are ridonculous (sic), but the food is outstanding). Seems it’s time for me to hit up some real southern BBQ fairs…

a bit of the bayou

2007-07-10T12:59:00.001-04:00

We went crayfishing the other day. Armed with traps that reminded me more of hanging fruit baskets for the kitchen, we’d strategically (read: right side up, in the water) set them down in the muddy stream, wait a few minutes, and then pull them back onto land. The traps being little more than glorified nets, it was key to get it out of the water and onto land before the big bugs would crawl through the net and back to safety. We baited with some old sardines Claudette had in the freezer along with special crayfish (écrevisse) snacks (read: not-so-slim dry blood sausage slim jims). The little buggers preferred what probably more natural to them: the sardines (or maybe it had something to do with the snackies not being organic).

We were worried at first that it’d go the way of my flopped turkey hunt last fall (no turkeys in sight, thanks), but after a few empty nets we caught onto their game, and ended up with something like 80 of the American guys (turns out they’re not native: they’re a pest that somehow got transplanted at some point—the better, I’m told, native crustaceans of bigger rivers are only allowed to be hunted one day each year). Cleaning them meant carefully grabbing the body with one hand (careful not to lose a finger in their pinching claws), and pulling out their middle tail-fin, vein (and digestive waste) included. Cooking them was deliciously straightforward: a hard sear, ample garlic and parsley, and a flambé of Vincent’s prune (plum) eau de vie (literally: water of life, really: fire water). They yield even less than Maryland blue crabs, so you need to be prepared with a patient appetite and to make use of the guts, not just the tails. There were lots of mosquitoes and thorns about, but a hyper- (as they say around here) fun time.

life is good when...

2007-07-05T05:06:00.001-04:00

...you wake up to birds chirping and cows mooing

...lunch has traveled less than 50 yards to make it into your stomach

...a hot day warrants an evening dip in the salt- (not chlorine-) treated pool

...drinking an ’83 Bordeaux during lunch is nothing out of the ordinary

...(surrogate or otherwise) Grandma doesn’t quit trying to force dessert upon you

Perhaps I’m showing off a bit, and I’m surely presenting the idealistically wonderful side of working on a farm, but none of the above is embellished. How about chiming in on a few of your favorite things?

prunes

2007-07-01T10:47:00.001-04:00

Like raisin, prune refers to the fresh fruit in French, not the dried names we use in English. Crozefond is studded with 8m tall hedges. Trees really, but all in nice, straight lines, dividing their property into 3-4 hectare (7-9 acre) plots. At least a third of these trees are wild plum trees, called mirabels. Late June and into July the trees come into their prime, yielding bucketfuls of fruit. Unlike the homogenous fruit population we’ve become used to in big cities, each and every one of these trees are different. They ripen at different times, weeks apart. Some ripen to yield a yellow fruit, others are nearly black when sweet, and of course all the fiery shades of orange and red between. Not only do the colors differ, but each tree yields fruit with a unique flavor. It is all so beautifully variable.

I made a few tarts using the fruit a couple of weeks ago, and the idea has caught on to start using them in the farm’s pastries. So, this week, Sarah and I, along with three of the grandkids who live on the farm, went hunting, along with two five gallon buckets (and a host of smaller ones), a large sheet, and a rake (the best tool we could find to use as a hook). Blanket stretched out at four corners, the rake wielder would literally shake the fruit off the trees. About half of it landed in the sheet, the rest would fertilize the surrounding soil. The fallen fruit seems of little matter considering we snagged at least 30kg of fruit within a couple of hours.

Over Sunday lunch, with Papi, we cut open about ten of the fruit to test them using his sugar refractometer to get a gauge of the percentage of sugar in the various colors and ripeness levels (In case you’re curious, it turns out the yellows (even the ripe ones) harbor the least sugar, whereas the deep reds are the sweetest). At the end, we scooped the mangled fruit into the compost heap. Now, I’ll be the first to complain about wasting perfectly good fruit, but the stuff is literally falling off the trees. I love this place.

snails snails everywhere

2007-06-22T10:44:00.000-04:00

This year’s June has been weird. It’s been raining on and off for a while now. We haven’t gone more than a couple of days without rain, in fact, and some nights have been cold enough that I’m glad I ended up bringing a coat along for the summer. When the rain comes, so do the snails. For slow-moving creatures, they sure come out quickly. When the lawn is wet, there’s an inevitable crunch every so often. So Claudette, Sarah (the new stagiaire), and I went foraging for the little homemakers. They seem to like climbing on walls and around certain plants. We loaded up a special escargot basket (with a locking door, and mesh too small for them to crawl through) full of them and pondered our upcoming meal.

A couple of days later, Mami finally got around to cleaning the suckers (turns out you soak them in a water-based mixture of salt and vinegar, with some stinging nettle if you feel like going to the trouble), and boiled ‘em. I whipped up a nice aioli, and we got to eating (I eat the whole best, while Claudette likes to get rid of the guts). A couple days of this, and the idea (and the snails) grew old. Claudette made a little tomato-based stew with the rest of them, which we thankfully gave up on days later. Still, it’s nice to be up to date on my snail-handling skills.

self-conscious evolutionary introspection

2007-06-20T10:33:00.000-04:00

I’ve written about fifty posts thus far. Enough ~~tedious~~ verbose prose to fill a small book. I’m psyched to have so many thoughts and ramblings on record—artifacts I’ll revisit someday, to laugh and blush. The past months are far from over and have been nothing short of amazing, even on my (mostly) shoestring budget. They've changed my life, even though I haven’t outwardly changed much.

I’m still shy about meeting new people (well, women, really), and that’s helped me keep this journey calmingly introspective, though isolated at times. In addition to the ~~lucky~~ few that I’ve added as valued people in my life, I’ve had time to think about those I’ve increasingly missed. And then there are those that I’ve lamentably alienated and neglected, usually without even knowing it. I wouldn’t trade or imply regret about a day of it.

This time-consuming project started with wanting to keep friends and family in the loop about my hopefully debauched exploits. Pondering aloud (it’s my blog, and I’ll ruminate if I want to), it’s both succeeded and failed. The successes can be found in those of you who continue to read and stay in touch. I’m so happy about the few I haven’t heard from in ages, with whom I now correspond. I get to keep everyone (well, anyone who cares enough to read) updated. The failure, however, is rather obvious to those of you who haven't kept up from the start: information overload. There's just too much to read in fewer than twenty sittings. Who knows, maybe there'll be a book deal?

boudin noir

2007-06-13T10:33:00.000-04:00

My first morning on the farm, I moseyed on over to the charcuterie (the same general structure that houses some storage spaces, the patisserie, the boulangerie—really a huge wood-burning oven where they bake the bread, and the cheese cave). I was delighted to stumble upon Benedicte (married to the Pozzers’ middle-generation, Nicolas) getting ready to make what Daniel already tipped me off as the best boudin noir (blood sausage) in the region.

She had cooked (boiled) the heads, feet, lungs, and hearts, of the two pigs that had been slaughtered four days prior. Everything except the bones and the snouts got passed through the grinder. She fetched the bag of blood and added it to the mix, along with some onions, garlic, and seasoning, and mixed it all up. We sorted out the salted intestines (different pigs’) and started stuffing the casings. All this went back into the original cooking liquid for a few hours, just short of simmering. What came out was magic.

I ate the stuff for the next few days, a piece here and there for lunch—it really is the best I have had—it’s all the goodies that elevate it above the usual blood and fat mix. It’s a shame, but they stop slaughtering pigs during the summer: it gets too warm to properly handle the meat. This was sadly the last for the season, and the first of many reasons to come back.

drinking and driving

2007-06-12T10:32:00.000-04:00

I landed in France an hour late. No worries: I still had no idea what train I’d be on. Border control and baggage claim were a breeze, my 28kg (60lbs) of baggage notwithstanding. I had cheese with me from New York. French cheese—silly to import back to France, but I knew it’d be a while til I saw some decent food. Short of decent bread, I made an attempt, and bought a few dinner rolls at one of the overpriced airport cafés. I got to the airport train station and did the obvious thing of using the automated machine to buy my ticket. Except for that machines in Europe (like the Europeans themselves) tend to hate Americans: it wouldn’t accept my cards. So I got in a long, sweaty line, waiting to talk to a real person. And thirty minutes (that could have been better spent washing up in the toilette) later, I had an expensive ticket to the middle of nowhere, SW France.

I ate my cheese, slept, and did what I could on my computer before my (and my computer’s) batteries ran out (gripe: thanks to installing Vista, my battery life was about a third of what it usually was—call me old fashioned, but I’ve gone back to XP). One transfer and seven hours later, I had arrived. There was no one awaiting me, even though I had called ahead to let them know when I’d be arriving. I did the embarrassing thing of walking up to a strange car, thinking that the lady was smiling at me, thinking that my ride had arrived. It wasn’t my ride.

Vincent Pozzer, of the middle generation (actually, I think there's a great grandchild out there), pulled up fifteen minutes later, helped me with my bags, and apologized for showing up late. We went through the usual pleasantries, and he pulled a cold, organic, Bavarian beer out of the glove box. We clinked the bottles and toasted to good health; he had already started on his own bottle. Things would be different out here in the country.

It was about 10pm when we arrived to the farm, “Crozefond,” and the sun would keep the sky lit until around 1130. I dropped off my bags in the caravane, a dusty, cobwebby old RV, where I’d be staying for the month. I met Claudette, better known as Mami (grandma), and Gilbert, aka Papi, whose name I didn’t even learn til days later. We ate dinner, together with their granddaughter Matilde, who’s one of the few not to live on the farm. I said my bonnes nuits, and headed to unpack my bags. It was only thanks to Mami’s flashlight that I was able to get anything done—there wasn’t any electricity feeding into my place until we ran the extension cord two days later. It was an inexplicably excellent evening in all, and I went to bed, unpacked, and with sweet dreams.

the big apple

2007-06-10T07:59:00.000-04:00

A few (too many, as usual) words on New York, while the memory is still ~~fresh~~ stale in my mind. The week passed like a summer thunderstorm. As it approached, I was a bit apprehensive of being back in the city, perhaps nervous that I’d feel out of place, maybe just worried about how the reunions would go. I love thunderstorms, especially with empty hands and pockets, getting drenched with abandon. I got to see nearly everyone I have been close to in the city, and the mood had hardly changed. Sure, there are those who have drifted away, some seemingly for good. But I was truly thrilled with the way the whole trip went.

I got to meet my new roommates and sublettors, as I found them online while in Morocco, and never got to meet anyone beyond a few emails. Despite the fact that one’s a vegan, another a vegetarian, and a third will only go as far as fish, they’re really a great group of people, and I’m glad I have cool people taking care of the place while I’m gone. The two in my room even went to the hours-long task of scrubbing down the kitchen and getting rid of the remains of myriad poisoned mouse bodies.

I love the city. Of course, I had no real responsibilities, no work, and no hardcore deadlines (the fee to change my flight date was somehow just $50), so a good time was to be expected. My friends who cook poked me, reminding me how hard it will be to come back to civilization and settle down. Another friend gave me a too-honest opinion of my blog (boring), which will hopefully keep me on my toes, and at least start categorizing posts as boring vs. exciting, etc…

I ate (this part is important) at Spicy+Tasty (Szechuan out in Flushing), Han Bat (Korean in k-town), Trestle (Swiss guy who’s doing really fun food in Chelsea), Resto (twice—Belgian beer/resto in Murray Hill), and in an unnamed Peruvian restaurant in Elmhurst (my part of queens), among others. All of the mentioned meals were awesome, and there are pictures in my album. The best meals, of course, were home cooked between Jasper, Kat, and I, dripping with sweat all the while, since both days we cooked were ridiculously hot/humid. Highlights included a pig head/foot terrine I made, Kat's strawberry tart-turned strawberries and cream, and pig skin tacos.

Moma had some awesome stuff going on, and I’m glad I made it before the exhibits closed (Comic Abstraction closed the next day). I paid full admission for 45 minutes to run through the museum before it closed, and I found it worth every penny. The Comic exhibit was a fun surprise I wasn’t expecting—I was supposedly here to just to see Richard Serra's mind-fing-blowing sculptures. Scurrying from floor to floor, the goofy smile on my face remained.

My visit was none too short or long. I made the best of it, and after an afternoon at Moma and catching up over a beer, I was back as my sweaty self, running to make it to the airport on time for my flight to France.

work and play

2007-05-25T11:04:00.000-04:00

It was time to begin dismantling the old bathroom. Wallpaper first, then stripping the old glue off the walls, then finally the hardware—ripping out the sink and medicine cabinet. I spent about thirty seconds pondering my building manager’s suggestion to just paint the old wooden vanity, replace the sink, and call it new. The idea properly blown off, I got into the car and visited trusty IKEA for some new cabinetry. As I was about to swipe my MasterCard at the self-pay machine, I suddenly realized that I had no card to swipe. Fearing an empty-handed 45 minute trip back to Evanston, I narrowly avoided complete hysteria. So it was a relief to find my wallet in the car, the trip successful after all.

To celebrate the recent spate of successes I headed for dinner at Lula Café, a short hop away on the expressway. I walked through the throngs of hopeful diners waiting to be matched with tables, and was seated immediately (one of many advantages to dining alone). Having consulted about the menu with Shiri during the drive, I already knew what I’d be ordering. Along with a $1.75 bottle of PBR, I gave my order, substituting for the appetizer they were no longer serving. I read and waited, and was reminded of why Lula is one of my favorite Chicago restaurants: the service is young, professional, and friendly; their products are sourced at local farms, and are organic wherever possible; and most importantly, the food on their specials menu is always on. The highlight of the meal, pictured above, was pork shoulder, roasted and sliced thinly, over a basil pesto-laced ragout of beans, artichokes, favas, ramps, and chorizo.

