I was all amped up to blog about one of my husband's newfound daily hobbies, but when I requested permission to use the topic as blog material, I was promptly yet politely refused.
He seemed to think that I would exaggerate the situation and possibly make it seem far more outlandish that it actually is.
Ummm, yeah, duh.
Not sure what else is off-limits, so moving forward I will just think twice before asking for permission. After all, I don't want to rob my readership of riveting material! But no matter, there is plethora of ridiculousness swimming around in my noggin. Instead I will avail you to the goings-on in my French class, since that is one of my new daily activities.
I can start by saying that perhaps you too have heard some sterotypes that Americans are incredibly ethno-centric people? Meaning that we primarily only care about and are knowledgeable about our own culture?
It sounds like a pretty bad thing for which to be "known," but it really is right up there with other popular generalizations such as the fact that Americans all wear brand-spanking new running shoes to walk around Paris and also were not sent the memo that a jean-on-jean outfit (I am talking to you, Texas) is actually not a good look.
Anyway, we are known for only speaking one language, assuming everyone knows how to speak English, and that the entire wolrd is up to date on all of our cultural and popular culture events du jour--even whilst we may not know squat about those of other countries. In short, this reputation is why we are unfortunately stereo-typed as being ethnocentric.
More unfortunately: you can rest assured that such stereotypes are being held intact by yours truly over here.
Proof? In class, we did this exercise on the utilization of the conditional and how to turn expressions of wish into expressions of regrets. That sounds like a snoozer, but I was actually really happy to finally know what the hexagon I could do with the conditionnel, as it has been unclear to me for approximately ten years. Anyway, in order to hammer the proper usage and construction of these expessions into our heads, we were presented with a series of six pictures, each of a different man. We were to then use the pics as inspiration to conjure up possible regrets these fellas may have had during their lives.
As a side note: it had not occurrred to me that my class might possess sexist undertones, although in retrospect, I wonder why no women were featured. I will now be on the lookout for other subtle signs of male-domination in class.
So, upon being faced with the pictures of these men, I immediately started scribbling away imagined regrets I ascribed to their lives. A little more background on the pics: there were two bald, foredboding and rotund-ish men, both wearing suits. There was a man in sports attire sweating like a hog. There was also a nearly unrecognizable representation of Prince Charles (one that I think he would be none too pleased to know was floating around French grammar classes in Paris--or anywhere, really), a shot of George W. Bush, and one of Superman.
It was only revealed to me after I suggested that one of the regrets for one of the balding men was that he did not wield more power in life, that I was notified that he was the former president of France, Jacques Chirac.
So yeah, I think being president of a country that is a major world power is sort of on the "success" map. But whatever.
Since my foot was in my mouth for a while after that gaff, I thankfully did not have to publicly admit that it had not occurred to me that featured alongside three "known" personalities (to me), must also be three known personalities.
Being an utter ignoramus, I somehow thought that the teacher had presented us with a melange of famous and unfamous folks. Not so.
The sweaty guy is apparently the most famous football player in Italy, and the other balding guy is Berlusconi, the current Prime Minister of Italy.
That said, did I mention that the girl with whom I was working on this exercise was Italian? Yeah, good thing that did not make the situation more embarassing. Why did I only recognize the two Americans and the English Royal? Though I have heard of Berlosconi and Chirac (soccer dude was out of luck--not the foggiest recollection of ever having heard of him prior), I had actually never seen pictures of them. Are you cringing at my obliviousness? I am TOTALLY ethno-centric. How sad.
Blame the media in the U.S. Or blame me.
Anyway, I am American, and I am an idiot. Et voila: my personal slogan for my life in France.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Tipping Not Toppling
You know that book, the Tipping Point? Well, when it came out, I found that it was long overdue as the author offered so many explanations for so many things regarding life in general. Reading it, I felt I was constantly saying to myself, "Yes! I get it now." Really, a great book there.
But the books overall utility is not actually why I bring it up. Rather, I recently had my own tipping point. This moment came about when I realized the following three-pronged personal situation: I have been living in France for 5 months, this is the second time in my life that I have lived in Paris, and I have 10 plus years of French classes behind me. Despite all this compiled "immersion, " I still find that my "proficiency" with the language is not actually proficient. In fact, I finally faced the music that it is sort of, what's the word? Oh yes, deplorable.
It definitely seems like a bad sign when you find yourself pointing at items in the bakery because your brain suddenly left the building with Elvis and shows no sign of returning. It is embarassing, and only made more so by the fact that the items have signs posted in front of them, indicating what they all are. Who messes up a dummy proof operation?
No need to actually answer that. I am keenly aware of currently applicable self-labels.
The crazy thing is that the whole ping pong game of "I speak French well/I speak French not so well" that I have been playing since I arrived is that it does not actually move on a forward trajectory. It is like I am stuck in French language pergatory, and never seem to make any discernible progress. Discernible regression though? Yup, I have seen promising signs of such. So at least there is movement of some kind. How encouraging.
Although, to be slightly more generous towards myself, I am also dealing with a rather wiley beast here. Being able to successfully speak French in France is dependent on a few factors panning out smoothly, all at the same time. There is this crazy equation that seems to exist. It is comprised of personal confidence + the willingness of the other party to allow you to try + the willingness of the other party to even acknowledge that you, as a non French person are actually still a human being deserving of some respect + your actual proficiency with the language. If any of these key ingredients is a tad "off" for whatever reason, well then you can expect a big fat zero in terms of your "solution."
So you know that saying: two steps forward, one step back? Well I have recently been feeling like my French progress was two steps forward, Lance Armstrong on a bicycle back.
My "tipping point" came earlier this month and I thus decided that I needed to stop pantomiming at the bakery and to take matters into my own hands. Thus, I signed up to take actual bonafide French classes.
Up to this point, I have been seeing a tutor every week. And Pierre (my aptly named French tutor), is certainly lovely. But Pierre wants to help me with my accent and to shoot the breeze. These are useful things to be certain, but I need to really tackle the foundation of the language (yet again) so that I can build up, rather than to just keep acquiring random phrases and then spitting them out at (often inopportune) moments like some sort of socially challenged borderline autistic person.
What I think I realized was that I needed was structure. So, even though I am pretty sure my tear-stained memories of public humiliation courtesy of Madame Robino, Madame Jordan, and Madame Polyenko are at peast partially responsible for the post traumatic stress disorder I was treated for in the early 2000's, I knew that the time had come to face my nemesis.
French Grammar, I am ready to fight you to the death.
Or at least ready to give you another whirl.
So I am taking a class right now that meets three times a week for three hours a day. This will go on for four weeks. After that I plan to take an evening class for two hours, two times a week, and will do that for a couple of months. If I do not understand how to utilize two pronouns correctly in one sentence by the time April arrives then I will officially be declaring myself incompetent.
And...if I can engage in brief small talk with the people at the bakery by next month without breaking into a sweat and developing a stutter, then you will be the first to know.
My tipping point will not topple; je vais le faire!
But the books overall utility is not actually why I bring it up. Rather, I recently had my own tipping point. This moment came about when I realized the following three-pronged personal situation: I have been living in France for 5 months, this is the second time in my life that I have lived in Paris, and I have 10 plus years of French classes behind me. Despite all this compiled "immersion, " I still find that my "proficiency" with the language is not actually proficient. In fact, I finally faced the music that it is sort of, what's the word? Oh yes, deplorable.
It definitely seems like a bad sign when you find yourself pointing at items in the bakery because your brain suddenly left the building with Elvis and shows no sign of returning. It is embarassing, and only made more so by the fact that the items have signs posted in front of them, indicating what they all are. Who messes up a dummy proof operation?
No need to actually answer that. I am keenly aware of currently applicable self-labels.
The crazy thing is that the whole ping pong game of "I speak French well/I speak French not so well" that I have been playing since I arrived is that it does not actually move on a forward trajectory. It is like I am stuck in French language pergatory, and never seem to make any discernible progress. Discernible regression though? Yup, I have seen promising signs of such. So at least there is movement of some kind. How encouraging.
Although, to be slightly more generous towards myself, I am also dealing with a rather wiley beast here. Being able to successfully speak French in France is dependent on a few factors panning out smoothly, all at the same time. There is this crazy equation that seems to exist. It is comprised of personal confidence + the willingness of the other party to allow you to try + the willingness of the other party to even acknowledge that you, as a non French person are actually still a human being deserving of some respect + your actual proficiency with the language. If any of these key ingredients is a tad "off" for whatever reason, well then you can expect a big fat zero in terms of your "solution."