Back at home, more fun with the construction. Not allowing myself any downtime, I put together the new cabinets before going to sleep. These small projects have a way of snowballing when you least expect them to. I had no such bad luck this time. Sure, a few tiles came loose, and the angle of the corner for the cabinet was a little bigger than a perfect 90 degrees, but these were all easy fixes. By Friday I was putting on finishing touches and shipping 400 pounds of boxed books and other goodies back home. To complete the evening, I headed for a sushi bar where I’ve come to befriend the chef, BK, proceeding to feast on fifteen or so courses of raw and cooked fish. I had promised Shiri some photos of the bean, so I obliged after dinner, and walked off some of the meal.

The bathroom was finished in time for a quick detour to Indianapolis, to visit whom other than EB and family, all helped by the prospect of seeing a huge part of Americana for the first time: the famed Indy 500. A craigslist ad found me someone with whom to split costs, so we arranged for an early Saturday departure, with confidence that most of the work in Evanston was done.

arrivals

2007-05-24T16:23:00.000-04:00

My visit to Chicago entailed a few simple objectives. The timing was dictated by Will’s concert, the first night upon my arrival. Aside from that, the main point of the visit was to redo the bathroom and to find someone to rent the condo in Evanston for the next year. Without anybody to help me, or to keep me company, for that matter, it was a struggle to stay on-task. I have a serious affinity for procrastination, and Chicago is full of tempting tastes and sights.

After getting situated in Evanston, I headed downtown for the concert. The tickets put us in the fourth row, the best seats I’ve ever really had for a big show. The band was absolutely amazing—I can't say enough good things about the show, so I’ll leave it at that. After spending a few minutes backstage, we were off for a drink before I headed back home. All in all, a fantastic way to start the week.

The next day I showed the apartment a couple of times, and on just the second try, found a young man who fit the bill perfectly. I celebrated with dinner at my favorite local place that prides itself on local/seasonal/sustainable/organic products. Keeping with the trend of my week, my experience at Campagnola was perfect. I sat at the bar and greeted the other customer dining beside me. After ordering three small courses, the bartender (turned out to be the manager/partner) offered me a taste of tequila somebody had dropped off that day. When I accepted with the snobby condition that it be white tequila, the evening really took off running. My de facto dining companion lit up, impressed by my ordering what he ate, and our similar taste in tequila. They asked if I was in the food business, and so I explained my involvement, and eventually got into the story of the past months. The manager arranged for an extra course and, together with the portions I ordered, my stomach nearly ruptured by the end of the meal (much to the amusement of my new buddies). The food was great, as always, but this experience was particularly special. My week in the Midwest would remain highlighted.

when bad things happen to bad people

2007-05-19T15:10:00.000-04:00

I, probably unlike most others, check my spam mailbox every now and then. Besides the occasional message from someone I know, I usually delete them all. These spammers get email addresses from websites where one might have inadvertently left one's address for the world to see. Or from those pesky chain letters that float around every so often (if you’re going to forward those to people, have the decency to bcc them so their address isn’t ripe for the picking).

So, I wonder, if I post Tracy’s latest message to me: “Hi, i am here sitting in the internet caffe. Found your email and decided to write. I am 25 y.o.girl. I have a picture if you want. No need to reply here as this is not may email. Write me at atracey2@springmessage.info,” will Tracy start getting spam too?

faggot and chips

2007-05-19T14:59:00.000-04:00

The physical act of travelling seems to make time tick faster. After returning from a week of diving in Eilat (with a tan unlike anything since the bygone days of marching band rehearsals in high school), I was running. To find a place to sleep the night in London. To pack. To soak in whatever I might still have time for. I took a last walk around my aunt’s lovely garden, tasting an unfamiliar herb, eating something that I’ve only had off their tree—a cherry-sized bright red fruit, tart, sweet, and with a flavor (and shape) reminiscent of a bell pepper.

I hadn’t flown on a regular British Airways flight in years. Over half the plane was dedicated to first, business, and ‘economy plus.’ That left me in plain old economy, in the back, with a window seat that required significant contortion to get into and out of. Listen to me whining: ridiculous. It was just upon landing that the flight got weird. A born-and-bred Israeli was my buffer to the British Jewish woman who had apparently moved to Israel twenty-five years earlier. Approaching 50, she looked great for her age. Earlier, when food and drinks came around, I did the naïve thing of asking how much it would be for some wine. She had no such questions—she knew the alcohol was free, and had been sucking down nips of gin since we’d taken off. Then, as we taxied, she started her drunk ramblings. About how great Israel is, and how she’s a million percent behind it, but about how it does bad things, things that we didn’t want to know about. I was thankful to get left alone: the odd American out. I sympathized with some of her story, but could only take so much of her drunken cynicism, relieved when she finally got up to deplane.

The Israeli and I shared a cynical chuckle of our own, and 90 minutes later I was walking into the Anchor & Hope gastropub in London—the objective of tonight’s mission. It had been a couple of years since my last visit, and I was itching for some down-and-dirty English cuisine. The bartenders didn’t fail me. The duck consommé, though a bit peppery, was made all the better by the slice of foie gras terrine floating in it. The seppia I ate next was some of the best I’ve had—braised and rich (likewise for the “little gem” beans served with it), topped with a healthy dollop of green aïoli. The star of the meal—the reason I came here rather than some other fancier London bistro: the faggot. Uninhibited when it comes to food, when my charming waiter told me about the meatball of pork belly, liver, heart, and lungs (oh, and some minced onions), all wrapped in caul fat and braised in a white wine-based broth, well, I knew the faggot was my match. I only had eyes for the succulent ball of offal, and recruited Louise and Simon to help get rid of the evidence. We got to chatting about food and life and adventure—they were great conversation partners. I made haste for the last train to the airport and, once arrived, pondered on how to get to the hotel. I was fortunate to run into a young American couple in the same situation, and the three of us split a cab back toward the hotels near LHR. Well, not really: I didn’t have any currency they could use, so I mooched a ride—my visit was going like clockwork.

I slept four hours and got up to several different alarms, not wanting to miss my flight. After showering I got on the $8 shuttle that would take me the 2 miles to the airport. Not only did I have to wait for the shuttle, but then we made stops at several adjacent hotels, and stopped at terminals 1 and 2 before arriving at my destination. At that point, my plane was about 30 minutes short of taking off. As my bags were checked through already, I ran for the border, stripped of my ancient bottle of water along the way. The line looked long and slow, and I begged to be taken to the front—the guy told me I wouldn’t be long in line, that I should just wait. Fine. Five minutes later, and maybe three passengers had gone through my metal detector (I think I chose the wrong line). I asked another guy, and this time I got the royal treatment—a free cut to the front of line. Through customs, and even before my departure stamp was dry, I was running for the gate (a sign told me it was 20 minutes away). Entitled punk that I am, I found an electric cart parked on the way to the gate, and gave its driver my short of breath sob story. Sirens blaring (okay, more of a beeping than a siren), we raced (okay, it was more the speed of a good jog) to the gate, where I promptly hopped onto a moving plane (okay, it wasn’t moving just yet) [inhale], put my goofy eyeshades on, and went to sleep, engines blazing.

on flying

2007-05-18T18:59:00.001-04:00

Lucid dreaming has been a recurring topic for me in years past. For those in need of a definition, imagine suddenly snapping to and realizing you are in the middle of a dream—not waking up, just becoming cognizant of the dream state. Worlds of possibilities arise. Safely rehearse pickup lines on imaginary bar goers, fearless of real rejection. The Porsche you’ve been coveting is in your garage, and it’s time for its afternoon drive. With the mere thought, pick up and fly, superman-style. There are websites dedicated to helping people dream lucidly. In years past, I’ve tried to go down that road. First step is to train yourself to wake up post dream state and take notes. I got that far, but have not yet followed through—google the topic to learn more for yourself.

See, a lot of what attracted me to dreaming lucidly was the notion of being able to fly, fearlessly, naked if that’s on my agenda. The website teaches a few techniques, among them flapping your arms like a chicken or taking a deep breath and simply lifting off the ground. Irrespective of dreaming, I’ve been flying recently. Well, sort of. Done properly (which the past week of awesome classes and practice has allowed me), scuba diving is flying, underwater. And so here I am, in this underwater world, floating higher on inhalation (not that kind of high, and not that kind of inhalation, though the nitrogen in your air will get you high if you dive deep enough), descending a bit on empty lungs. I still hope to start flying in my dreams.

home away from home

2007-05-18T17:33:00.001-04:00

Ah: the feeling of being back in a familiar place after months away. While hardly my home away from home (I’ve probably spent less than 6 months out here in my entire 28 years of existence), I have my aunts and uncles and cousins—people I do feel at home with. Continuing the trend as I’ve moved eastward through the past month, I’ve been getting more vegetables in my diet, beginning most mornings with the local traditional salad (small-chopped tomatoes, onions, cucumbers, peppers, lemon juice, olive oil) and avocadoes from my uncle’s tree. As of late my breath has taken on raunchy notes despite my diligent oral hygiene—due in large to a daily diet of garlicky “salads” such as hummus and various plays on eggplant themes. Still, I press forward in my never-ending quest for perfect dishes. Such as the hummus by “Gingi” (“redhead,” in this case used as a nickname), a kibbutz-dwelling religious man making a daily batch of hummus and falafel, selling it by the plateful to hungry lunchers, closing up shop as his mise-en-place is 86ed. Dr. Shakshuka's shakshuka (a fresh tomatoey ragout on which eggs are poached) wasn't bad either.

An early heat wave has been gripping most of the country, making for a sticky and drippy visit, though only to the betterment of the fruit. I’ve made the best of the local strawberries, eating them as nature intended—by the bowlful. The kumquats we sought and paid so dearly for at Craigie Street Bistrot drop to the ground by the treeful, their trees unable to convince my aunt and uncle to make use of their amazing fruit. A tropical orange fruit here called Shesek has followed me from Morocco, except for that instead of paying for them here, I get to liberate them from friends’ trees, as they head in a similar direction as the doomed kumquats (down). Anat’s dog, between being tortured by the neighbor’s puppy wolf dog, wolfed down (yeah: heh heh) the few fruit we didn’t see fit for our own consumption.

And then there’s that which universally makes family family. The bickering. The shouting. Arguing with my uncle about the near and dear topic of global warming—him adamantly taking Michael Crighton’s ~~fictional~~ preposterous stance we humans had nothing to do with this latest cycle.

Warm spring afternoons and evenings spent dining in the garden...in the end feeling oddly at home.

obnoxious europeans?

2007-05-04T09:43:00.000-04:00

Okay, another preachy rant.

I’ll be the first to bitch and moan about annoying locals while traveling. Sure, while travelling one is sure to run into scam artists and sleazebags, but the overarching generalizations I hear while travelling continue to amaze, dumbfound, and annoy me. I tell people I was in Germany, and they respond with whatever generalization they’ve decided applies to all its people. Some seem to assume I’ve had an awful time based on where I was. My experiences have been nothing short of amazing, though. In France, the supposed French snobs were nothing short of friendly. In Switzerland, the supposed stiff-necked Swiss at times almost smothered me with help and literally took me into their homes. In Germany, the supposed loud-mouthed fascists afforded me an absolutely amazing week of adventure and good times.

These generalizations should stay in the press and in off-color jokes. They shouldn’t make or break a vacation, and I just want to go on record to ~~preach~~ say that I certainly won’t let them dictate my travels.

a bum in munich

2007-04-28T05:04:00.000-04:00

Most of my time in Munich was spent wandering around, opting again to live the local unemployed life rather than the usual guidebook recommendations. Outfitted with Andy’s bike (too big even for him, a few inches taller than me), I made use of the city’s myriad bicycle lanes. I must have been a sight, peddling furiously and coasting in thirty-second intervals, unable to peddle while seated. In fact, coming to a stop meant either finding a lamppost to lean on or hopping off the seat while maneuvering the bike to an angle so that I didn’t damage that fun area where my legs come together. Still, it beat walking.

The English Garden (a park bigger than New York’s Central Park) was great: full of sunbathers even on a weekday afternoon, dotted with biergartens where, besides a pint of hefeweizen, the smallest pour you could get is a liter (the 17 year-olds at an adjacent table were outdrinking me with theirs). There’s even a section of river running where with an artificial wave for surfing practice. Then there are all of the community gardens throughout Germany—I love them. Not only are they much larger than the dinky plots I’m familiar with on the east coast of the US, but most are accessorized with glorified shacks, a grill, and beers kept cold in a fridge. In case you opt out of the fridge option, there’s usually a biergarten within a few hundred meters. My favorite more-or-less natural beauty site, though, was that of the Nymphenburg castle (more of a palace, really). The surrounding hundreds of acres of gardens were nothing short of enchanting. I was only able to peer through the locked fence of the botanical garden; actually visiting it may have made me cry. As if mocking our highly urbanized way of life in the big cities back home, there were a few apartments just beside the botanical garden—of course they had their personal ‘secret’ garden plots hidden behind a wooden fence. I strolled about the area, cursing to myself in awe, asking out loud whom I’d have to kill to live out here.

Beer and food were obvious priorities—Andy and I went through lots of pints at his place (I didn’t take notes, but it was hard to go wrong with anything). I made it a point to cook at least a couple of times. Germans love white asparagus (spargel), and it’s reflected in their spring markets. One night we just grilled (salad on the side, thank you), and another night I went a little further, with four different salads, a roasted organic chicken (€10/kg!?!), and fresh hollandaise to accompany a pile of white asparagus I prepared. All in Yanni and _GermanAndi’s beautiful house, in a great kitchen, on the patio of their fragrant garden.

I managed to squeeze in a daytrip to Salzburg, where I finally let loose the tourist in me—visiting museums, riding funiculars, and even snapping a picture of baby Mozart in a cradle in his mummified house (it was too cheesy to skip). The views from the old fortress were amazing. Here, on a fortune based on salt (a basis, in turn, for the town’s name), an empire would withstand Roman conquest in large part due to its strategic perch on a steep hill overlooking town. I even managed to enjoy a great meal at an otherwise touristy-looking restaurant by the funicular. On my way back to the station, I bought a beer to drink on the train ride back to Munich (more for the novelty of it than anything else), but was really just too stuffed from lunch—so much for novelties.

My last act in Munich was to be a fancy meal out. I asked my newly acquired German friends, and after much deliberation, the conclusion was that I should head for Tantris. So I peddled coasted peddled coasted my way to the restaurant, anticipating my first truly fancy meal since I was in Morocco (at ten times the price, of course). I don’t even have to admit (those who know me probably know this regardless) that I was very afraid of a letdown. I ate a brilliant seven course lunch, forcing myself to think in dollars rather than euros so as not to jolt the food back out of my belly. I subsequently beached myself on a grassy patch amongst the hordes at the English Garden. There I pondered the meaning of life before heading home to pack and mentally prepare for the transition to speaking yet another (not so) foreign language.

München

2007-04-23T10:24:00.000-04:00

I hit the ground running in Munich. First things first, Andy and I split a couple of sausages upon my arrival at the train station. With my eight hour meat-fast finally over, we went on to bigger and better things, tasting through several of Germany’s finest brews back at Andy’s flat. Not to underdo the evening, we met up later with a few of Andy’s friends and colleagues at a smoky, crowded bar, complete with attitude-ridden servers. _EnglishAndy showed up just in time for the second round and, living up to my English stereotypes, made it his mission to keep each of our pints optimistically half-full. It wouldn’t have been so bad had we called it a night at a reasonable hour, but of course we crawled from pub to pub, prioritizing morning headaches over good night’s sleeps.

We had a huge day ahead of us, so it wasn’t a huge surprise that we overslept, waking only as _GermanAndi was waiting at our door. It was the classic late-for-school moment, and we played the parts, fumbling in our respective hazes, packing painkillers for the excursion. We piled into Andi’s beautifully-restored 1971 Alfa Romeo coupe, and met with his girlfriend for a typical Bavarian breakfast, complete with spongy floating sausages and pretzels. Breakfast was good. The rest, however, was a picturesque dream of a day.

We took the Alfa to an old-timers’ rally and spent some time gawking at the remarkable rides—some weird, some cute, and some downright sexy. Andy and I ventured into the fairgrounds, taking a look at a rather typical Bavarian carnival—rides that make you puke, food that makes you balloon. We stepped into a mini-me version of the huge beer tents that line the grounds for Oktoberfest. Fish on a stick (not that processed thing we call a fish stick back home—a real trout grilled on a stick), ham hocks, and crispy pork roulades—the foodstuffs of Atkins dieters. And of course their antitheses: liter-sized mugs of beer. Still full from breakfast, I still had to try some of the local spaetzle-and-cheese (beats the Kraft version), and another version prepared with ham and kraut (needed a little more ‘stuff’ mixed in).

After finding Andi, we were on the road, doing a grand tour of Munich’s surroundings. He showed us some of his favorite (for their fun-to-drive windy country road feel) shortcuts that he’s been known to push to the limit (his dad works for BMW and he has a friend who tests their prototypes). Part of me is disappointed I didn’t take notes as to the names of the places we visited, but the rest of me does/didn’t feel it necessary in the least. Regardless, we motored by just-blooming trees and fields aglow with yellow rapeseed flowers (their harvested oil is used as a sustainable energy source). Everything about the day was wonderful, down to the perfect weather.

It was great to see some of the things you just don’t see anywhere else. On the lakeshore, by a grassy patch brimming with sunbathers, we visited a biergarten alive with clientele who obviously know how to relish a beautiful Sunday afternoon. Not to be taken as a culture of beer-drinking idiots, there are lots of popular alternatives to straight beer—you can drink a thirst-quenching mix of sparkling water and apple juice (any juice, really), or, if you still want a lighter bit of EtOH, that can be had as a sweet mix of hefeweizen (an unfiltered wheat beer) and lemonade.

As it was Sunday, Andi and Andy thought it would be nice to visit a beautiful old Monastery with a beautiful baroquely (my spell-checker says that’s a word) decked-out church. The main draw of this hilltop Monastery, at least on this afternoon, is its (drum roll) biergarten. We sampled the beers and gorged ourselves on cured meat and cheese products (stemming from another cultural tradition here that’s best translated as bread time). The monks also make schnapps, of which we sampled four, in the form of nips that Andy (Andi was driving) and I took turns emptying. Full and buzzing, we finally headed home.

blood sausage and hot chocolate

2007-04-21T19:00:00.000-04:00

Getting to Lyon took a long time. I left Fes at 9am, and after the train rides to Casa, the flight to Lyon, and the bus rides into town, I didn’t arrive to Karoline’s place until 10:30pm. It was still an action-packed day. Among its highlights was a verbal tiff between two girls upon disembarking the plane, made more interesting by the fact it played out over my lap. Lows included the discovery that my SIM card (so that I could use my phone in France to call my host) was nowhere to be found, and my profuse sweating in the heat of the terminal while trying to finagle my luggage to appear (through magic) as though it wasn’t indeed 5kg over the limit.

I had arranged to couchsurf in Lyon with a wonderful Norwegian student, Karoline, as it didn’t make sense to take the train straight to Geneva so late at night. I was greeted with hospitality becoming that of a Moroccan: as I was too late for a proper dinner at a bouchon, she and her roommate had stayed up, and pizzas were going into the oven as I finally walked in the door. We stayed up chatting and drinking some decent local wine. The next day I hiked up to the big farmers’ market and bought enough cheese and cured meats to feed eight as a main course. I left some for my hosts, but happily dragged the rest through Europe.

Karoline accompanied me to lunch at Café des Federations, a bouchon (a Lyonnais bistrot, for lack of a better term) I had thoroughly enjoyed during my last visit to town. It was as good as I remembered it—the pigs’ cheeks were outstanding, as was the boudin noir (blood sausage). The cheeses were everything I had been craving during my visit in Morocco. Everything was so good that I missed my train to Geneva—easy enough to fix thanks to Europe’s fast and frequent trains.

First order in Geneva, after finding my friend Zoe, was to find a place to sleep and park my 70lbs worth of bags (my couchsurfing efforts had gone without success in Geneva). It was getting late, and the hostel had a complet (no vacancy) sign on the door. I borrowed a trick from The Secret (a super-cheesy self-help book/video) that EB and Whitney had taught me, and walked in the door anyway, believing there would be a bed for me. There was; I have decided that for my next trick, I’m going to have a Tahitian island to call my own.

Armed with my cheese and Zoe’s wine and bread, we headed for the lakefront, where we’d meet another friend of hers and feast on the awe-inspiring bounty. It was a delightful evening, despite the wind, the unique piece of fresh brebis that sadly landed in the lake, and the nesting duck that snapped at me on my way to a makeshift toilet. A fantastic hot shower awaited me at the hostel, but so did an amazingly stinky, stuffy room (the leftover cheese went with Zoe to her fridge).

I spent my next day calmly wandering and sightseeing (in that order). I sampled raclette (cheese toasted by a fire, served with boiled potatoes) and some of the local (hot) chocolat. We attended a slightly pompous, but nonetheless interesting, lecture on one man’s proposed solution for the conflict between Israel and the Arabs. And then for some more local color, a birthday (I think) picnic on the lakefront, with some more wine and my cheese (no, still not sick of it). The evening took an interesting turn when I embarked barhopping on a three hour tour with Arnaud (a chap who was looking to end up spending time with one of the girls at the picnic, but somehow ended up with me instead) and his hotelier friends.

I shopped at the market and cooked Friday lunch for Zoe and her 10 year-old host sister, treasuring the mushrooms, artichokes, and asparagus. I have to say, though, that the highlight of my time in Geneva was easily the housewarming-come-dance party that Jere took us to on Friday night. There we were, minding our beer and sausages, when out came the fiddle (okay, violin) and accordion. What ensued was quite a bit of floor shaking and an all-around great time (click on the picture and check out the videos). As it turns out, they just play for fun (and occasional cash): the two young ladies making the music are botanical biologists by day. Though I breeze over this evening, it really made the trip that much more memorable.

Before running to barely catch the train the next morning, Zoe and I detoured to visit Les Schtroumphs, an old housing development named after The Smurfs for the Gaudiesque design—a worthless diversion. While I did sing the theme song for a bit, the real musical kicker came to me on the ride to Munich—lush green fields and a hum that went something like, the fields are alive / with the sound of music.

sidebar: levels of Moroccan hospitality

2007-04-18T18:59:00.000-04:00

More ways to laugh and cringe at hospitality:

Level 1 Hospitality (code green): The most common form, found in Berber rug shops and given by complete strangers. This usually involves tea and/or pastries. It includes the phenomenon of food and drink sharing on public transportation. This is the most basic form of hospitality known to Moroccans, as basic and reflexive as a midwestern American's habit of smiling to and greeting strangers.

Level 2 Hospitality (code blue): Like marijuana, the "gateway drug," this pecking behavior can wear down a receiver's defenses and open the door to higher, more extreme levels of hospitality. It specifically involves the paying for of things such as meals, drinks, and taxi rides. It is difficult to control without a firm grasp of Arabic, and with the male-dominated society, a woman is helplessly overruled by a man's insistence on paying. The best method for countering this level of hospitality is to slyly beat the host to the check, most easily on a supposed trip to the bathroom.

Level 3 Hospitality (code yellow): Exhibited between even cursory acquaintances, this usually involves lunch at a family's house. This includes the full mint tea ceremony upon completion of the meal. Helping the hostess with the cleanup is difficult to impossible.

Level 4 Hospitality (code orange): Dinner or lunch followed by dinner. It usually goes on late into the night, includes traditional music on the television, and is often accompanied by a polite offer to sleep over (usually turned down).

Level 5 Hospitality (code red): A true hostage-taking experience, this is hospitality gone cancerous. The host (notice an intimate relationship between "host" and "hostage") usually means well, desiring to ~~drown~~ immerse the recipient in his/her hospitality. Sadly, the affection is poorly placed, and the recipient is put on the defensive, overdosing on the hospitality. Meals don't taste as good because of the emotional charge, and ease and comfort is replaced by great anxiety. The only way out is a firm, almost rude insistence on an end to the proceedings.

parting days

2007-04-17T20:48:00.000-04:00

I'm having second thoughts about this. As you may have figured out, I am nearly two weeks behind in posting. In Morocco, that was not usually such a big deal. Now, however, I am in Germany, writing about my last days in Morocco, and it's not going so well. Maybe it’s because I’m in a lush Central Park-like setting, sitting in a biergarten by a lake, sipping a hefeweizen. Either way, I have been trying to write this post for days now, and I just haven’t been able to focus on it, so I'm over it (as we used to say back in college, at apartment M2).

My last week in Fes was a highly accelerated one. Writing this post from Europe certainly can’t do it justice. Beginning before our trip to Taza, with Will leaving, it seemed like a chain reaction had formed: EB’s mom left three days later, I finally settled on a ticket to France, and Whitney was talking about leaving in two weeks. Reality had at least begun to make itself known, though even now I flagrantly continue to blow it off. Still, the plan was set: visit Zoe in Geneva for a couple of days after a night in Lyon, then off to Munich to visit Andy, and then to Israel for a bit to tool around with, among others, my cousin Shai.

EB and Whit were planning an excursion to Sefrou, a town I had visited while being hijacked by my wannabe father, Youssef_b. Given that I didn’t really see much the first time around, I opted to join in on the fun. A bit of wrangling was required, but it wasn’t too much trouble for Mo to find us a taxi. We had an entirely enjoyable day, visiting the waterfall again, laughing intensely to inside jokes, and singing Lionel Richie and Disney tunes (I’ve been warned not to publicly admit to or talk about having watched the specific movie(s)).

We had one last calm shindig at our place with a bunch of students from the American school. The goal was to drink the last of the alcohol left from St. Patty’s day. The results were ~~lame~~ rather meager—at the end of the night there were still plenty of beers left, and close to a liter of hard alcohol. Still, it was probably all for the best to have a tame get-together—there was plenty of packing to do.

On my last full day, I was charged with preparing dinner, which would have been fine, save for all the last-minute errands remaining for the day. I made a last purchase of honey and packed up the home-made orange flower water Mo had acquired for me. I packed a box and shipped what I could to the States, and am still hoping the honey and water will not end up in some customs officer’s pantry. Were I offered a special Moroccan price I would have easily shipped more, especially since I wound up with even more heavy items to lug back with me (Argan oil, Mehia, honey).

Meanwhile, back at home, there was dinner to make. The Bolognese-like sauce had been cooking for the better part of the day, but I still needed to break in the pasta machine I had purchased, not wanting to think of it as a completely pointless purchase. And so dinner was a success, my bags were packed, I had the train schedule, and most of the tears had dried.

tazanian devil

2007-04-09T16:07:00.000-04:00

I went to Israel for my Bar-Mitzvah when I was thirteen. I remember one of the presents I received: a book on beautiful natural sights of Israel. I flipped through the book and was enamored with the idea of exploring some of the caves—stalagmites, stalactites, underground pools and all. I never got to do that: for years, I only dreamed about exploring the dank, dark underground caverns. I recounted this story as seven of us headed down to the depths of the Grottes de Friuato—all 700 or so steps. The flashlight I had rented was already on its last volt, and from behind, Mo was whining like a cat confused about finding itself in a tall tree for the first time, in English: “I am scared” (he is still working on his contractions).

Around the same time, maybe even as another Bar-Mitzvah gift, our family jumped on the technological bandwagon with an early incarnation of the cd-rom drive for our computer. One of the games that came with the kit was Myst (back then, you bought a huge box of a kit, containing speakers, the drive itself, some discs to get you started, and all the hardware you needed to get the thing into your computer). It was a picture- and sound-laden game full of magical places, creative puzzles, and mysterious messages. Though I haven’t played the game since I was a teenager, the caves were a vivid reminder of it.