So you know that saying: two steps forward, one step back? Well I have recently been feeling like my French progress was two steps forward, Lance Armstrong on a bicycle back.
My "tipping point" came earlier this month and I thus decided that I needed to stop pantomiming at the bakery and to take matters into my own hands. Thus, I signed up to take actual bonafide French classes.
Up to this point, I have been seeing a tutor every week. And Pierre (my aptly named French tutor), is certainly lovely. But Pierre wants to help me with my accent and to shoot the breeze. These are useful things to be certain, but I need to really tackle the foundation of the language (yet again) so that I can build up, rather than to just keep acquiring random phrases and then spitting them out at (often inopportune) moments like some sort of socially challenged borderline autistic person.
What I think I realized was that I needed was structure. So, even though I am pretty sure my tear-stained memories of public humiliation courtesy of Madame Robino, Madame Jordan, and Madame Polyenko are at peast partially responsible for the post traumatic stress disorder I was treated for in the early 2000's, I knew that the time had come to face my nemesis.
French Grammar, I am ready to fight you to the death.
Or at least ready to give you another whirl.
So I am taking a class right now that meets three times a week for three hours a day. This will go on for four weeks. After that I plan to take an evening class for two hours, two times a week, and will do that for a couple of months. If I do not understand how to utilize two pronouns correctly in one sentence by the time April arrives then I will officially be declaring myself incompetent.
And...if I can engage in brief small talk with the people at the bakery by next month without breaking into a sweat and developing a stutter, then you will be the first to know.
My tipping point will not topple; je vais le faire!
Saturday, January 22, 2011
Final Note on the Food from the Recent Trip
Something that surprised me a bit was that the food in Prague was really amazing. Not so much the pastries, but since my pants still fit post-vacances, I am sort of grateful that everywhere we visited did not have outrageous baked goods.
I will say that finding lovely vegetables in Vienna in the winter was not a hugely successful mission. One thing about the French, they are meticulous about produce. Even though they love their meat and poultry, and are happy to have the protein take center stage, they would never stand for sub-par vegetable accompaniments. As such, the mushy broccoli and the wilted lettuce that sadly accompanied some the schnitzels and wieners in Vienna would have given a French person serious pause.
However, the saurkraut was good. That is a vegetable, right?
But in Prague, we really ate at some delicious restaurants that seemed to be wholly committed to freshness. For some reason, I found this doscovery to be a pleasant surprise. Memories of my prior trip conjures up meals that were heavy on the beer and french fries. Although I was 21, so maybe that had more to do with my dietary proclivities at the time than with the regional offerings available.
I wish I could tell you the names of the places at which we ate, but as my command of the Slavic tongue is abysmal, the names just did not stick with me. They were both recommended by our very nice concierge at the Hotel Imperial, where we stayed.
The first dinner we enjoyed was at a gorgeous little place, tucked away on a side street near the Charles Bridge. One whole wall of the restaurant was made of horizontally stacked books--pages facing in. It was really original (to me) and, as a voracious reader, I just loved it. They offered us an amuse-bouche of potao leek soup, and a bread basket wth four types of bread (a dark seeded rye, a fluffy sharp-cheese flavored roll, a sourdough crusty, and a brioche-type roll). We both had salad for appetizers--mine was rocket with thinly sliced pears and hazlenuts, accompanied by large hunks of the most creamy gorgonzola, and drizzled with basil pesto. I would not have imagined basil pesto would work on that salad, but it was so good. My husband had a barrata cheese (like mozzarella in flavor, but fluffier) and oven-dried tomatoes over mixed greens. He had lamb that literally fell from the bone which was accompanied by a cucumber relish and veggies, and I had salmon with a shitake mushroom butter sauce. My obsession with butter aside, I was actually a tad skeptical about this sauce on salmon. But, my word, let me say that it was heavenly. They brought a sampling tray of tiny desserts, none of which were too impressive, though the carrot cake with white chocolate icing was quite decent.
The next night we ate at a place that seemed to be in the 'hood. At least the road was bereft of other humans, but it was conveniently right behind our hotel. We were really cold, so it seemed that the potential for being mugged was less consequential than finding a reliable source of heat STAT.
The restaurant turned out to be this barn-like place and was very charming and rustic once inside--shabby-chic decor with a roaring fire going. I had a salmon tartare with a tomato pistou and my husband had beef carpaccio with rocket which was dotted with large semi-soft croutons to start. Then he had rabbit (sorry, Amanda!) topped with this potato-stick like web, fried bacon (only a small quantity of that so I think his arteries survived), atop a roasted tomato sauce and a mound of potato celery puree. I had a grilled goat cheese under a nutty crust accompanied by a mint, pear, and mixed green salad. The only disappointing part of that meal was the creme brulee we ordered for dessert. The top was burnt sugar perfection, but the "creme" below was a thick, grainy custard that was just not delicious. Oh, and he had a Pilsner Urquel and I had a Czech wine--pretty good, but maybe a tad too sweet.
Don't you love how critical I am? Like do I think I am Emeril or something?
We also ate at a "typical" Czech place for lunch one day, but I was not exactly adventurous with their native cuisine. The suggestion was to try the traditional dish of "goulash" but since no one could tell me exactly what was in this mysterious goulash, I steered clear. Sorry to disappoint those people on the edge of their seats to hear the goulash review.
The biggest surprise for me was that we were able to eat this amazing food at pretty decent prices. True, Prague is not the cheap place it was ten-15 years ago, but to eat as well as we did in Paris would have meant foregoing heat and internet for three months in order to pay for the resto bills. And the freshness of the food was just amazing to me, but maybe I was nust naive in my expectations.
In terms of what we ate in Berlin and Amsterdam, we had some pretty scrumptious meals in those cities too. A particular standout was an Italian place in Amsterdam called Casa di David--the spaghetti carbonara rivals that made by our friend Vince (who makes incredible Italian food as he lives in Rome and is a great cook), and the atmosphere and service is amazing. It is located on Singel 426, right on a canal. Even despite the ridiculously rude guy from Jersey (note to Phil: you are a deplorable dining neighbor and calling the Italian waiter "Giuseppe" was not funny) who presided over the table next to us, we just loved the place.
In Berlin, we really liked this place called Kaffee Mitte (near the Weinermeister Strasse) which had incredible coffee, desserts, sandwiches and salads. The clientele was this artsy mix of locals of all ages. It had this really great coffee-house energy, yet it somehow avoided having that granola-y, "you can only really feel like you belong in here if you wear hemp and hack" vibe. I loved it and I sort of wanted to move in.
Except then I would have to live in Berlin, and such an idea receives a definite "No way, Jose!" from this duck.
To wrap this series of riveting food-intake up, we are trying to try as many "local" places as we can. And we try to eat and drink things that are typical of the regions we visit (obviously, we are not successful at this endeavor all the time), and I have to say that leaving the food of Paris had me nervous about the prospect of finding other cuisine that I would enjoy as much. But we really ate some delectable food in some unexpected locales.
We are going to Bruges in a couple of weeks. As you can imagine, I have one thing, and one thing only, on my mind regarding that trip: Belgian chocolate. Yes, please.
I will say that finding lovely vegetables in Vienna in the winter was not a hugely successful mission. One thing about the French, they are meticulous about produce. Even though they love their meat and poultry, and are happy to have the protein take center stage, they would never stand for sub-par vegetable accompaniments. As such, the mushy broccoli and the wilted lettuce that sadly accompanied some the schnitzels and wieners in Vienna would have given a French person serious pause.
However, the saurkraut was good. That is a vegetable, right?
But in Prague, we really ate at some delicious restaurants that seemed to be wholly committed to freshness. For some reason, I found this doscovery to be a pleasant surprise. Memories of my prior trip conjures up meals that were heavy on the beer and french fries. Although I was 21, so maybe that had more to do with my dietary proclivities at the time than with the regional offerings available.
I wish I could tell you the names of the places at which we ate, but as my command of the Slavic tongue is abysmal, the names just did not stick with me. They were both recommended by our very nice concierge at the Hotel Imperial, where we stayed.