Needless to say, they were spectacular—full of all the stalactites and stalagmites I had ever envisioned. We allowed Mo his whining—it was cold, pitch black, and slippery-wet. Only half of us had torches, and it was hard to discern a path without one. There were holes we had to contort ourselves to traverse and rocks that would literally reach out and smack you in the head (this was an American lawyer’s dream come true: no lights, no helmets; even the guide we hired was optional). Still, it was an amazing experience—one I don’t believe should be missed on a tour of Morocco.

Mo’s uncle, Mohammed, had picked us up at Taza’s grand taxi station. We had gone to his place for a wonderful overkill of what was supposed to be a light lunch—first two entire chickens and then a lamb tagine—before heading to the caves. Mo's grandmother is an excellent cook and an excellent teacher, as we've now thoroughly enjoyed the meals of three women in the family (this is Mo’s mom’s sister). After ascending from the caves, we drove around the valley for a bit and drank some tea, taking the time to peel and eat a bundle of palm hearts in the picturesque café’s parking lot. Still rather full from lunch, we begged to be dropped off at the taxi stand to return to Fez, but what ensued was a variation on an already-familiar theme: Level 5 Hospitality (more on this later)—we were being taken hostage and force-fed.

Back at Mohammed’s house, we had another meal, and though we were stuffed, he warned us of another main course of meat. To give our stomachs some time, he gave us a tour of the house, drove us to his small farm near town, around town again, and walked us around the town’s huge mosque—as we counted all eight sets of doors. Whitney and I were laughing up our dinner while EB and her mom were verging on panic—they really needed to get home tonight, and Mohammed was becoming increasingly insistent on our spending the night in Taza. It was a bit of a miracle that the power was out in Mohammed’s house when we returned for our last (third) meal of the day. It was all the excuse we needed to stage our jailbreak. We were still pressured to eat a bit (we obliged, standing around the kitchen prep-table, shoveling into our mouths shreds of well-seasoned lamb, chunks of potato and tomato), but we were promptly delivered to the taxi stand two hours short of midnight. With perfect timing, we arrived home at midnight just as the rain started pouring.

hijacked, Passover

2007-04-02T19:10:00.000-04:00

Youssef_b was getting insistent on my visiting him. He kept asking about my fiancée (Shiri, my sister, I kept reminding him) and my mom who, as I had told him several times, were already out of town. He is a sweet man and refers to me as a son, though, so I definitely had to take him up on some hospitality.

I recruited Gabe for the effort—planning (erroneously) to make a quick two-hour visit with Youssef_bbefore dinner with EB and her family, who were all in town now. First we waited for him, and then we were dragged to the Synagogue for evening prayers, which were over by the time we arrived. He took us to Elie’s house around the corner, where we enjoyed shots of mehia (a Jewish spirit made of fig alcohol and anise—very much like pastis) while the two old men performed the Passover ritual of searching for leavened bread through the house.

It was time for dinner, and I was trying to get us to the restaurant (Gabe and I had previously discussed his poor fit for the job of planning an escape) on time. Youssef_bwas adamant that we come to his house, first. I said no about ten times, playing the subtle Moroccan game of polite yet firm refusal, but my subtlety was lost on Youssef_b. Okay, so we’ll see your place, but then we’re turning right around and going to meet my friend for dinner! He offered beer and snacks, I declined, but Gabe (he was in on it with Youssef_b, I’m sure) accepted, and before we knew it, Youssef_b had left to let in a friend. We waited, finishing our beers, and got up to leave, but Youssef_b had locked the door from the outside. My laughter at the situation turned to anger—it was all I could do to remain cool, knowing that EB and her family (some of whom I haven’t seen in years) were halfway through dinner. Youssef_b finally let us out, but not before we had guzzled another beer. On the way back home, Gabe (a true brother from another mother—I love him) did his Gabe thing and was caught by our favorite Rasta café owner. Did I want to grab a coffee, to which I snapped at him (sorry) no! I’ll see you back at home.

Gabe, Mo, and I went to the hammam that night with EB’s brother and father, David and Warren, and friend Will. Mo arranged for the boys to get “massages,” chiropractic nightmares of getting bent in ways the body does not bend. It’s something that’s probably just as enjoyable to watch as it is to experience: ouch.

Ben, Gabe, and I were invited to the Passover Seder the next night at Elie’s house along with Youssef_b. I was late getting back from my outing to Volubulis and Meknes with EB and family, so we missed services and went straight to meeting the men outside the synagogue. Youssef_b was bordering on angry thanks to our missing services—he had mentioned them as an afterthought the night before, and besides, I have never been that religiously inclined. Still, I felt bad. Next thing I knew, we were around the table and Youssef_b had disappeared in a hail of harsh words from Elie—he ditched us to join another friend for dinner. I was in awe when, a week later, I received a call from Youssef_b, reminding me that I hadn’t paid him anything for his services as tour guide with my family. What a bad taste to leave in a person’s mouth.

The Seder was hardly traditional—four different languages spoken around the table of six, and without Youssef_b’s eyes, Elie was at a loss for leading the Seder. Ben was in charge of leading us, but ten minutes into the proceedings, Elie grew frustrated and called for dinner to be served. Dinner was good, but not the highlight of the evening. We joked into the night, sipping Elie’s homemade mehia, talking about the women in Elie’s photos of the past (now she was a good kisser!), and matchmaking me with the sweet (and apparently rich, I was told) elderly woman to my side (I am remiss for not remembering her name past the initial introductions). We had an excellent time despite Youssef_b’s misstep.It was a Passover I’ll be able to tell my grandchildren about.

crabs

2007-04-01T11:28:00.000-04:00

Let's gloss over the touristy crust (the casbah in Tangiers is gorgeous, especially its views of the sea) and cut to the juice--let's face it, you can read about most of this stuff elsewhere. Lonely Planet, however, still won't talk about my fantastical tales of nefarious taxi drivers and dark alleys, so you’ll have to read them here.

Nacer was to spend the first part of the day with us, then report to work at five sharp. He was already yesterday evening, so we didn’t want to put him out again. As a kind, loving, most generous local, he was not familiar with our style of traveling: always the adventure, never knowing what’s around the next corner.

Being the helpless white people that we look like, Nacer helped us find a grand taxi to Asilah (a town known for the artwork on the walls within the medina) after our huge lunch—no big deal, there’s a veritable parking lot full of million-mile Mercedes’, right? Seems that this time of year people want to go to Asilah, but they don’t want to come back to Tangiers, so the taxis just don’t drive to Asilah. We sat around and waited. And waited. Nacer kept us company. We finally gave in and called over one of Nacer’s many friends, Mohammed, and hired him to drive us. We took the scenic coastal route, and would you believe it? Yes, Nacer remained with us for the journey. We drove past jaw-dropping estates of rich emissaries, bankers, and drug dealers. We peered at the Atlantic through the eye of Hercules’ caves. We drove past an area dotted with flashing red lights atop tall towers. Nacer explained it was once a French base, but is now an American base for “espionage.” I asked him what exactly he meant—I mean, if they’re spying, should it be public? He shrugged his shoulders, said he didn’t know what they do there. I guess not.

5:30pm, and we were in Asilah. Nacer shrugged off his tardiness: it was, after all, only 4pm Moroccan standard time… He (or rather, a guy he bumped into on the street) helped us look for an apartment (it’s all the rage these days to restore flats in the picturesque medina and rent them out to rich foreigners) for the night. After looking at three, I was content, and paid our “guide” for his services. Not so fast. Mohammed had called from the car: he ran into a friend, Zuber, and Zuber offered to put us up for free in a friend’s flat. Wow. I really didn’t know what to say to this complete stranger. Moreover, he was in charge of the fish consortium, and having noticed me eyeing the sizeable live crabs at a fishmonger’s stand, offered to arrange dinner.

Alas, the flat was not complete in its renovations. Myself, I could have stayed the night, but we wanted a real toilet seat (western toilet, but no seat) and hot water (not hooked up yet). I was mortified with the prospect of refusing Zuber’s most generous offer, but they all took it in great stride, with an air of understanding. Half an hour later we had moved into the first flat I liked. Even though it was nearly 8pm and his prospects for working that night were shot, Nacer wouldn’t agree to stay the night with us; he had class early the next morning. Goodbyes went around, complete with hugs and kisses.

Zuber would drive us to dinner, but not before some shopping. Mom spotted a couple of beautiful silver Chamsot (the Hebrew word for Hand of Fatima), they were solid silver and accordingly pricey for small gifts. Shiri upgraded to a new pair of shoes. Zuber went off to get the car, and minutes later, my phone rang. It was Nacer. The cryptic conversation went something like this: “Jonie, I forgot to tell you, don’t say you’re Jewish. I didn’t mention it, but it’s just not something to bring up in Asilah. Zuber called Mohammed and he asked about your religion after he saw what you were shopping for. Don’t worry about it, he was just being curious, it’s nothing to worry about. If he asks, tell him what I told him, that you’re just Americans.”

Needless to say, the drive to the restaurant was a bit awkward and definitely longer than we had expected. The redeeming moment was when Zuber unloaded our two crabs from the back of the van. We’d be eating well. Inside, we chose a couple of fish to supplement the crustaceans, and promptly got to work. Zuber force-fed us half of the lamb he ordered (he stays away from seafood whenever possible). The crabs were great, and we enjoyed the amazingly fresh fish in spite of their being overcooked. I can’t say I was surprised when he refused payment for the crabs, a preposterous gesture.

Tonight was Shiri and Ziva’s last night in Morocco, their return flights began in Casablanca, and it was time to settle on their transportation to the airport, 4-6 hours away. No sweat: take the train or find a grand taxi as a last resort. Mo helped me out, texting me the train schedules. Never simple when you’re short on time, there was a Mushkill: the only possible train was at 6:40am. The train was vetoed in favor of savoring a bit of the morning. I asked Zuber where to go the following morning to find a grand taxi. “Why didn’t you ask sooner!? We have to take care of it right away—they need to get permission from the police to go to Casablanca.” Oops. We drove around, to the pier to find his friend, back to his house to get a phone number, then to ‘a guy’s’ house. It was late. Too late—‘the guy’ was asleep and dead to the world. So we resorted to the grand taxi stand itself, and found a driver willing to make the trip—direct, no stops (I smiled and nodded, knowing I could more easily spring the stops on him during the trip). Signed, sealed, delivered. I felt terrible—Zuber was obviously exhausted. Despite being a complete stranger and weird about Jews, he had gone above and beyond for us.

Back at the flat, we finally got the chance to shower. I stepped out to get more minutes on my phone, and finding all the nearby shops closed, was at a loss. No worries, a big guy with a club in his hand was coming my way, and he looked like he might be able to help. No, really, I’m serious. He dawned a reflective fluorescent orange vest—uniform for the guardians charged with keeping the medina crime-free. Mohammed, as he was called, walked me out of the medina to a booth selling recharges, and all the way back to my place, meanwhile trying to make polite banter in FrAraSpish. This country never ceases to amaze.

train ride from hell

2007-03-31T19:09:00.000-04:00

Morning in Asilah was beautiful. We arranged the taxi the night before, so we woke up early to take advantage of the town's sights--snapping pictures of the famous murals and doting on all the cats Morocco is famous for (in my mind, anyway). We bought a few paintings we had been eyeing the previous night—fumbling, rushing to get the canvases off their frames, worrying about damaging the rather-dry paint. Our taxi driver hunted us down, an easy feat in this tiny medina, silent as it is early in the morning. We finally rolled up the paintings and skedaddled. Lots of tranquillos (they speak more Spanish than French in these parts) were thrown about, urging me to take my time, to chill out—maybe if I’d had a puff of what he was on…

The driver was of course a bit dérangé (I love this French word for angry; deranged is so much more colorful than angry) when I told him of my plans to get off in Rabat. He argued I should pay him extra, that it was out of the way (it’s right on the way), I argued tranquillo—there are always bigger fish to fry.

After stopping at the police station to get the proper authorization to drive us to Casa, we were on our way, doing a cool 80kph (50mph) the whole way—annoying when you base your math on faster, saner speeds. Still, we had budgeted plenty of time, so tranquillos we remained. At least until I motioned to my next detour—I had originally planned a short stop at some “exotic” gardens along the way, but we were clearly short of time for that now; instead, I was just hoping for something more scenic than the main route. The driver pretty much freaked out, worrying the police would nab him for deviating from his route, whining about extra time spent on country roads and driving through towns. My mom joined him, questioning whether they’d make their flight. I could not blame him, but still, tranquillo he was once we got back onto a speedier road.

Like in Europe, every region of Morocco has its particular indigenous foods you can buy from peasant peddlers on the roadside: I’ve seen peas, favas, cheese, honey, and argan oil. Today was something new: balls of dirt. I was intrigued when our driver raved about them, but he could not come up with any words outside of his native Arabic: turfa. We stopped and talked to one of the peddlers, rinsing off a dirt ball to reveal an irregular cream-colored core. He took a bite out of it, proclaimed it worthy. I finally understood the gesture he kept making—he was miming eggs, as in cracking them into a bowl. Everything clicked for me: we had stumbled upon indigenous Moroccan truffles. I never think to associate Arabic with romance languages, but sometimes a truffe becomes a turfa. They were mild and bland, but ripe enough. Besides, the novelty killed me: I bought a kilo for $5.