The first dinner we enjoyed was at a gorgeous little place, tucked away on a side street near the Charles Bridge. One whole wall of the restaurant was made of horizontally stacked books--pages facing in. It was really original (to me) and, as a voracious reader, I just loved it. They offered us an amuse-bouche of potao leek soup, and a bread basket wth four types of bread (a dark seeded rye, a fluffy sharp-cheese flavored roll, a sourdough crusty, and a brioche-type roll). We both had salad for appetizers--mine was rocket with thinly sliced pears and hazlenuts, accompanied by large hunks of the most creamy gorgonzola, and drizzled with basil pesto. I would not have imagined basil pesto would work on that salad, but it was so good. My husband had a barrata cheese (like mozzarella in flavor, but fluffier) and oven-dried tomatoes over mixed greens. He had lamb that literally fell from the bone which was accompanied by a cucumber relish and veggies, and I had salmon with a shitake mushroom butter sauce. My obsession with butter aside, I was actually a tad skeptical about this sauce on salmon. But, my word, let me say that it was heavenly. They brought a sampling tray of tiny desserts, none of which were too impressive, though the carrot cake with white chocolate icing was quite decent.
The next night we ate at a place that seemed to be in the 'hood. At least the road was bereft of other humans, but it was conveniently right behind our hotel. We were really cold, so it seemed that the potential for being mugged was less consequential than finding a reliable source of heat STAT.
The restaurant turned out to be this barn-like place and was very charming and rustic once inside--shabby-chic decor with a roaring fire going. I had a salmon tartare with a tomato pistou and my husband had beef carpaccio with rocket which was dotted with large semi-soft croutons to start. Then he had rabbit (sorry, Amanda!) topped with this potato-stick like web, fried bacon (only a small quantity of that so I think his arteries survived), atop a roasted tomato sauce and a mound of potato celery puree. I had a grilled goat cheese under a nutty crust accompanied by a mint, pear, and mixed green salad. The only disappointing part of that meal was the creme brulee we ordered for dessert. The top was burnt sugar perfection, but the "creme" below was a thick, grainy custard that was just not delicious. Oh, and he had a Pilsner Urquel and I had a Czech wine--pretty good, but maybe a tad too sweet.
Don't you love how critical I am? Like do I think I am Emeril or something?
We also ate at a "typical" Czech place for lunch one day, but I was not exactly adventurous with their native cuisine. The suggestion was to try the traditional dish of "goulash" but since no one could tell me exactly what was in this mysterious goulash, I steered clear. Sorry to disappoint those people on the edge of their seats to hear the goulash review.
The biggest surprise for me was that we were able to eat this amazing food at pretty decent prices. True, Prague is not the cheap place it was ten-15 years ago, but to eat as well as we did in Paris would have meant foregoing heat and internet for three months in order to pay for the resto bills. And the freshness of the food was just amazing to me, but maybe I was nust naive in my expectations.
In terms of what we ate in Berlin and Amsterdam, we had some pretty scrumptious meals in those cities too. A particular standout was an Italian place in Amsterdam called Casa di David--the spaghetti carbonara rivals that made by our friend Vince (who makes incredible Italian food as he lives in Rome and is a great cook), and the atmosphere and service is amazing. It is located on Singel 426, right on a canal. Even despite the ridiculously rude guy from Jersey (note to Phil: you are a deplorable dining neighbor and calling the Italian waiter "Giuseppe" was not funny) who presided over the table next to us, we just loved the place.
In Berlin, we really liked this place called Kaffee Mitte (near the Weinermeister Strasse) which had incredible coffee, desserts, sandwiches and salads. The clientele was this artsy mix of locals of all ages. It had this really great coffee-house energy, yet it somehow avoided having that granola-y, "you can only really feel like you belong in here if you wear hemp and hack" vibe. I loved it and I sort of wanted to move in.
Except then I would have to live in Berlin, and such an idea receives a definite "No way, Jose!" from this duck.
To wrap this series of riveting food-intake up, we are trying to try as many "local" places as we can. And we try to eat and drink things that are typical of the regions we visit (obviously, we are not successful at this endeavor all the time), and I have to say that leaving the food of Paris had me nervous about the prospect of finding other cuisine that I would enjoy as much. But we really ate some delectable food in some unexpected locales.
We are going to Bruges in a couple of weeks. As you can imagine, I have one thing, and one thing only, on my mind regarding that trip: Belgian chocolate. Yes, please.
Friday, January 21, 2011
Viennese Pastries
Now that I am back in Paris, and up to my ears in butter, I have sort of neglected finishing my description (diatribe?) of the food experiences we had while in the other cities we recently visited. In case you have not been keeping up, these just-visited places were Vienna, Prague, Berlin, and Amsterdam.
It seems important here and now to reiterate my self-assigned status as a pastry afficionado. Holding such an esteemed/imaginary position means that is becoming increasingly more difficult to impress me with buttery, sugary, chocolatey treats.
That is not to say that I am not quick to indulge. It is just that wowing me is a mite more difficile than it used to be. I swear that I can tell now if sub-par butter is being used in croissants. You may sit there thinking, "Umm, isn't butter just butter? How can butter be low-quality?"
I hear you. I, too, was once naive.
Anyway, my point is that the pastries in Vienna impressed me. I had suspicions that such a delightful occurence could take place, but my hopes were not TOO high. After all, the baked goodness that used to have me practically keeling over in delight and wonder now seem simply "adequate." And yet, in Vienna, I was definitely impressed.
I think pigs might be flying out my window right now.
We ate at a great cafe in the center of Vienna, aptly named "Cafe Central." It felt like we were in movie scene that was plucked out of the 1940's, and we loved it in there. The food was beautiful and delicious and the pastries were INCREDIBLE. I had this Almond Mousse cake that was held together by two praline-y lacey type cookies. I have to say that I had never eaten anything like it before, and that alone was pretty darn neat. It was a thick almond mousse with a stream of soft meringue running through it. The cookies were not overly sweet, and they provided a really lovely crunch to the whole shabang. I also tried acouple of their milk-y yummy chocolates. Accompanied by a cafe Melange (the Viennese version of the French "Creme"), it was sublime.
My husband, after having a hearty bowl of soup for lunch, decided he was not hungry for dessert. When such blasphemous utterances emanate from his lips, I seriously marvel at our differences.
We also ate at the famous Cafe Demel (the Viennese version of Laduree--see previous post for description). It had amazing whimsical decor, and huge floor to ceiling windows that allowed those dining in the cafe to observe the artisans/bakers at work in the industrial-sized kitchen. Just seeing the tools they used to create the fillings was an amazing enough activity. When I went to woodworking school, I had about a tenth of as many little gadgety-type tools. So cool.
Anyway, we learned from our walking tour guide that "No Viennese would ever eat there," as it is both over-priced and touristy, but we were tourists and what else are we good for if not to erroneously overspend at the places designed to ensnare us?
But this place was worth it! Not only did we have a "free" show by watching the bakers at work, but we also were able to visit their "mueum" in the basement, and also peruse the cases of cakes and treats on display. We ate an Apfel strudel and a Schaumroll (the former was apple strudel in cake form and the latter was a thick pastry shell piped with delectable cream). Evidently, by the way, the thing to order there is the "sourcake," but sour cream is one of those things I find really grodie, so none of that for this bird.
Also worth noting is that the croissants in Vienna taste different from those in Paris. Much less flaky (has to do with both butter content and how much handling the dough endures, if my pastry classes of a few years ago taught me correctly), and also the filling for the choclate croissants is different. For example, a pain au chocolat in France is a pouch of croissant containing a small quantity of almost-crunchy nubs of 70% dark chocolate. A little goes a long way. The chocolate croissants in Vienna are crescent shaped (by the way, the croissant actually originated in Vienna, not in France, can you stand that?) and are filled with a much more generous, softer, and creamier portion of milkier chocolate. Also, they are often dipped in chocolate or iced with chocolate on top--something the French would never deign to do, as I imagine it would ruin the integrity of the croissant itself. Mais non, mon Dieu!
Both versions are delicious, by the way.
So I tried a few cookies too, but as we were only in Vienna for three days and since the acquisition of type-2 diabetes was not a personal goal, I was not able to try all that I might have wanted to had we had more time. Maybe another trip is necessary--I mean my esteemed position does require me to be an expert, after all.