Too many tranquillos later, I was dropped off at a train station near Rabat, to have just missed a train. They were sold out of first class (reserved seats) tickets for the next train, so I slummed it and bought a second-class ticket I would never need. I sat around waiting for the next train, which ran an hour late, and was packed chock-full thanks to the holiday weekend (the Prophet Mohammed’s birth). So packed, in fact, I couldn’t even get onto the train. I sprinted the 200 yards to the opposite end of the train, seeing less people crowded around the doors. Panicking as the conductor started to give the all-set signal, I seized upon a favorite adage: there is always room for one more. And there was, except for that I was holding on for dear life until two stations and 45 minutes later, when I finally got inside the door…

I had already earned the respect of the guys whose rear ends I had become familiar with—we were fast friends. I made it home five sweaty hours later, looking forward to a poker game. The train ride had my cards in a funk, though: I lost all 100 dirhams ($12). I’d later hear from the family that the driver was even more obnoxiously tranquilloing them after I left and, in a final gesture of helpfulness, squeezed the roll of paintings hard enough to cause damage. Tranquillo, he insisted to Shiri.

on the road with Shiri and Ziva

2007-03-29T16:08:00.000-04:00

It was a full house come Tuesday night with EB, her mom, and her sister. The plan was for Shiri, Ziva, and I to leave for Chefchaouen early in the morning. We figured we’d take a bus—we didn’t want to deal with arranging a grand taxi, and no trains run that way. We didn’t count on stomach problems—all of us were upset in one form or another (we blame breakfast or lunch from our previous day). A new low was reached when Shiri vomited. We waited until everybody felt safe for the five-hour trip and then headed up the wet, steep hill out of the medina, carrying my one small travel umbrella and three big duffel bags.

I was soaked by the end of the ten minute walk and went off in search of a suitable taxi (the direct buses for the day had already departed) after depositing Shiri and Ziva at a café. My trusty umbrella preventing my dripping hair from getting any wetter was of little consolation—the taxis were much further than I had been led to believe. Smelling the tourist in me, the prices were inflated, and besides, there wasn’t anybody really out braving the weather, so drivers were reluctant to make the trip. In a last act of desperation, I went next door to the el-cheapo bus station (the one with the fancy buses is across town) and found an option departing in fifteen minutes. I ran (as will this sentence J) to a petit taxi, made him wait while I again ran to find my folks, pay their tab, and recharge my phone card, then got back in, rushed back to the station to purchase the tickets and get on the bus [DEEP BREATH, drip, drip].

The bus ride was fine for the most part. We had another hospitality moment as I offered some candies with the bearded man across the aisle and he reciprocated with handfuls of pistachios. We stopped in Ouezzane to change buses, drink some tea, and use the toilet. The ticket man for the connecting bus tried to overcharge me for the luggage—what did we look like, tourists? I knew better and paid him no more than his due, but these constant episodes eventually drive a person to remain home all day. Ziva was put off by the squat toilets and opted to wait, though when she was led to a different facility (they must not have grasped the issue at hand) she swallowed her concerns and performed, only to be chased back to the café by the toilet guardian who wanted—drum roll, please—payment. It got pretty windy and stomach-turning toward the destination; Shiri had me prepare a barf bag as a failsafe.

We finally got dropped off at the edge of Chaouen’s medina as the sky grew dark, and in contrast to my first visit to the town, a group of otherwise-adorable children immediately accosted us and insisted to help with our luggage. This time, though, we were prepared with candies and souvenirs. I paid them off while we had our fireplace lit up at the charming hotel. As it was already getting late, we had time for little else than dinner and a quick walk through the beautiful blue town. Not before meeting Hat Man, however—his shop a Rasta caricature, replete with the cloud of aromatic blue smoke. His knitwear was fascinating and priced so fairly I had trouble carrying out the ritualistic bargaining. Back at the hotel’s family room we found a group of men getting high and playing music. We opted to sit in, though we abstained from participating in anything but drinking tea. The hotel’s owner was an interesting Italian chap whose vibe is best summed up as a little weird. Lots of young male help, all getting high; the picture was simply disconcerting.

The last embers from our fire kept us warm as we slept. My alarm clock failed, causing a late awaking, and we scrambled to make the best of our short morning. Breakfast and packing was followed by some nearby gift shopping and a hasty second trip to chat with and buy more knitwear from Hat Man as we waited for our hotel-arranged grand taxi to Tangiers. It was a disappointment, then, when the taxi driver finally arrived but wanted double what the hotelier’s “son” had quoted me. It was all a very shady ordeal—the hotelier got defensive rather than apologetic, insisting on the higher price. I would have been negotiating for a taxi or searching for a bus hours earlier had I not been misled to wait for the crooked taxi. Alas, on our walk over to the taxi stand, the shady driver offered a discount, and desperate (now a theme), I accepted.

Nacer met us as we arrived at Tangiers and helped us lug our luggage up to his fifth (European=American sixth) floor walkup before a quick tour through town. The traffic in Tangiers was about as time-consuming as the drive from Chaouen. He handed us off to his friend Marouane who generously accompanied us and kept us out of trouble until we left for dinner at Nacer’s hotel. The thing is, apropos this approaching hospitality moment, is that I would rather have eaten elsewhere. I knew this even before I saw the menu (actually, it was a buffet). I agreed to the meal for the same reason I agreed to stay in Nacer’s apartment—for the magic Moroccan idea of hospitality. For the same reason they all need to give, I have almost come to feel it my duty to accept. It was not good enough for Nacer to give us a few recommendations or to hang out for a while—he needed to host us and make us feel a sense of welcome that is alien back home. So I was only slightly surprised when the manager informed me that our meal had been completely paid for by Nacer.

In a final flourish for the night, Nacer arranged for a friend to drive us home. My mom was understandably frustrated not to be able to just pay for a night at Nacer’s swanky hotel, which is what I would have insisted upon were we to do it over again. Still, as history has it, we climbed up to the apartment and bared it. Sadly, but hardly surprising us, we were without showers or western toilets. This, of course, only added fuel to my mom’s fire, and it was all we could do to go to sleep without further conflict.

my two Youssefs

2007-03-27T15:06:00.000-04:00

It is difficult to completely convey what it is like to travel here. I say “convey,” not “describe.” I don’t believe I exaggerate by claiming to be able to give a good description of life out here, though I readily admit the chip on my shoulder. That said, as for conveying, it’s just hard to wrap your head around days like these until you experience them. I therefore accept that this blog will never convey everything, and you’ll have to spend at least a couple of weeks out here to feel it out for yourselves. It will be scary and stressful, but this is just all too amazing not to see for yourself. I took up Youssef_b on his offer, probably more as an excuse to chronicle the escapades than any other reason. And so the adventure goes on:

My family’s time in Fes being limited, I first took them to the famous tanneries in the morning. Shower time was amazingly time-consuming as always and, despite the best of intentions, we weren’t ready to leave until 9. It remains a mystery why I decided to wait for the maid for another hour. Finally fed up with waiting, I texted EB to let her know that the maid had not arrived on time. Perhaps this was a sure sign she was indeed our thief… So we made like fetuses and headed out for our rainy adventures. Lesson learned (duh): one umbrella, regardless of size, is never large enough for three to share. A pocket umbrella, however, is hardly enough for one.

The tannery continues as it has since the tourists arrived sometime during the latter half of the 20^th century: the experience begins with a relentless onslaught of locals smelling credit cards (a feat considering the stench in the air): “welcome, come in, you don’t need to buy anything.” They’ve pulled you into their shop before you can react, with a sprig of mint to shield the nostrils and promises of great views; a harmless man offers an explanation of the goings-on down below (and of course becomes your shadow for the duration of the visit). You look, sample their overpriced (tourists shop here, not locals) wares before pushing aside your shadow who is now asking you for a tip.

I headed us toward where I imagined the closest taxis would be, as we had to meet up with Youssef_a, the driver from the crazy midnight Casablanca journey. I instead walked us the long way to the pickup spot through a miscalculation of our position. Still, we were right on time, though Youssef_b was getting ansi and had called twice already. In all honesty, so was I: it was 11, we hadn’t yet hit the road, and we were still hoping to visit several towns an hour out of Fes.

Suffice to say that, as far as tourism was concerned, the day was a bust. The souk (market) at Azrou, our first and farthest stop, was rendered one giant mud pit—I was glad my sister imported my boots. It was great to see and experience nonetheless—amazing produce and hundreds of shoppers out braving the sleety rainy mess. Next stop: the cedar park where there was snow on the ground and the apes, smarter than I am, were safely tucked away in their homes, up in the trees? Youssef_a, Youssef_b, and I watered the trees before moving on, obligatorily backtracking through Ifrane for a much needed pot of tea before taking the turn toward Sefrou, Youssef_b’s birthplace. Youssef_a was tired of getting out of the car by this point; we should have taken the hint.

The rest of the afternoon seems like a whirlwind. We stopped in a town by Sefrou for a good ninety minutes, being offered food and awkwardly drinking tea at an old friend’s dilapidated house. We browsed his third-hand shop next door, and then my prayers were answered when Youssef_b agreed that we were too short on time for a meal. So we booked it to the waterfall for a quick peek. We next ran to the cemetery along with his old friend, where we snapped a group photo and escorted Youssef_b as he lit candles in remembrance of his mother (dead at the age of 38) and other, more distant relatives. Then it was off to the medina, where we spent twenty minutes waiting for Youssef_b to drop off some gifts to a friend before being taken to another friend’s scary-weird (there were stuffed animals—taxidermy-style—staring at us from every-which direction) spice shop and offered awful souvenirs. All the while I’m whining to Youssef_b about our fast-approaching dinner at Mo’s, telling him that we must leave immediately for Fes. He doesn’t get it, keeps insisting that Moroccan’s always run an hour late (I’m not Moroccan). We stop to see another now-defunct synagogue/charity center.

Bless his heart, really. Here we are getting more annoyed by the minute (my mom could hardly stand him anymore, with his endless errands and friends detracting from our tourism), and he continues to try and be a good tour guide. I reminded my mom (and myself) that these outings are more about the crazy adventures of sweet old men than the sights in Lonely Planet. Youssef_b kept insisting we accompany him back to his apartment for tea/snacks, but I held fast to mission: get out of the taxi. All’s well that ends well: we made it to Fes perfectly on Moroccan time and had an amazing dinner at Mo’s, a fun reunion of my mom and sister with EB’s.

a bad omen revisited

2007-03-25T01:00:00.001-04:00

[This blog was written at 4am on the way back to Fes from the Casablanca airport run]

We stopped for the traditional roadside fare: grilled meat. We tried to order a goat's head, but they were all out of them by 12:30am when we finally arrived to eat. Seeing plenty of ovine carcasses with male anatomy attached, we also tried for an order of testicles, never having tried the delicacy, but were again out of luck. So we settled for kefta (well-seasoned ground meat and fat).

The trip is longer than I expected. At 330 we were still a good 45 minutes out of Fes. In retrospect, a hotel for the night in Casa would have made as much sense as the taxi--I had imagined we would arrive in Fes closer to 2am. To compound the problem, tonight marks the beginning of daylight savings, so really it’s now 5 in the morning (my morning sobriety corrected this fallacy--Morocco does not observe daylight savings).

News Flash: About twenty minutes ago, on the final stretch home, the Benz made an incredibly angry noise. It growled, really. No, it was more of a roar. Suffice it to say that I have never heard a sound like it, not whilst riding in a car. The driver took the taxi out of gear and we coasted along in a very rough neutral for a several minutes, taking advantage of a gradual descent. It wasn't a flat tire, though the engine's screaming gyrations almost made it feel like one. The hill leveled out, and he shifted back into second to get whatever mileage he could. We made it all of two hundred meters before the car ground (actually ground) to a halt.

If I had to guess (I did), I’d say it sounded like the oil pan just ~~dropped~~ was ripped off of the taxi. The initial jolt was brought me back to full consciousness after dozing for a few minutes. The driver (Youssef) and I grunted and performed the manly ritual of lifting the hood and nosing around. It wasn’t the radiator, as one might have guessed given earlier signs. We took a look at the oil reservoir, and it was smoky. The driver began making the requisite phone calls when I went back out to investigate the trickling sound I heard. Youssef was just beside the vehicle, ruling out the bodily function the sound most emulated. The fluid streaming from the engine was black as the sky above--indeed, this was a serious mushkill.

Lesson learned: Listen to the car before hiring it for an eight hour tour. It's not all about the cheapest rate.

Fifteen minutes later we were hoisted onto a flatbed truck, to be hauled back to Fes. I’ve never had the privilege of riding in a car being towed. It was oddly unsettling in the darkness, though I reckon it would be fun during the day. A few minutes later and we rendezvoused with Yousef’s son, who brought an alternate taxi for the last few kilometers home.

Sometimes these blog entries just write themselves...

You all remember your lines, yeah? Everybody now, please; let's say it together: Fes. Saturday night. What’s gonna happen next?!?

figuring it out

2007-03-25T00:55:00.001-04:00

[This blog was written in a “grand taxi” (big old diesel Mercedes Benz) on the way to Casablanca from Fez to pick up my mom and sister, Ziva and Shiri]

A sad state of affairs: I loaded my blog today to show Mo. Looking for snappy photos, I quickly scrolled through the ten posts available on the page, as he still doesn't participate very much in English. I was dismayed, and feel remiss about the state of affairs I found, though it is thanks to a natural evolution. I do have some photos that I'll shortly upload to accompany some older posts, so poke around in the coming days. Further, my impromptu visitors (they just decided last week to fly over and visit during Shiri’s spring break) bring me an old digital camera to supplant my cell phone as primary photo-taker. In short (long, at this point), I will try to be better about posting photos. That said, I wish I could get you all to interact more; a week after explicitly asking for feedback, I just received my first comment on the matter... Alas.

Evolving: I began this blog as a see-what-I’m-doing project for my friends back home, and it has progressed and changed over the months. I’ve begun to feel at home here, and the photos have diminished as a result. I now know shortcuts and I have favorite butchers. I buy milk from just one guy, and get my butter from another. I have set out to do most of what I came here to do: know a different way of life. Mo and I are practically brothers—I spend perhaps more time with him than EB does. I’m having a great time, but it’s different than the adventures of the start, and I write more about the day to day than the road trips.

[I interrupt my story to bring you a special news alert: my taxi driver, while stopped to top off the gas tank with a couple gallons of diesel, opened his hood to feed the steaming radiator some fresh water...Not a promising sign for a seven-hour round trip.]

Most recently I reached a new extreme (call it a high or a low, your choice) with my freak-out, and tonight I’m hoping to share some of the afterthoughts. I’ll be honest, though: I’m cheating. A few nights ago, while writing to an old friend from my first days as a cook, I vomited some ideas into my word processor. In retrospect, despite the obvious crudeness I was surprised to find the overall message coherent. I’ve preserved its raw nature below, cutting here and there to keep personal matters personal:

...I'm thinking I'm probably going to leave here in a few weeks. Probably second week of april. Don't have a plan for april, probably make my way through spain/france as cheaply as possible, or just find a flight straight up to NE france/Switzerland/germany area--there's you in Munich, Zoe in Geneva, and a family--friends of mine--in Lille. Maybe do some combo of the three, as they're all places I'd like to check out (and people I’d like to see). Maybe figure out what this whole hitchhiking thing is all about and see if I could do that through france...? I dunno...playing this all by ear. Probably try to find a cheap flight out of Germany to Israel where I'd visit for a couple/few weeks... then if I need to go to the US to take care of my apt in nyc, I'd do that, maybe try to rent out my place in Chicago, before returning to france area to work on a farm for a couple months... wow. That's about the most coherent I've been about this whole journey of mine--I might need to copy and paste most of this email to explain to others...:) Can't wait to check out your part of the world--hope you have some good brasseries and sausageries for us, though not the kind of sausagerie I had here at my place for st patty's day--a room full of 12 guys, and not even a single female. I mean, okay, romantic aspect totally aside, which at this point it is, it's just nice to have that break in the testosterone, you know? Hell--this could even be a fun stream of consciousness blog post--whaddya think?
Be in touch,
--j

your opinion, please

2007-03-20T21:23:00.001-04:00

Writing is a discipline. I worked with a great writer whose credo was "revise revise revise." I am used to editing, cutting out superfluous words and rearranging ideas for the sake of clarity. Though I recognize that blogging is different than the writing I am used to, I am often conflicted about posting such rough pieces for the sake of staying up-to-date. So here's where you come in, as I'm interested in what you have to say:

Do you prefer the rough, rather unedited pieces I have been posting heretofore? Or do you find that griminess overrated, and sometimes wish I had taken a red pen to some of these posts?

Granted, this is my blog, and I'm catering more to myself than to you. Still, I am interested in your opinions nonetheless, as I want to present you with great content you can stomach reading on a regular basis. Don't hold back. Anonymity is fine if you feel bad laying into me--just don't leave your name. But it would make me happy if you all commented on this one...

an evening to remember

2007-03-16T20:05:00.001-04:00

Warning: contains immature humor intended for mature audiences

Setting it up: Back when I worked at 5Ninth restaurant in New York (I really worked there for all of a month), the chef’s right-hand guy had this saying. Imagine, 11pm on a Friday night. A private party has just been seated on the third floor. The second floor has sixty-odd diners, and the bar on the first floor is rocking to a techno groove, brimming with well-off hipster 30-somethings with a drink in each hand. We, the kitchen are, as they say, in the weeds, and there are still two hours left until we're closed. The waiters keep making mistakes, and we cannot seem to keep up. Even if he has been imbibing, every word is stressed and meticulously enunciated: “Manhattan. Friday night. What's gonna happen next?!?”

The day: A rather uneventful day, I woke up and spent most of it on the sofa where I now sleep. At around 4pm I decided it was time to go shop for the remaining ingredients I required for dinner. Coq au vin over pommes aligotes had the starring role, preceded by a simple greek salad, and followed by Crème caramel, a dish often served here, and always lackluster. I went out with Jane and Mo in tow, stopping for sandwiches at his uncle’s butcher stall after the big hike uphill to the food market. We ducked into a Berber tea stall next door to eat our sandwiches, sip tea, and breathe second-hand hashish. By the time we were out, it had started dripping rain. By the time we were finally at the top of the hill, it was pouring with big, heavy, freezing gobs of water. These were not your ordinary raindrops: it was like large hail that had melted just before reaching our bodies. I quickly shopped, and we ran back home after stopping at Mo's for an umbrella.

The meal: I chose the rooster a few days ago, and waited as the butcher slaughtered it before my eyes. It was a handsome cock, if a little small. The bottle of wine was acceptable--nothing extraordinary, but definitely worthy of the bird. The eggs I used for dessert were free range, with bright orange yolks--the kind that are so hard to find in the states. The milk was milked yesterday, raw and sweet. Dinner was set, the main dish on the table, when the doorbell rang. Seeham and her boyfriend stopped in to say hi. Moroccan hospitality, our own courtesy, necessitated they sit down with us for dinner. Mo got right on frying up some more turkey cutlets--even though the wine was cooked for hours, they could not partake in the main course: their religion forbids it. Not to toot my own horn, but my housemates were emphatic in their praises of my cock. This had Jane and me giggling for the better part of the meal, and when Mo translated coq to Arabic (dick), EB and Whitney joined in the laughter. Not to leave them in the dark, we explained our amusement; our Moroccan guests were just as pleased. Dinner was great, dessert continued on the theme. Even better, Jane, bless her heart, washed the dishes.

Fez. Friday night. What’s gonna happen next: Jane’s leaving in the morning. The post office giving me the runaround here, I appealed to her to take a gift back home for mailing, and went to fetch some money for the stamps. Except my stash of cash was missing. Every last dollar, every euro. About $300, all told. EB’s similar stash had been recently noticed as missing as well. She had figured it had simply been misplaced as she organized her closet. Naturally, that is no longer as plausible of a conclusion. Must have been the maid, a rather affordable luxury up until now. And so, we remind ourselves, of all ways to lose something, and of all things to lose, money could not be any safer or easier to replace. Friday night is over; what will Saturday bring?

...leads to freak-out

2007-03-15T05:12:00.001-04:00

(continued from Casablanca...)

The six of us shared a first-class compartment back to Fez on the 10pm train. We chatted a bit, fell asleep, and were woken at 230am by people trying to get into their (our) cabin in Fez. Dazed, it took us a moment to get off the train. We groggily made our way to the waiting taxis. It was chaos. There were more people than the taxis could possibly handle, and we needed two of them. True to taxi drivers the world round, the first available driver refused to drive to the villa (dorm) because of the distance/fare (too short/too small). His tune changed when more cabs arrived and the crowd diminished, but by then principle wouldn’t allow us to pay him any notice. Gabe, Caitlyn (sp?), and I got into one taxi, and we dropped off Caitlyn on the way to the medina.

[The following will read like an IQ test. Bear with it, as its (and the ride’s) relevancy will become apparent] She handed me a 10Dh coin for her part of the fare (I was too foggy to just shove her money back at her). Gabe and I arrived at the medina, the meter displaying 21Dh. I handed the driver Caitlyn’s coin plus a note worth 20 (30 total). He fished for and produced 4Dh. I questioned him: I expected nine. He pulled out a larger-than-normal 5Dh coin and politely informed me I had given him 25, not 30. I was tired. I was back in Fez, where I could trust the cabbies. I shrugged my shoulders, spun on my heel and left. [You still with me?] Five minutes later, my grogginess quickly being displaced by the knife-wielding vigilance demanded for a late-night stroll through the labyrinth I now call home, I answered my own idiot test. How do I know that I was ripped off? I didn’t have a 10Dh coin anywhere on me: we’d been duped, in Fez, on our home turf. Lesson learned: never, ever, trust the cab drivers, not even on your home turf. Again, nothing to dwell on, I shrugged and carried on.

[Warning: emotional content ahead]

EB asleep in her bedroom, Whitney and Jane in what used to be my bedroom, Gabe and I arrived to a house rife with the resonance of sleep. We hit the sofas and played dead. Except that as hard as I tried to slow down and sleep, my mind was picking up steam. Cab rides with crooked drivers were just the tip of the iceberg. Soon enough, my breath still with concentration, my head was at a flat out sprint: reality had found me. I slept a few winks that night, but only after unease had taken firm grip of my sanity. The following morning, when EB told me her family would be here before the end of March (sooner than I had anticipated), unease ignited and took on new shapes of dread. I was in a predictably pensive and aloof state for most of the day.

[I’m treading new territory here. Heretofore I have written about my experiences, my thoughts, the food, and the people. I’ve neglected to talk about what I’m really going through. In a large part, I’ve completely ignored why I’m here and what I’m feeling (uh-oh: the f-word). I’m not going to back-pedal here and try to fill in gaps: those of you who have been in touch know the gist of my mission (even I know scarcely more than the gist). Those who have not will gather through the context of prior and future posts (keep visiting). My goal is to let you all in a little more than I have, as much as I comfortably can in a public setting.]

Drum roll’s over: I’ve finally begun to freak out a bit, in the simplest and most familiar of terms. My time in Fez is near its end. Not only do I have the relatively abstract dates, but also I now have real, palpable, foreign suitcases exploding on what was just my bedroom floor. I’ve been relegated to the sofa. I will soon have to vacate the premises, what with EB’s family arriving. I don’t have a plan from here on out. My roommates in New York are talking about moving out, so I’m being pulled to deal with my belongings in a soon-to-be-vacant apartment in New York, a town I love to love, yet one in which my time may quite possibly be over. I’d like to spend a few weeks in Israel while I still can, as I fear that once I gain some momentum on a farm or in the kitchen, this blissfully ambiguous life I’ve found myself leading will become terrifyingly apparent (hardly possible, it remains a fear). I want to spend some time on some farms in Europe to see if I’ll love that life as much as I think I will. I want to, I need to, put some money back into the bank...

The list goes on. Perhaps you have or have had such a list of your own, and so are able to put yourself in my shoes. Even better, maybe yours has just started to creep up on you. Regardless, here I am, feeling more alone and out of place than I have felt lately. I'm carefully inspecting paths for silly fear of choosing the wrong one, unable to accept my conviction that they're all equally wonderful.

casablanca...

2007-03-12T20:16:00.001-04:00

Jane and Whitney (EB's sisters) flew in over the weekend. Since EB had class the morning Jane flew in, and, well, I've basically been adopted as a big brother of sorts, I hopped aboard a night train (for some reason the words 'night train' continue to conjure Bob Seger's Night Moves) to be in Casa by 8 to greet Jane. I somehow got the compartment to myself for a few hours, so I wasn't completely without sleep for our day of fun. The experience of cabbing it from the train station to the hotel was hardly fun. True to their ways, the cabbies all wanted exorbitant flat rates. I argued, haggled, angrily got out of one cab and into another. All over two dollars. It’s amazing how perspectives change when abroad.

We had a great breakfast on the fish pier, haphazardly. We had intended to eat at the restaurant next door, but were early for lunch, so decided to wander around and peek at the morning's catch out on the pier. One thing led to another, and in classic Moroccan tradition, we were waved over to one man's stall, then another, both serving lightly fried fish, shrimp omelets, and, of course, tea. The food was excellent, cheap, and plentiful; Jane seemed satisfied with her first foray into the local grub. We headed for a couple of exhibits, and had a hard time finding the Jewish Museum--not a single person knew where to find it; unsurprisingly the place was empty but for us. EB woke us from a much-needed afternoon nap at the hotel--it was time to eat again before heading to Rick's Cafe (a replica based on the movie's, put together a couple of years ago). Our meal was good, as was our time at Rick’s—nothing crazily out of the ordinary besides the great service at both establishments. EB and Jane headed home early, while I stayed for another round. Joined by nine—yes, nine—other students that made the hop from Fez, we were anything but a small group. If you’ve traveled with me, you know this can stress me out a little bit—I like to be a bit of a loner, or at least do my own thing. So, while such a large group should have been comforting for the eventual walk back through the dark city, it had the opposite effect.

[Traveling in Morocco is rather easy—you supposedly don’t need a passport or identity card to get around the country. Really, the only time you need such documentation is when checking in at the airport or into a hotel]

All twelve of us were staying at the same hotel. Four, including EB, had forgotten their passports in Fez. Here we are at 1am, trying to pull one over on the guy at the hotel. A trip to the police station earlier would have cleared this up, but really, would the hotel make a big fuss over this? The three others cleared it up easily (though time-consuming) enough: a cab to the police station to get some documentation. EB and Jane were long asleep. It was a bit of a surprise, then, when the clerk gave me the third degree and insisted I wake EB. Come on, can this not be taken care of come morning, when everyone is well rested? Moreover, why didn’t you mention anything when the two of them entered in the first place? All moot points, the only applicable point being: wake EB up and get her over to the police station. Bureaucracy is not limited to the developed world.

Getting up at eight o’clock to see whether I could bus it out to Chefchaouen to meet up with friends, just to find out there were no suitable buses, was a bit of an annoyance. As such, I made the best of the day, sightseeing, laying down for a bit by the water, and, of course, eating. It ended up a fun day despite missing the beautiful weather in Chef. Six of us had drinks at a great bar before going next door for a quick, fancy, French meal. And then off to the train station for a late train back to Fez.

i'm in morocco

2007-03-12T08:22:00.000-04:00

Deep Thoughts...
Every once in a while, living in this foreign, almost medieval country, I think to myself in near disbelief: wow...I'm in Morocco.

fo' mo funnies

2007-03-08T12:06:00.001-05:00

Plucking unibrows seems to be in, as far as the ladies are concerned. But when EB insisted on attacking Mo's growth, he balked, and upon a little nudging by EB I was to assure him it's perfectly normal. Gladly, he didn't push hard for any confirmation, so rest assured, my brow remains the uni it always was...