It seems important here and now to reiterate my self-assigned status as a pastry afficionado. Holding such an esteemed/imaginary position means that is becoming increasingly more difficult to impress me with buttery, sugary, chocolatey treats.
That is not to say that I am not quick to indulge. It is just that wowing me is a mite more difficile than it used to be. I swear that I can tell now if sub-par butter is being used in croissants. You may sit there thinking, "Umm, isn't butter just butter? How can butter be low-quality?"
I hear you. I, too, was once naive.
Anyway, my point is that the pastries in Vienna impressed me. I had suspicions that such a delightful occurence could take place, but my hopes were not TOO high. After all, the baked goodness that used to have me practically keeling over in delight and wonder now seem simply "adequate." And yet, in Vienna, I was definitely impressed.
I think pigs might be flying out my window right now.
We ate at a great cafe in the center of Vienna, aptly named "Cafe Central." It felt like we were in movie scene that was plucked out of the 1940's, and we loved it in there. The food was beautiful and delicious and the pastries were INCREDIBLE. I had this Almond Mousse cake that was held together by two praline-y lacey type cookies. I have to say that I had never eaten anything like it before, and that alone was pretty darn neat. It was a thick almond mousse with a stream of soft meringue running through it. The cookies were not overly sweet, and they provided a really lovely crunch to the whole shabang. I also tried acouple of their milk-y yummy chocolates. Accompanied by a cafe Melange (the Viennese version of the French "Creme"), it was sublime.
My husband, after having a hearty bowl of soup for lunch, decided he was not hungry for dessert. When such blasphemous utterances emanate from his lips, I seriously marvel at our differences.
We also ate at the famous Cafe Demel (the Viennese version of Laduree--see previous post for description). It had amazing whimsical decor, and huge floor to ceiling windows that allowed those dining in the cafe to observe the artisans/bakers at work in the industrial-sized kitchen. Just seeing the tools they used to create the fillings was an amazing enough activity. When I went to woodworking school, I had about a tenth of as many little gadgety-type tools. So cool.
Anyway, we learned from our walking tour guide that "No Viennese would ever eat there," as it is both over-priced and touristy, but we were tourists and what else are we good for if not to erroneously overspend at the places designed to ensnare us?
But this place was worth it! Not only did we have a "free" show by watching the bakers at work, but we also were able to visit their "mueum" in the basement, and also peruse the cases of cakes and treats on display. We ate an Apfel strudel and a Schaumroll (the former was apple strudel in cake form and the latter was a thick pastry shell piped with delectable cream). Evidently, by the way, the thing to order there is the "sourcake," but sour cream is one of those things I find really grodie, so none of that for this bird.
Also worth noting is that the croissants in Vienna taste different from those in Paris. Much less flaky (has to do with both butter content and how much handling the dough endures, if my pastry classes of a few years ago taught me correctly), and also the filling for the choclate croissants is different. For example, a pain au chocolat in France is a pouch of croissant containing a small quantity of almost-crunchy nubs of 70% dark chocolate. A little goes a long way. The chocolate croissants in Vienna are crescent shaped (by the way, the croissant actually originated in Vienna, not in France, can you stand that?) and are filled with a much more generous, softer, and creamier portion of milkier chocolate. Also, they are often dipped in chocolate or iced with chocolate on top--something the French would never deign to do, as I imagine it would ruin the integrity of the croissant itself. Mais non, mon Dieu!
Both versions are delicious, by the way.
So I tried a few cookies too, but as we were only in Vienna for three days and since the acquisition of type-2 diabetes was not a personal goal, I was not able to try all that I might have wanted to had we had more time. Maybe another trip is necessary--I mean my esteemed position does require me to be an expert, after all.
Sunday, January 16, 2011
Adventure in Dining, Episode #148
One night in Vienna, because we were Bobby-and-Greg-Brady-locked-in-Sam-the-butcher's-freezer cold, a lengthy exploratory walk to find a restaurant was absolutely out of the question. Proximity to the apartment were we stayed was crucial and it happened that the places we found tended away from "typical" Viennese fare. So, we wound up at an Italian place. No arguments here, I love Italian food (in my blood, though my freckly-pale complexion hardly gives that away).
We were really excited because we saw some people eating a scrummy looking pizza when we walked in--of the brick oven variety. So we sat down to look over the menu and ordered a couple of aperatifs. We then decide on two mixed salads and a pizza to share; buffalo mozzarella, porcini mushrooms, and tomatoes.
Half-way through our salads, the waitress comes over to our table to tell us that the chef made a mistake and he cooked two orders of something else in the kitchen. Can she bring that over?
My husband was good naturedly nodding and smiling at her, though I suspect her thick accent and her combo German/English with Italian influences just had him utterly confused. I was somewhat concerned; would this new dish be in lieu of our pizza? In addition to it? I felt I needed more information before going along with this change of events, so I asked her what the other dish exactly was. She made some ridiculous hand gestures and tried to tell us. In German.
We were all obviously confused by the pantomimes (even her), so she then collected herself and made the group decision. She said: "I will bring it. You will like it. You will eat it." And off she went.
We replayed the scenario a few times amongst ourselves. Ultimately, we decided that whatever she was bringing had to be at least similar to our original order. We laughed thinking of the things she could bring. What if it was rack of lamb or something?
Impossible was our assessment of that possibility.
So then she marches over with a huge plate of linguine with clam sauce. Plopping it down, she informs us of how lucky we are because this "special dish" is better than what we had ordered. In my confusion, I looked at her and asked, "So there is no pizza?"
"No pizza tonight. Pizza another night!" She was so terribly pleased, we did not know what to do.
Anyway, the linguine with clam sauce was great actually. Not what we had in mind, but delicious nonetheless. The funny part was when she brought the bill--still bearing our original order. So she hand-crossed the pizza out and wrote in the name of the other dish and added 40 centimes.
What? I mean if you are that concerned about 40 centimes, wouldn't you change the order in the computer system? We do not get what we ask for and then we have to pay extra for it? Is anyone else feeling confused?
We chalked it up to another cultural experience. I mean this whole scenario never would have happened in America. For one thing, any restaurant that failed to bring you what you ordered from the menu they provided would likely comp the dish, if not the entire meal. For another, a lawsuit might have been pending.
But not in Vienna. The whole exchange reminded me of other meals I have had in both Germany and Austria--where the waiter/server tells you what you will eat rather than asking you what you would like. It is not actually as imposing as it sounds, although it can be quite jarring. I think it is intended as a friendly, helpful thing. But to people who are used to selecting their own meals when paying to dine out, it can be a tad disorienting/upsetting to be shouted at as to what you will be consuming.
And this experience certainly echoed prior ones. As in: We will tell you want you want. You will eat it. But no rules will be broken; you will pay for what you ate, no matter if you wanted it or not. Kind of like when they bring that basket of soft pretzels to the table and at the end of the meal you realized you were charged for what you deemed to be a complimentary offering.
Neither party is in the "right," just shows that there are so many ways intercultural differences can be displayed.
Nonetheless, we left the restuarant, still feeling like we missed some joke. Our waitress bid us a hearty and happy adieu: "You like the food! We will see you again!"
Pretty big on turning questions into assertions. But at least they are happy about it--you have to give them that.
We were really excited because we saw some people eating a scrummy looking pizza when we walked in--of the brick oven variety. So we sat down to look over the menu and ordered a couple of aperatifs. We then decide on two mixed salads and a pizza to share; buffalo mozzarella, porcini mushrooms, and tomatoes.
Half-way through our salads, the waitress comes over to our table to tell us that the chef made a mistake and he cooked two orders of something else in the kitchen. Can she bring that over?
My husband was good naturedly nodding and smiling at her, though I suspect her thick accent and her combo German/English with Italian influences just had him utterly confused. I was somewhat concerned; would this new dish be in lieu of our pizza? In addition to it? I felt I needed more information before going along with this change of events, so I asked her what the other dish exactly was. She made some ridiculous hand gestures and tried to tell us. In German.
We were all obviously confused by the pantomimes (even her), so she then collected herself and made the group decision. She said: "I will bring it. You will like it. You will eat it." And off she went.
We replayed the scenario a few times amongst ourselves. Ultimately, we decided that whatever she was bringing had to be at least similar to our original order. We laughed thinking of the things she could bring. What if it was rack of lamb or something?
Impossible was our assessment of that possibility.
So then she marches over with a huge plate of linguine with clam sauce. Plopping it down, she informs us of how lucky we are because this "special dish" is better than what we had ordered. In my confusion, I looked at her and asked, "So there is no pizza?"
"No pizza tonight. Pizza another night!" She was so terribly pleased, we did not know what to do.
Anyway, the linguine with clam sauce was great actually. Not what we had in mind, but delicious nonetheless. The funny part was when she brought the bill--still bearing our original order. So she hand-crossed the pizza out and wrote in the name of the other dish and added 40 centimes.
What? I mean if you are that concerned about 40 centimes, wouldn't you change the order in the computer system? We do not get what we ask for and then we have to pay extra for it? Is anyone else feeling confused?
We chalked it up to another cultural experience. I mean this whole scenario never would have happened in America. For one thing, any restaurant that failed to bring you what you ordered from the menu they provided would likely comp the dish, if not the entire meal. For another, a lawsuit might have been pending.
But not in Vienna. The whole exchange reminded me of other meals I have had in both Germany and Austria--where the waiter/server tells you what you will eat rather than asking you what you would like. It is not actually as imposing as it sounds, although it can be quite jarring. I think it is intended as a friendly, helpful thing. But to people who are used to selecting their own meals when paying to dine out, it can be a tad disorienting/upsetting to be shouted at as to what you will be consuming.
And this experience certainly echoed prior ones. As in: We will tell you want you want. You will eat it. But no rules will be broken; you will pay for what you ate, no matter if you wanted it or not. Kind of like when they bring that basket of soft pretzels to the table and at the end of the meal you realized you were charged for what you deemed to be a complimentary offering.
Neither party is in the "right," just shows that there are so many ways intercultural differences can be displayed.
Nonetheless, we left the restuarant, still feeling like we missed some joke. Our waitress bid us a hearty and happy adieu: "You like the food! We will see you again!"
Pretty big on turning questions into assertions. But at least they are happy about it--you have to give them that.
Vacances d'Hiver--What We Did
Besides formulating comparisons of the cities we visited, we had a lot of fun exploring them as well. In Vienna, we visited the Hapsburg Palace, seeing both the extensive china collection and the royal apartments. As a result of this visit, I am now obsessed with the Empress Elizabeth and feel I must read a biography on her. She was this tragic beautiful recluse who was an amazing horse-back rider and accidentally wound up marrying the emperor Franz-Josef because he was meant to marry her older sister and when the families met he saw Elizabeth and fell for her on the spot (not sure what happened to the older sister or how well she handled that unexpected change of events). Also interesting to note is that this Empress had hair down to her ankles that took an entire DAY to wash and her shampoo was a concoction of cognac and egg yolk.
And I sometimes think my beauty rituals are too complicated.
Anyway her whole life sounded really mysterious and tortured and glamourous and tragic. Really, when the writers for the Tudors run out of material, they ought to consider a series on the Hapsburgs.
We also visited the Albertina museum, where they had amazing exhibits on Picasso and Michelangelo. We had a freezing, but fabulous walking tour of the city where I had considerable trouble concentrating due to a combination of brain freeze and my preoccupation with the fact that our guide had gloves with her the whole time, yet she never put them on. She held them in her hand. Was she human? It was negative five hundred out there in Siberia/Vienna.
One evening, we went to a Mozart concert in a castle, where a six piece musical ensemble played while ballet dancers in period costumes acted out the scenes. This show was not amongst my husband's favorite activities of all time, but we followed it up with a visit to a bierhaus, where we drank hearty steins of beer and that definitely was among his favorite activities. My beer, by the way, was called Wiener-Helles. Such information seems important to share.
In Vienna, we also climbed St. Stephen's cathedral, which is a gorgeous landmark in the city center. Actually "we" is a bit of an exaggeration. I made it almost all the way up the close to 400 steps when we came to a plexi-glass catwalk. Obviously, I started sweating profusely and had to show myself down before having a full-blown panic attack due to my fear of heights. Grace Vaughn might remember that move from the failed St. Peters climb in Munich.
What else did we do in Vienna? Well, we ate a lot. More on that to come...
In Prague, we wandered around a good bit on our own, since it is possible to do that quite easily without becoming lost or having to use public transportation. We took a four hour walking tour which, admittedly, sounds pretty aggressive. But it was much more of an amble than it was a walk. And the most arduous portion of the tour, the climb to the Prague Castle across the river from the old town, was accomplished via bus. It was a great tour, and gave us a real sense of the city's history and story (thank you for the recommendation, Ellie). Our guide was fantastically informative and also very much "all business." She was an enigma too, because it was nearly impossible to guess her age, though I accidentally found out during a conversation about education we had. My husband thought she was in her 40's, yet when I told him that she was in her early twenties, he was only mildly surprised. Weird how some people seem neither young nor old, yet seem both at the same time too.
The things you learn in foreign countries!
Anyway...we ate a lot in Prague too. Amazing restaurants.
In Berlin, we gave ourselves two walking tours: one of West Berlin, where we were staying, and one of East Berlin. These tours were abetted by our super friendly bartender from our hotel who gave us a lot of information on the city and what to do and see. On the west side, we visited the Berliner Dom (the Berlin Cathedral which is one of my husband's favorite sites in Europe thus far), saw the Lindenburg Gate, visited the Holocaust memorial, saw remnants of the old wall, and went to the Jewish Museum. On the east side, we saw the largest department store in the world and went to a great Helmut Newton photography exhibit.
We ate a lot in Berlin too.
In Amsterdam, I mentioned some of what we did in my last blog post, but it was amazing to see the house where Anne Frank and her family hid for two years. I had been there before, but I think the impact of the situation does not lessen with subsequent visits. It was incredible and emotional to see. The Van Gogh Museum was so impressive if you are a Van Gogh fan, or maybe even if you are not. They provided a lot of details about his evolution as a person and as an artist, and about his psychological demons. It was really informative to learn about the stages of his life as you witnessed the evolution of his brief artistic career.
Walking through the red light district proved a stark contrast to the beauty and refinement of the city outside of that arena--the area where we stayed. It is obviously somewhat seedy and seeing almost naked women in the windows really raised my hackles as a female and as a feminist. But, on the other hand, this city is fascintaing in a way because it does not really hide its underbelly. The "soft" drugs happen out in the open, and the sex for sale is even more blatant. I suppose these things happen in every city and town across the world, in one form or another, so there is something to be said for it not being hiddden.
And, as I said, we loved Amsterdam. It is gorgeous and quirky and lively and fun. We ate a lot there too. Duh.
So my next blog will likely focus on my fave topic: food. But the trip was great--we mixed planes and trains and tried to walk as much as we could, not only to work off the food we ate, but also as a means of really seeing the cities. It is overwhelming to see so much in such a short time, but in a great way. Allows you to see other perspectives on life and living and also gives you a new appreciation for all you have. Like nice shampoo, for example.
Among other things. Food talk to come...
And I sometimes think my beauty rituals are too complicated.
Anyway her whole life sounded really mysterious and tortured and glamourous and tragic. Really, when the writers for the Tudors run out of material, they ought to consider a series on the Hapsburgs.
We also visited the Albertina museum, where they had amazing exhibits on Picasso and Michelangelo. We had a freezing, but fabulous walking tour of the city where I had considerable trouble concentrating due to a combination of brain freeze and my preoccupation with the fact that our guide had gloves with her the whole time, yet she never put them on. She held them in her hand. Was she human? It was negative five hundred out there in Siberia/Vienna.
One evening, we went to a Mozart concert in a castle, where a six piece musical ensemble played while ballet dancers in period costumes acted out the scenes. This show was not amongst my husband's favorite activities of all time, but we followed it up with a visit to a bierhaus, where we drank hearty steins of beer and that definitely was among his favorite activities. My beer, by the way, was called Wiener-Helles. Such information seems important to share.
In Vienna, we also climbed St. Stephen's cathedral, which is a gorgeous landmark in the city center. Actually "we" is a bit of an exaggeration. I made it almost all the way up the close to 400 steps when we came to a plexi-glass catwalk. Obviously, I started sweating profusely and had to show myself down before having a full-blown panic attack due to my fear of heights. Grace Vaughn might remember that move from the failed St. Peters climb in Munich.