Dentists are not popular doctors in this country--the fact is as plain as the smiles on the local faces. It was not surprising, then, that people often don't see one for years and years, often waiting until it's time to buy dentures (which, by the way, I saw for sale on a table full or knick-knacks in Marrakech this weekend). Mo was no exception. I say "was," because out of his devotion to his new love, EB, he made not one, but two visits to the dentist as of late. Two visits because his gums were bleeding so badly he had to be sent home mid-session. The man is a saint--he now has a three-step process to follow each meal. In the name of love...

Lionel Ritchie has been a part of our lives for a while now. Say you, say me / Say it together... Mo loves this song, and when around the house is often heard singing these few lyrics. Imagine our delight when a Greatest Hits VCD appeared one day--full of fun hits and amazing music videos from the early 80's to go along with them...

The local authorities keep close tabs on foreigners staying in the area, be it in hotels, riads, or guest houses. We finally got a tap tap tap on our door one recent morning--the man in charge of our district wanted to know why the owner of our house hasn't been registering his guests. We basically sent him after the owner, claiming no responsibility, as really we're just guests of his, but not before a chicken came running into the kitchen, squawking and making a general commotion. Mo, good guy he is, finished translating our way out of problems with the authorities, but not before he cornered the chicken and sent him back on his merry way to our next-door neighbors' place.

i like baby animals

2007-03-05T12:57:00.003-05:00

Deep thoughts...

So, as we're taking the train back from Marrakech, I wonder to myself, can/will goats mate with sheep? We think not, since their likely offspring would probably be named shoats, but as I found out last year, shoats are actually adolescent pigs. And geep just doesn't sound right...

moroccan hospitality

2007-03-05T12:57:00.001-05:00

Being a proud member of the hospitality industry by choice, and actually focusing a great deal on hospitality, I place great importance on that skill-set. Though I have not yet gone to such lengths, I find myself debating whether to mimic Whitney's (EB's sister) distribution of feedback forms to close friends and loved ones. So, naturally, I am always on the lookout for new ways to give myself and to be hospitable. Even still, I am ~~occasionally~~ frequently taken aback by what I find here. Let me be frank: I am in a country where I rightfully and automatically assume the locals are out to part me from my money. I have mentioned it before: I don't trust many of the men (the women tend to be far less pushy and crooked) out here. Call me jaded, I call it realistic. Don't get me wrong, I don't dwell on the issue, it's just a part of life out here. Which is what makes the opposite extreme stand out that much more.

I have already written about the incident of the free pastry in Chefchaoen and Lora's hero of the night at the Casablanca bus station. Though I am unemployed, the generous exchange rate allows me to enjoy an affordably posh lifestyle. So when it comes to paying, I feel the need to pay my own way. It is rather charming, but incredibly frustrating to be constantly beat at the paying game. When grocery shopping with Mo (unemployment is contagious, and so recently we have found ourselves privileged to spend more time with him) for dinner and the like, it has become an endless fight to avoid his paying for things. Here we are, automatically rich Americans, being treated left and right by the locals who know no other way than to offer themselves to us completely.

Food in general

The Yemenite side of my family primed me for what I could expect from Morocco and its people--Arab hospitality is like quite no other. The lengths they go to, however, still bear mentioning. By now I am already part of Mo's family. With or without EB, I am frequently invited to the house for lunch and dinner (breakfast on the weekends), and as the guidebook suggests, I have the choice morsels of meat and goodies thrust in front of me every time. I had lunch at his grandparents' house last weekend. Mo has even invited me to stay as an extended houseguest in case I decide to overstay my welcome at EB's place.

Having been invited to Miriam's place for dinner, we promptly met her and rode in a taxi to her neighborhood of Fez. The area was hopping with food stands and restaurants grilling along the main road where we were let off. Her house was vacant--her family was to have been cooking, but apparently somehow our dinner date had gone forgotten. Not a big deal--we would gladly go eat at one of the numerous places on the main drag. Fast-forward ten minutes as Mom and Sister come home. Already alerted by Miriam through the miracle of text messaging, they arrive bearing some vegetables and frozen chicken. They will have nothing of our idea to eat on the street-we are their guests, and we shall be well fed. And so we get comfortable, entertained be her young niece, snacking on pastries and sipping the ubiquitous mint tea. We end up feasting on a truly wonderful meal of tender chicken and amazing foul (braised fava beans), salads and fries. This is Moroccan hospitality.

Guide book says: if you want to eat on the train/bus, you should be prepared to offer to share your snack with all your neighbors. We offered some of our chocolate. Denied. We offered some cheese. Denied. We took out our yogurt and were hospialitily (sic)embarrassed when our neighbor offered (and we accepted) a small spoon from her purse. She offered (and we accepted) some cookies. Final seconds: we shoot, we score, as our clementines are accepted by all in the compartment.

A final show of hospitality

About a month ago, an American friend of mine was mugged--robbed with a knife to his neck. Though the first man just wanted his cash, the second intervened and took the rest of his valuables. And here's the kicker: even through a robbery, Moroccan hospitality shines--before parting, the lead robber gave him a kiss on each cheek and delivered a sincere "m'a salaama (peace to you)."

when green isn't green

2007-03-02T10:59:00.001-05:00

Warning: preaching ahead

So, we already know that ethanol (at least how we're making it today) is a bad bet for the environment. Those of you who know me should know my thoughts on the environment--specifically how we're destroying it, and how we should be repairing it. When we explore alternative biofuels such as ethanol, we must pay attention not only to its emmisions and upside to fossil fuels, but also to how the fuel is being grown. So, it is sadly no surprise that Scientists are taking 2nd look at biofuels. Read on, and educate yourselves.

I recently came across another interesting article involving current trends in the clothing industry, fashion maven that I am. Instead of buying clothes that last a lifetime, we're shopping for price and trend. It's becoming 'Fast clothes' versus 'green clothes'. Please, if you're going to buy disposable clothing, don't throw it away when you're through with it; find a home or a clever use for it.

the honey man

2007-02-25T12:17:00.000-05:00

23 different honeys: need I say more? This honey is among the best I've had--real, raw honey. Plenty of crystallization, but the varieties are so distinct and true.

Eucalyptus ($2.75/Lb)

Orange ($3.30/Lb)

Wild ("automatic"--machine harvested?, $4.40/Lb)

Wild herb ($6.60/Lb)

Pineapple/Kiwi ($6.60/Lb)

($11/Lb): Oregano, Carob, Nigella/"black cumin"/onion seed, Takaout (Euphorbe, i.e. cactus), Rosemary, Lavender, Wild (feral bees, wild honey), Thyme, Fenugreek, Anise Vert (2 types of fennel/anise), Date (from the Sahara, down south), Armoise Blanche (white wormwood), Juniper, Fennel (just one kind), Caper,
Figelle (not very sweet, almost bitter)

Walnut ($16.50/Lb)

Argan Oil ($15.75/L)
Olive Oil ($4/L)

Essaouira

2007-02-21T12:00:00.000-05:00

My first order of business: bee line it to wherever they sell fresh fish. We were, after all, right on the Atlantic Ocean. After a bit of haggling (the prices are fixed and published, but apparently the math often favors the vendors), we sat down and awaited our grilled selections. There's nothing quite like tucking into a pile of super super fresh seafood. And that's all it was: simply grilled, lemon wedges on the side.

I didn't do much more than here than eat and sleep and bum around. I did go to the bus station in search of my ticket out of this place, and was struck by immediate deja vu. Still, I needed a way out, and bought a relatively inexpensive (this always comes back to haunt you in Morocco) ticket north to Rabat. And inexpensive is what I got. The bus, though I was promised a modern, air-conditioned coach, was definitely out of date, if otherwise according to the man's description. The "direct/express" ride to Rabat was anything but--stopping in at least 30 small towns along the way to let people and animals on and off. Animals? Yep, we had a goat and a turkey on board. Really? Yep, really. The goat was tied around the horns and the turkey simply had his feet bound, both secured in the cargo hold below (no man down there this time). Sometimes we need a few tries until we get it right: Lesson re-learned: bus travel with anyone other than CTM (the national bus service) is to be avoided.

why i love doug

2007-02-20T11:17:00.000-05:00

Chicago levies its first foie gras fine

[Doug] framed the city's warning letter about the delicacy and placed it on his counter. He also advertised ingredients for foie gras- laced hot dogs on his Web site and on a board near the front door.
...Mayor Richard Daley...called [the ban on foie gras] the "silliest" ordinance the City Council had ever passed.

Marrakech: 'disneyland on crack'

2007-02-19T04:09:00.000-05:00

Food, sights, sounds, smells, annoying people, crazy people, transvestites, crooks, and last, but not least, ass-grabbers.

The food: Sheep heads and brains, snails, liver 'pate,' cow udders, and orange juice--lots and lots of orange juice. Marrakech is known for a braised lamb dish called Tanjiya. Instead of being cooked for hours in a conical tagine over coals (begin gripe: while the best of the tagines are cooked this way, I'll be damned if I've seen it done traditionally more than once or twice in Morocco--the fancy restaurants tend to cook everything in aluminum pots and just transfer into a tagine when ordered end gripe), this dish is cooked in a curvy (think hips) ceramic pot for hours in the furnace of a hammam (traditional Roman/Moroccan sauna/bath). Spiced predominately with cumin, and usually prepared with mutton, it's a sure bet wherever you can find it.
Really, though, the big thing in this town (for this insatiable cook, anyway) is the array of evening food stands in the main square of Djemaa el Fna. The fun starts toward dusk at 5 or 6pm and goes on until midnight. There are five snail stands, where snails are cooked just as I found them in Fez. Moving on, a few different guys have smoky grills putting up little white merguez (lamb) sausages and liver 'pate': a spiced (mostly cumin, garlic, paprika, and harissa) mix of beef liver and fat, very much resembling blood sausage. And then there're the offal guys. Lined up with sheep heads, cow udders, and beef tongues, these guys don't cater to the tourists (in fact, this whole scene, though indeed a draw for tourists, is really still largely a local thing). I'll get some more photos when I visit again, but in the meantime, my album has a couple of fun sheep head videos. Though I could go on and on about the food, suffice it to say that I ate until I, and those around me, dropped (case in point when Gabe and his dad joined in on the fun: we started with a steamed lamb brain, a bit of cow udder, some calf's tongue, and half a sheep head, and went from there...).

Sights, sounds, and smells; annoying people, crazy people, and transvestites; crooks and ass-grabbers: Needless to say, Marrakech has its share of each. Djemaa el Fna is surprisingly clean and odor-free in the morning, as the food stands disappear in the middle of the night after a big clean-up. Mornings in the square involve truckloads of oranges--no fewer than 15 carts selling fresh-squeezed juice call out to passers-by in the hopes of selling a three dirham (40 cents) glass of the stuff. The snake charmers accost unsuspecting tourists, wrapping a snake around your head and urging your friends to take pictures before demanding hefty payment (both of you and the picture-taker) for the privilege. By night, henna artists and fortune tellers surround the square and prey on tourists and locals alike. Men in veils belly dance (for such a conservative country, this is shocking, really) and lunatics surrounded by hordes of locals tell their tales--good old-fashioned story-telling: now why doesn't anybody do this at the county fair back home?
Walking through the souks can be just as daunting as it is in Fez. We walked around with no plans, just for the sake of walking, and ended up in some spots devoid of tourists. At one point Lora had her ass grabbed by a local guy who looked back at us with the cavalier look of a toreador before disappearing into the crowd.
On my last day there, we went to see the old Jewish quarter (the Jews weren't allowed to live amongst the Muslim folks, and so were segregated into the walled Mellach--every town has one) and cemetery. A young English-speaking local smelled Americans and offered his illicit services as our guide (the tourist office was closed, so we couldn't get an official guide). After showing us around for a bit and taking us to his family's overpriced ("I give you special price") spice shop, he unsurprisingly demanded an astronomical fee that not even the most jaded of us had anticipated. Lesson learned: better not to feed the pigeons, but if you're insistent on employing an illegal guide, negotiate before-hand. We paid the crook a fraction of his demands, and upon being followed and badgered, we gave him a couple American quarters and told him they were worth $4. He let up enough for us to make our getaway, probably cursing us Jews for ripping him off.

Most ridiculous run-in: The night that Lora left for Casablanca, by far. A lack of late-night trains meant that getting to the airport for her 8am flight would require at least some modicum of sketchiness, and more than likely a chunk of change. Bus travel was agreed upon as the next-best choice. Little did we expect the crowd drawn to the bus and terminal alike. Wow. I felt really, really bad, letting her go alone on this middle-of-the-night bus with a bunch of freaky guys. The kicker was when the bus finally showed up and the driver opened the cargo door on the side, waking up the man laying down there under blankets(!!!). Lesson learned (this one should have been common sense): bus travel with anyone other than CTM (the national bus service) is to be avoided in general, but most definitely by lone women in the middle of the night. Left with no choice, she boarded. An amazingly generous young man seated near her would later take her under his wing through the sketchiness in the Casablanca bus station and deliver her to the train station at 4am--no small miracle.

Chefchaouen (land of plentiful kif)

2007-02-11T12:36:00.000-05:00

In need of a weekend away to a chiller, less pushy town, we headed for picturesque Chefchaoen, where the locals smoke and peddle kif (hash) as though it were totally (not quite, though the police are said to look the other way in this region) legal. Of no matter, in any case, as I still won't smoke... My first bus ride in the country, it wasn't all that bad. The town, though hillier than Fes and therefore a bit tiring, was beautiful thanks to the sky blue whitewash they apply to their houses and pathways.

The people were indeed less pushy--indeed, hours after Lora took a photo of a group of kids, the shy one of the bunch caught up with us as we fixed on some pastries being sold by a man on the street. We didn't recognize her at the time, but she did something that neither one of us will soon forget: she started explaining to the man which pastry she wanted, saying in Arabic "not that one, that one." The man, wearing glasses a centimeter thick that made his eyes appear larger than they were, was having understandable difficulty finding the pastry she requested. Nonetheless, he finally got it for her, but instead of trotting off with it, she placed it in Lora's hands, as a gift. This adorable little girl, living in a land of kids who will beg for a dirham at the drop of a hat (and offer to help you find your hotel 50m away for much more), bought this pastry as a gift to these ~~rich~~ strange westerners.

I spent two hours with a Berber guy trying to sell me rugs and blankets and the like. I kept adding items to the pile, hoping to dupe him into giving me a better deal. Instead the price kept going up, and I started to go numb, not thinking anymore, but rather just bargaining for the sake of bargaining. In the end, the four pieces I purchased amounted to about $75, a good deal by western standards. Lesson learned: a good deal, though it may seem like one at the time, is likely too good to be true. What was camel turned out to be cotton, what was cotton turned out to be acrylic. Like I said, I just was not thinking anymore--in retrospect, of course that sweater is cotton--camel wool would be much scratchier (so really, it was for my own good). Though I could have bought the items for $40 at the over- and fixed-price place down the road, I feel confident that I've paid my 'white man's tax' for the duration of my trip.

The Sahara (Part 2)

2007-02-04T16:14:00.000-05:00

Turban securely fastened, we were en route to the last frontier, a hotel on the edge of the dunes where we'd lunch in the shade before boarding our camels for a three hour tour.

[A little background]
When planning the trip, we were posed with the question of whether travel to the bedouin camp by means of a 4x4, or take the more traditional camel-back ride. Besides EB's desire to certify her Cambelback® truly camel-approved, the camels sounded down-right romantic: riding an age-old animal born by the desert into (okay, well technically we were riding in the opposite direction, but you get the gist) the sunset.
[end background]

Riding camel-back is ~~not comfortable~~ painful. We realized this as soon as we'd started moving, hoping that perhaps the pain would subside, fade into the surreality of riding into the red dunes of the Sahara. The sunlight faded; the pain did not. Lesson learned: if ever faced with the necessity of riding a camel for a prolonged period of time, the best thing you can really do is squirm--fidget, change positions.

Upon arrival at the sandy camp we took our obligatory shots of Berber whisky (mint tea) and made for the top of the nearest dune to spot the last rays of the sunset. Snowboards and sleds in hand, we trekked to the top of the 300m (1000ft) dune. Lesson learned: best practices for climbing sand dunes involves baby steps without exerting much force. This way you can walk on top of the sand rather than continuously sinking your feet in like you're climbing the Stepmaster 2000®.

At the top was a truly amazing sight--a view of Algeria to one side and the sunset on the other. The wind began to pick up as the sky darkened, and we made way back for camp under cover of darkness, literally running down the steep side of the dune. We stargazed for a bit before eating dinner, knowing that the full moon was on its way up and that we'd never see the stars once the moon took over the sky, we took the opportunity to gaze upward for a bit before eating. Nothing quite like staring at the night sky in the darkness of the desert.

Dinner was excellent despite the sandy bread (i'm sure one gets used to it), but the height of the evening was the post-meal entertainment. In came our hosts and their drums. It sounds cheezy to recount it, but it was much cooler than cheezy. We were all caught off guard when asked to sing/play a few of our own numbers for our hosts, but twinkle twinkle and frère jacques and finally our best-performed i will survive seemed to do the trick. We got back to the Berber tunes and tore up the rug. A dance in the brilliant moonlight to ensure a night to remember, and we called it a night. Final lesson learned for the day: come prepared for such outings with songs, jokes, and ghost stories. We Gabe, EB, Lora, Martin, and Andom told some alternatively good (Andom, Gabe) and bad (Martin, me) jokes and stories, and the ensuing laughter was enough to tire anyone out.

Of course the camel ride back was perhaps even more difficult given our already-sore asses, but we endured and were rewarded by breakfast and a largely uneventful, sleepy ride back in the lap of our luxurious 14-seat minibus.

The Sahara (Part 1)

2007-02-03T17:27:00.000-05:00

I really don't know where to begin about this trip. After figuring out the logistics of transportation (the six of us affordably ended up with a driver in a mini-bus that seated 14), the rest of the planning was easy. Stocked with bags full of snackies for the trip down, we made ourselves at home on the bus, preparing for the eight hour ride south to Erfud.

A narrow, winding two-lane road runs the length of the route.
Occasional stops are necessary to let goats and sheep cross the pavement. More frequent are the slowdowns as approaching villages along the route, reminiscent (for lack of other reference) of drives

Down in the Sahara

through the countryside of Europe. Hanging in front of the ubiquitous butcher shops studding each village are carcasses of the very same animals we have been stopping to avoid hitting; charcoal grills smoldering in anticipation.

We finally arrive at the kasbah in Erfud, fully intending on rocking it. It is the quintessential concept of a man-made oasis: palm trees, a lit swimming pool, sticky drinks with umbrellas; everything I'd expect from a four-star safari. During dinner at the on-premise restaurant, two camels are paraded into the dining room for the benefit of the few tourists braving the off-season--one does a stupid pet trick, picking up a water bottle and gulping it down like a marathon survivor.

As if the evening wasn't surreal enough, the later entertainment in the tea salon was a surprise provided courtesy of local villagers and a just-married couple paraded in to the tune of local Taureg beats, all just for the fifteen minutes necessary to have their wedding photos taken. Laughingly and unsurprisingly forced by the kids to dance along, we took it in sober (any other state and it would have been easier) stride and literally jumped right in, stopping to take photos with the children. All the while observing the sadly obvious desperation on the face of the new bride.

A walk around the premesis under the moonlight completed the night, and before I knew it we were stopping to shop for turbans in a jaw-droppingly depressed town, hassled by kids with shiny fossil necklaces, dug up from the vast sea that once covered the land we now treaded.

welcome

2007-01-29T19:32:00.000-05:00

updated: Subscribe to my blog so that you don't need to remember to visit every day...

dear reader,

thanks for visiting my first-ever blog. this being a first for me, and very much a work in progress, I'm afraid you'll have to bear with the learning curve. as I'm sure you can imagine, it's a little weird writing to such a diverse audience--friends, acquaintances, and loved ones. hell, for all I know, this might (hopefully?) get read by people I don't even know.

in the hopes of getting you hooked by giving you something to come back to in the next few days and weeks, I've already gone ahead and posted my first few weeks worth of stories. as such, you'll have to scroll down and hit "Older Posts" if you want to see the first of them.

Anyway. I left the comments feature on for a reason--I want, and will respect, your feedback. I want to make this something you'll visit again. that said, I'll try and post more often than I have, so that it will be more interesting. in the meantime, read on, be in touch, and spread the word.

--j

cotton-mouth and all

2007-01-28T11:52:00.001-05:00

So, after lunch, we had a most unusual vegetable for dessert... Not unusual in and of itself, but in being a) eaten raw and b) served as dessert. Secret ingredient is: artichokes. Kind of what you'd expect eating an artichoke raw (you eat the bottoms of the leaves, just like when cooked, and then the heart at the end of it all). Afterward, we had the most intense craving for a chaser--we went with oranges. The cotton-mouth feeling lingered for another hour or so. We're full of antioxidants now, though...

a day in the kitchen with mama

2007-01-28T11:52:00.000-05:00

Mohammed's family was gracious in inviting us over for breakfast and lunch today. After breakfast we gathered round and prepped some vegetables before getting into cooking the couscous. What ensued were, quite simply, good times. The couscous was amazing, fluffy, well-seasoned; everything you could ask for. The company made it all the better. I got lots of pictures and a few videos.

poker in fez

2007-01-27T20:09:00.001-05:00

So, hearing about a poker game over at the American school dorm ("the villa"), I just had to be there. The two guys putting on the game seemed to know their game--their noses were pressed to their computers playing online poker when I met them. 100 dirham (about $12) buy-in, 7 players, pot goes 400/200/100 to the top 3. It was a fun game, with a lot of trash talking by the half of the room that was on the drunk side. I earned the nickname Mr. Los Angeles, and walked away with 300 dirhams when the last two of us agreed to split the pot rather than drag out the game--it was late. Good times.

a cook and a farmer i will be

2007-01-23T11:41:00.000-05:00

Spent the day setting up the roof deck w/a bunch of herbs/plants—couple of peach trees, an orange tree among them. Party on Thursday, then again on Sunday—guess who’s catering? But really, it’s fun. I’ve withdrawn all of $35 for the past three days here, and most of that is in the pantry in the form of olive oil, veggies, etc. Wish it was more summery in the market, but I’m not complaining about the citrus—we’ve got all the oranges we can eat around here: orange juice, several oranges a day, some bloods, etc. The people are friendly enough, but it reminds me of Peru, namely, in the way the locals bother you to buy, come in, where are you from, espanol?, hotel? hotel?, taxi?, etc etc etc. There are definitely different prices for locals and then for travelers who have their wits about them, and then of course the tourists (multiply local prices by 10). Nice that EB’s made some friends w/the locals (she has one in her room right now), as we get the inside deals, and save our cash for more fun projects…

snails a la ras al hanout

2007-01-22T20:31:00.000-05:00

There was a little street vendor/trolley selling snails today. One guy pushing a cart down the road w/the live snails, and then we came upon the guy w/the snail broth-for about $2, three of us got a bowl of (salty) ras al hanout-spiced broth and a bowl of snails. It was great--no culinary magic--just good down-home cookin'.

the long trip down

2007-01-21T06:35:00.000-05:00

The trip down was pretty uneventful, though long. The overnight bus was actually 50+ seats, not 30 as I had somehow thought (I was IN seat 30...). I got myself a seat w/a barrier in front of it--great not to have a guy lean into my face, not so great to not be able to move my legs under the seat in front of me. I tried to recline, and got a tap tap from the guy in back of me. Alas, the sleeping pill got me 6 hours. Got on the slow ferry, and finally to Tangiers where there were lots of taxi drivers waiting to ask me if I needed a taxi. All I wanted was to get some cash out and hit the road for the train station. Finally found the ATM, had a couple of arguments w/a taxi driver--he wanted 6 euros for a 10 minute ride. I got one down to 2, but I think that was still on the high side (probably should have been around 1 in retrospect). I talked to a couple of Americans (see below for the simple version), and they somehow paid their driver 20 euros for the 5 minute ride from hotel to train station. Alas. Was nice that the 1st class (see 2nd class Amtrak for details) train ticket was all of $20. Finally got to Fez where EB was waiting, showered, ate, rested, ate, slept... etc etc.

finally, sleep in a real bunkbed

2007-01-15T06:25:00.000-05:00

By now it was quite windy and spitty in Dublin, and our flight was understandably delayed a bit. Not really knowing where I’d sleep the night in Madrid was a bit of a mistake on my part. I should have sucked it up and booked something from the airport—I just hate the surprise of not knowing what it is you’re getting yourself into. Instead I dealt with the surprise of where it was I’d be getting myself into. I ~~tooled~~ dragged me and my 75lbs worth of backpacks around looking for the right spot. I was without luck and ended up visiting a friend’s ex-girlfriend (longer story than I care to get into) to see if she could offer any advice. Fortune smiled and I was pointed the way of a cheap backpackers’ hostel. Shower, eat, sleep. Actually, I went with a couple of my Canadian hostel roommates, which reminds me of the question that went through my head that night—is it wrong to knowingly withhold information about a foodstuff if it’s to the betterment of one’s enjoyment of said foodstuff? Case in point: morcilla. When asked about it, I played dumb, “some kind of sausage, I think,” knowing that they’d give it a chance and like it (they did—the blood sausage was actually quite good).

Dublin, Ireland, land of beers aplenty

2007-01-14T08:02:00.000-05:00

Next thing I know I’m in Dublin. Several hours to play around, I head for Temple Bar to find a pub or two to lay my worries to rest.

Passing the Saturday market on the way, I can’t resist stopping to grab some cheese and bread to add to my already stinking collection.

I end up having some great beer at the Porterhouse, one of Dublin’s microbreweries. An awesome old-fashioned hand-pumped red ale with lots of great flavor and next to no carbonation. I’d be drinking this all the time if I could get my hands on it stateside. The eponymous Porterhouse Red and a taste of the “An Brain Blasta” followed.

Soon I was moving on to tuck into a Kilkenney (my real reason for the stopover in Dublin). One for me and one for an Irish gal back home, I was buzzed and back on my way to the airport.

leaving, on a jet plane

2007-01-13T13:22:00.000-05:00

Saying goodbye, to New York, to my apartment, to the close friends I’ve made over the past year, was the hardest part. Dealing with the delays and the weather in Chicago was easy. It always seems so easy to jet set. Aside from the logistics of finding sublettors and trying to do way too much with my last days (including a food-laden two day trip up to Montreal and back, and a day trip (yes, just a day) up to Boston and back to visit Formaggio Kitchen, Chinatown, Christina’s, Bukowski, and of course Craigie Street Bistrot (all in a day?!!!). I was imaginably frazzled and worn down by the end, and the 9am departure out of LaGuardia was anything but painless. Shannon accompanied me to the airport after I spent the morning packing away the rest of my belongings. I was frazzled (so much so that I left my beautiful cheese and ham purchases in the fridge), and we were both rather heartbroken. And so I took off.

Chicago was a bit of a disappointment. I had hoped to eat at a few places during my several-hour layover. Frontera Grill was on my to-do list, as was Lula Café and a visit to my friend BK’s sushi bar at the Fairmont. Instead, I spent a couple of hours booking Madrid restaurants and so only had an opportunity for a bite at Lula, as that’s all the timing ended up allowing. Back at the airport I had just enough time to squeeze in a shower before being the second-to-last guy on the plane. Not such a bad thing, as I was able to spot a row of 3 empty seats about halfway down the plane. With the least of hesitation I was in that middle seat, staking out the row. About ten minutes later the engines were revving and I had already popped my Ambien and laid down to sleep for the night.