What else did we do in Vienna? Well, we ate a lot. More on that to come...
In Prague, we wandered around a good bit on our own, since it is possible to do that quite easily without becoming lost or having to use public transportation. We took a four hour walking tour which, admittedly, sounds pretty aggressive. But it was much more of an amble than it was a walk. And the most arduous portion of the tour, the climb to the Prague Castle across the river from the old town, was accomplished via bus. It was a great tour, and gave us a real sense of the city's history and story (thank you for the recommendation, Ellie). Our guide was fantastically informative and also very much "all business." She was an enigma too, because it was nearly impossible to guess her age, though I accidentally found out during a conversation about education we had. My husband thought she was in her 40's, yet when I told him that she was in her early twenties, he was only mildly surprised. Weird how some people seem neither young nor old, yet seem both at the same time too.
The things you learn in foreign countries!
Anyway...we ate a lot in Prague too. Amazing restaurants.
In Berlin, we gave ourselves two walking tours: one of West Berlin, where we were staying, and one of East Berlin. These tours were abetted by our super friendly bartender from our hotel who gave us a lot of information on the city and what to do and see. On the west side, we visited the Berliner Dom (the Berlin Cathedral which is one of my husband's favorite sites in Europe thus far), saw the Lindenburg Gate, visited the Holocaust memorial, saw remnants of the old wall, and went to the Jewish Museum. On the east side, we saw the largest department store in the world and went to a great Helmut Newton photography exhibit.
We ate a lot in Berlin too.
In Amsterdam, I mentioned some of what we did in my last blog post, but it was amazing to see the house where Anne Frank and her family hid for two years. I had been there before, but I think the impact of the situation does not lessen with subsequent visits. It was incredible and emotional to see. The Van Gogh Museum was so impressive if you are a Van Gogh fan, or maybe even if you are not. They provided a lot of details about his evolution as a person and as an artist, and about his psychological demons. It was really informative to learn about the stages of his life as you witnessed the evolution of his brief artistic career.
Walking through the red light district proved a stark contrast to the beauty and refinement of the city outside of that arena--the area where we stayed. It is obviously somewhat seedy and seeing almost naked women in the windows really raised my hackles as a female and as a feminist. But, on the other hand, this city is fascintaing in a way because it does not really hide its underbelly. The "soft" drugs happen out in the open, and the sex for sale is even more blatant. I suppose these things happen in every city and town across the world, in one form or another, so there is something to be said for it not being hiddden.
And, as I said, we loved Amsterdam. It is gorgeous and quirky and lively and fun. We ate a lot there too. Duh.
So my next blog will likely focus on my fave topic: food. But the trip was great--we mixed planes and trains and tried to walk as much as we could, not only to work off the food we ate, but also as a means of really seeing the cities. It is overwhelming to see so much in such a short time, but in a great way. Allows you to see other perspectives on life and living and also gives you a new appreciation for all you have. Like nice shampoo, for example.
Among other things. Food talk to come...
Saturday, January 15, 2011
Vacances d'Hiver--Comparing Cities
Aside from butter, cheese, and cross dispositions, another thing that is to be found in abundance in France is vacation days. Doing our part to assimilate into the culture, we decided that my long break between semesters warranted a little traveling. As such, we just returned from a ten day "vacances d'hiver."
Since one of our subliminal goals for 2011 is evidently the acquisition of frostbite, we opted not for the sunny Riviera, but instead for the frigidly freezing climates of Vienna, Prague, Berlin, and Amsterdam. Actually, only the first two were really fingernail-splitting cold, but none were warm. Warmth was not on the agenda here.
Coldness aside, being able to see so many different places in such a short time was amazing, and a tangible reminder that it really does seem as though we have the world at our fingertips just by living in Paris.
We just may no longer have our fingertips since circulation to the extremities seems to be the first to go in the cold. Toes? Who needs toes?
So...about the cities--two of which I have actually visited before (Prague and Amsterdam, but both were about twelve years ago), and two of which were entirely new to me (Vienna and Berlin). Vienna was serene, pristine, and fairy-tale lovely. It reminded me of Paris, only cleaner and smaller, with more castles. The people were friendly and warm. They were also, on the whole, very Catholic. In fact while we were there, one day virtually every shop was closed due to the celebration of a Catholic holiday. I remembered this oft-closing down due to Catholic holidays this (lapsed) Catholic never heard of from the time I spent in Salzburg a couple of years ago. The bummer in Vienna is that no one wore lederhosen and dirndls in celebration of these (alleged) Catholic holidays the way they did in Salzburg. That seemed a shame to me; traditional dress is quite underdone, in my opinion. But the city was resplendent really; civilized and tidy and structured and beautiful.
Prague, while different, was also really friendly and welcoming. Of course maybe it seemed so since everyone spoke English. It was a bit absurd how much English was going around; it was even the only language we heard over the loud speaker in the train station. I am fairly sure less people in Miami speak English than they do in Prague.
Whatever the language of choice, there is no doubt that this city is a special place. It is an artsy amalgam of architecture, people, style, and food. It too is gorgeous, although it has a slightly less veneered quality to it than does Vienna. Whereas in Vienna you almost expect to encounter Prince Charming on his way to awaken Sleeping Beauty, in Prague, you get the feeling that real people really live there. Like all types of people, and there is a general sense of "whatever you do is great, as long as you are happy and not bothering TOO many others while you are at it." There is less of a sense that there are "right" and "wrong" ways to do things (as it seemed to me was the case in Vienna and definitely is often the case in Paris). But Prague was more free-spirited. It reminded me of Florence--only smaller and without the omnipresence of overly chatty men and religiously-inspired art.
Now Berlin was an entirely different animal. It was, on the whole, rather unbecoming. It was gritty and industrial and lacked the aesthetics of other European Cities. This news likely shocks no one, but what is more surprising (or was to me anyway) was that it was not an unlikable place. It has this palpable urban vibe that makes it seem like there is a terribly active pulse of energy and renewal thriving beneath the layers of despair and history. Still, if pressed for comparison, I would say that it reminded me of Detroit.
An absurd commparison since Berlin is (obviously) in possession of an uncontestably lengthier and more significant history (though the General Motors scandal of 2008 was huge). Also, I have never actually visited Detroit, so my comparison lacks credibility. Though I have listened to several Kid Rock songs, so I think I have the gist. But Berlin had what I imagine Detroit has--a rather complex and devoted group of inhabitants who know that the city is more than just its reputation, who might be slightly wary of the opinions of others, and who are happy with their city--nevermind what anyone else has to say.
I might be making all that up. Just sharing impressions here, not looking to incense people with these loosely formed opinions based on a couple days visitation to each of these locales; I am hardly an expert.
So that brings us to Amsterdam. You must be wondering what that city reminds me of--since it is evident that everywhere reminds me of somewhere else. Well, Amsterdam reminds me of that place Alice tumbled into when she followed the rabbit down the hole. It was all sort of vibrant and crazy, with the canals reflecting all those narrow buildings back in a fun-house mirror kind of way.
Although that could have been the drugs.
Just kidding.
Actually, we liked Amsterdam best of all. It is so gorgeous and walkable. Everyone has bikes (though no one wears helmets which I think is a tad reckless) but the city is so compact that you can walk everywhere--which we did. We visited the Anne Frank House, the Van Gogh museum, the Red Light District. Two of the aforementioned made me cry in frustration and general vexation at human nature in general.
Who knew that a sunflower still-life could ellicit such a reaction :)
Since one of our subliminal goals for 2011 is evidently the acquisition of frostbite, we opted not for the sunny Riviera, but instead for the frigidly freezing climates of Vienna, Prague, Berlin, and Amsterdam. Actually, only the first two were really fingernail-splitting cold, but none were warm. Warmth was not on the agenda here.
Coldness aside, being able to see so many different places in such a short time was amazing, and a tangible reminder that it really does seem as though we have the world at our fingertips just by living in Paris.
We just may no longer have our fingertips since circulation to the extremities seems to be the first to go in the cold. Toes? Who needs toes?
So...about the cities--two of which I have actually visited before (Prague and Amsterdam, but both were about twelve years ago), and two of which were entirely new to me (Vienna and Berlin). Vienna was serene, pristine, and fairy-tale lovely. It reminded me of Paris, only cleaner and smaller, with more castles. The people were friendly and warm. They were also, on the whole, very Catholic. In fact while we were there, one day virtually every shop was closed due to the celebration of a Catholic holiday. I remembered this oft-closing down due to Catholic holidays this (lapsed) Catholic never heard of from the time I spent in Salzburg a couple of years ago. The bummer in Vienna is that no one wore lederhosen and dirndls in celebration of these (alleged) Catholic holidays the way they did in Salzburg. That seemed a shame to me; traditional dress is quite underdone, in my opinion. But the city was resplendent really; civilized and tidy and structured and beautiful.
Prague, while different, was also really friendly and welcoming. Of course maybe it seemed so since everyone spoke English. It was a bit absurd how much English was going around; it was even the only language we heard over the loud speaker in the train station. I am fairly sure less people in Miami speak English than they do in Prague.
Whatever the language of choice, there is no doubt that this city is a special place. It is an artsy amalgam of architecture, people, style, and food. It too is gorgeous, although it has a slightly less veneered quality to it than does Vienna. Whereas in Vienna you almost expect to encounter Prince Charming on his way to awaken Sleeping Beauty, in Prague, you get the feeling that real people really live there. Like all types of people, and there is a general sense of "whatever you do is great, as long as you are happy and not bothering TOO many others while you are at it." There is less of a sense that there are "right" and "wrong" ways to do things (as it seemed to me was the case in Vienna and definitely is often the case in Paris). But Prague was more free-spirited. It reminded me of Florence--only smaller and without the omnipresence of overly chatty men and religiously-inspired art.
Now Berlin was an entirely different animal. It was, on the whole, rather unbecoming. It was gritty and industrial and lacked the aesthetics of other European Cities. This news likely shocks no one, but what is more surprising (or was to me anyway) was that it was not an unlikable place. It has this palpable urban vibe that makes it seem like there is a terribly active pulse of energy and renewal thriving beneath the layers of despair and history. Still, if pressed for comparison, I would say that it reminded me of Detroit.
An absurd commparison since Berlin is (obviously) in possession of an uncontestably lengthier and more significant history (though the General Motors scandal of 2008 was huge). Also, I have never actually visited Detroit, so my comparison lacks credibility. Though I have listened to several Kid Rock songs, so I think I have the gist. But Berlin had what I imagine Detroit has--a rather complex and devoted group of inhabitants who know that the city is more than just its reputation, who might be slightly wary of the opinions of others, and who are happy with their city--nevermind what anyone else has to say.
I might be making all that up. Just sharing impressions here, not looking to incense people with these loosely formed opinions based on a couple days visitation to each of these locales; I am hardly an expert.
So that brings us to Amsterdam. You must be wondering what that city reminds me of--since it is evident that everywhere reminds me of somewhere else. Well, Amsterdam reminds me of that place Alice tumbled into when she followed the rabbit down the hole. It was all sort of vibrant and crazy, with the canals reflecting all those narrow buildings back in a fun-house mirror kind of way.
Although that could have been the drugs.
Just kidding.
Actually, we liked Amsterdam best of all. It is so gorgeous and walkable. Everyone has bikes (though no one wears helmets which I think is a tad reckless) but the city is so compact that you can walk everywhere--which we did. We visited the Anne Frank House, the Van Gogh museum, the Red Light District. Two of the aforementioned made me cry in frustration and general vexation at human nature in general.
Who knew that a sunflower still-life could ellicit such a reaction :)
Anyway, that is the gist of our vacation. Since I still miraculously have my fingers, I'll write more on what we did and what we ate...
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
Pastry Olympics
Because yesterday was sort of a "holiday" in my family, last night my husband and I went out to dinner at the famed "Laduree" on the Champs Elysees.
If you have not heard of this place, then you might want to google it. But, to offer a brief sum: Laduree is an established "patisserie" turned tea room/restaurant that is known for having among the best macaroons and other pastries in Paris. In addition to the main restuarant that is on the Champs Elysees, there are a couple of other, smaller and slightly less venerable off-shoots in the city.
I hadvisited one of the other locales, the one in St Germain de Pres in the 6th arrondissement, and had tried their macaroons. Salted caramel and chocolate were the flavors I tried and they were, indeed, delicious.
Although, and as an aside, you might be interested to know that despite the hoopla surrounding this place, they did not receive the Maggie White #1 ranking for macaroons in Paris. Thus far, they are in the top three. However, the contest is not yet closed as I have many more months of tasting before awarding the official gold, silver, and bronze mythical macaroon medals.
Anyway, after hearing from a few Parisian sources that the "Laduree experience" was not to be missed--despite the intimidating lines of teeming tourists who may likely bite you in the arm due to the frenzy and frustration they feel as they wait for interminably long whiles to sample the goods. We figured we wanted to try it out anyway.
Well, I figured as much, anyway. What kind of low-level and self-appointed pastry police would I be, if I did not give one of the most well-known pastry houses in Paris a proper whirl? All in the name of duty, here.
Also, the thing is that we are tourists, so trying out very-touristy places is really not something to eternally scoff at. We actually avoided the lines because we made a reservation on-line, and I encourage you to do the same, as such a course of action seems to be a no-brainer. We also avoided the crowds because visiting on a Monday evening means there are significantly fewer prime-time pastry purveyors than there would be in attendance on, say, a Saturday apres-midi.
In terms of decor, the exterior of the Laduree establishments are lovely. They sort of remind me of the tea room in the Plaza accented with a few Willy Wonka touches. The inside of the resto was like being in an old-school library and also like sitting in the middle of a mint-green frosted cupcake. In short, it was a tad Alice-in-Wonderland esque.
So I obviously loved it. I feel compelled to mention that the bathrooms were unbelievable. Expansive, with a huge "sitting" area, many stalls, lots of mirrors, immaculate fictures. It is a rare find in Paris to have a WC in which you could turn around without bumping into the wall, let alone one in which you could perform a full ballet performance.
For food, we had "velvety" chestnut soup with parmesan, a gorgeous salad of asparagus (that was neither stringy nor bitter--decidedly tough to accomplish with asparagus), mozzarella, rocket, artichoke hearts, and oven-dried tomaties (amazing salad--and I am also something of an amateur salad connoiseur), and scallops on yellow beets with a shredded beet salad. The food, despite all the whiners on trip advisor who claimed it was "average" and "over-priced" was pretty darn delectable actually.
And those same Bitter Bettys on TA who were squaking about the "poor" and "absent" service might want to take note that our server was lovely. He was busy and thus not a helicopter-like hoverer, but that was fine by us. He did his job efficiently and kindly, so I give the service two thumbs up.
The problem for me, actually--and we may need a drum roll here--was the dessert. It was not that good, and this was borderline devastating to yours truly. We had a Mont Blanc, something for which the place is known, which consists of a semi-soft meringue, covered with a layer of cream, and then topped with whole-wheat-spaghetti-ressembling strands of what are actually "vermicelli" of chestnut cream. It might have been fine, except that it quite frankly reminded me very much of the soup in flavor. As such, it was a bit yucko. We also had some macaroon sandwich type caramel apple business, the precise name of which is eluding me but it was something descriptive like "Pomme Caramel". The macaroons were yummo, and the creamy caramel filling was dee-lish. The trouble was that the filling was hardly existent. Quite sadly, there was only a dollop in there. And then there were these huge chunks of apple that sort of overwhlemed the dessert. It was not utterly bad, mind you, but hardly proved to be a viable contender for participation in the Maggie White dessert olympic games.
So this week we leave for our "vacances d'hiver" and we will visit Vienna, Prague, Berlin, and Amsterdam. I am almost as excited about the pastries in Vienna as I am about the drugs in Amsterdam.
By the way, the not being sarcastic resolution has not stuck for me. At all.
But I am so excited about the pastries in Vienna! I have high expectations about returning with some olympic medal hopefuls. Will let you know...
If you have not heard of this place, then you might want to google it. But, to offer a brief sum: Laduree is an established "patisserie" turned tea room/restaurant that is known for having among the best macaroons and other pastries in Paris. In addition to the main restuarant that is on the Champs Elysees, there are a couple of other, smaller and slightly less venerable off-shoots in the city.
I hadvisited one of the other locales, the one in St Germain de Pres in the 6th arrondissement, and had tried their macaroons. Salted caramel and chocolate were the flavors I tried and they were, indeed, delicious.
Although, and as an aside, you might be interested to know that despite the hoopla surrounding this place, they did not receive the Maggie White #1 ranking for macaroons in Paris. Thus far, they are in the top three. However, the contest is not yet closed as I have many more months of tasting before awarding the official gold, silver, and bronze mythical macaroon medals.
Anyway, after hearing from a few Parisian sources that the "Laduree experience" was not to be missed--despite the intimidating lines of teeming tourists who may likely bite you in the arm due to the frenzy and frustration they feel as they wait for interminably long whiles to sample the goods. We figured we wanted to try it out anyway.
Well, I figured as much, anyway. What kind of low-level and self-appointed pastry police would I be, if I did not give one of the most well-known pastry houses in Paris a proper whirl? All in the name of duty, here.
Also, the thing is that we are tourists, so trying out very-touristy places is really not something to eternally scoff at. We actually avoided the lines because we made a reservation on-line, and I encourage you to do the same, as such a course of action seems to be a no-brainer. We also avoided the crowds because visiting on a Monday evening means there are significantly fewer prime-time pastry purveyors than there would be in attendance on, say, a Saturday apres-midi.
In terms of decor, the exterior of the Laduree establishments are lovely. They sort of remind me of the tea room in the Plaza accented with a few Willy Wonka touches. The inside of the resto was like being in an old-school library and also like sitting in the middle of a mint-green frosted cupcake. In short, it was a tad Alice-in-Wonderland esque.
So I obviously loved it. I feel compelled to mention that the bathrooms were unbelievable. Expansive, with a huge "sitting" area, many stalls, lots of mirrors, immaculate fictures. It is a rare find in Paris to have a WC in which you could turn around without bumping into the wall, let alone one in which you could perform a full ballet performance.
For food, we had "velvety" chestnut soup with parmesan, a gorgeous salad of asparagus (that was neither stringy nor bitter--decidedly tough to accomplish with asparagus), mozzarella, rocket, artichoke hearts, and oven-dried tomaties (amazing salad--and I am also something of an amateur salad connoiseur), and scallops on yellow beets with a shredded beet salad. The food, despite all the whiners on trip advisor who claimed it was "average" and "over-priced" was pretty darn delectable actually.
And those same Bitter Bettys on TA who were squaking about the "poor" and "absent" service might want to take note that our server was lovely. He was busy and thus not a helicopter-like hoverer, but that was fine by us. He did his job efficiently and kindly, so I give the service two thumbs up.
The problem for me, actually--and we may need a drum roll here--was the dessert. It was not that good, and this was borderline devastating to yours truly. We had a Mont Blanc, something for which the place is known, which consists of a semi-soft meringue, covered with a layer of cream, and then topped with whole-wheat-spaghetti-ressembling strands of what are actually "vermicelli" of chestnut cream. It might have been fine, except that it quite frankly reminded me very much of the soup in flavor. As such, it was a bit yucko. We also had some macaroon sandwich type caramel apple business, the precise name of which is eluding me but it was something descriptive like "Pomme Caramel". The macaroons were yummo, and the creamy caramel filling was dee-lish. The trouble was that the filling was hardly existent. Quite sadly, there was only a dollop in there. And then there were these huge chunks of apple that sort of overwhlemed the dessert. It was not utterly bad, mind you, but hardly proved to be a viable contender for participation in the Maggie White dessert olympic games.
So this week we leave for our "vacances d'hiver" and we will visit Vienna, Prague, Berlin, and Amsterdam. I am almost as excited about the pastries in Vienna as I am about the drugs in Amsterdam.
By the way, the not being sarcastic resolution has not stuck for me. At all.
But I am so excited about the pastries in Vienna! I have high expectations about returning with some olympic medal hopefuls. Will let you know...
Sunday, January 2, 2011
A Couple Resolutions
My husband and I were on the metro the other day, when a large man stepped on. He cleared his throat loudly, sort of whistled, and then started singing in what my untrained musical ear might call a piddly attempt at a low baritone.
The language in which he began this swan song was unrecognizable to me. It is not so much that I would have failed to figure it out, but more that he really did not give me enough of an opportunity. Rather, he only got a verse or so in before he scrapped the original plan altogether. Instead of continuing on with the operatic number, he started half-singing, half-shouting in English. It was the same verse over and over, a wildly original tune comprised of three words: "Money for me, money for me!" He sang/shouted as he held his hands out to all of us metro-riders in the hopes of gaining some recompense for his "entertainment."
This event was amazing to me. Not due to how I think it represents the sheer audacity of human beings, because that is actually something I have somewhat come to grips with; reality television is responsible for that epiphany. Yet his "show" seemed to me to embody what is wrong with the world in general. Maybe that sounds extreme. But it is 2011, and one of my new year's resolutions is to embrace my proclivity toward extremism.
Another one is to stop being so sarcastic. And you can see how well that is sticking thus far.
By the way, my thoughts that the metro performer was exemplifying the errors of the world in general is not to say that I did not find him amusing. In fact, I laughed aloud at the preposterous brazeness of this man who seemed to be only marginally less tone deaf than me.
I can sing not at all well, by the way.
So here is my issue: I actually enjoy street performers and the like. I applaud the people who set up their guitar cases on the ground in front of them as a sort of jelly jar for money and then play an instrument and sing in the metro/subway/tube stop. In fact, when we were in Madrid, we saw a legititmate band of elderly men, all seriously engaged in the musical number they were performing on what seemed to be an arbitrary street corner. I loved it--what is better than walking around a random corner, and voila! a jazz quartet is having at it in the middle of the day. I enjoy mimes and other strangely-garbed street performers. I love the guys in Venice Beach, CA who listen to hip-hop as they bounce around doing gymnastics and dancing. In St. Germain de Pres, I saw a similar troupe of men who were able to dance in between performing various types of handstands and whilst doing backflips--on a very crowded steet. I love this stuff.
Because these people have talent.
So, talent is something the guy on the metro seriously lacked, at least with regards to what he was showcasing (for all I know he could have been very adept at astronomy or a quite good metal welder, but singing was decidedly not his forte). In Paris, this sort of display is not unusual. There is also a slew of men who bring accordians onto the the metro and then play a tape recorder of someone (presumably not them) singing while they mime playing the accordian along with the tune. Or, occassionally, they will play a few rather ill-timed bars on the thing. Then they walk around sort of aggresively asking for money. What is that? Why would I pay for that cacophany?
But I do not think it is their fault, per say. And this is where the problem of the world at large comes in. What reality television has shown us is that any Joe/Jane can have a show dedicated to him/her and whatever excruciating minutiae that makes up his/her life. By the way, I am not implying that my life is any more fascinating. It isn't, and frankly I never understood why a brand of tuna would call itself Chicken of the Sea either. But I am also not looking for a television show to follow me around as I engage in mild family drama after a few too many glasses of chardonnay. Or when I accidentally hold hands with a foreign grocery clerk. It is just not interesting enough for anyone to pay me for it.
So the guy singing, "Money for me!" on the metro was certainly funny. And I am impressed by his courage: I mean who has the gumption to get on a crowded metro car and just demand money?
But my beef is that had he had talent, it would have been a better thing. And it seems like a rare day that the street performers (like the men in Madrid) are actually worthy of a couple euros. Because nowadays, it seems like everyone suddenly feels like they can be a star, everyone feels like they deserve money, a TV show, etc., just for walking around with a who gives a darn attitude and imaginatively coiffed hair. People think that just by demanding money they have somehow earned it. What is that about? Yet, this attitude seems to have infiltrated the world at large, and I find it to be a shame.
Athough I am admittedly probably being a tad extreme.
But let me just say this: dang those Jersey Shore hooligans, for they have obliterated the need for substantitive entertainment.
So the streets and the metros of Paris are rife with people asking for money for doing nothing. Yes, even this city of amazing cultural opportunity and heightened sophistication is not immune to the reality TV bug. As we enter a new year, I just want to note that I am happy to give a little money away to random entertainers. But you have to entertain me to warrant it. That's another new year's resolution: higher entertainment standards. That said, I hope the singing metro men step it up in 2011.
The language in which he began this swan song was unrecognizable to me. It is not so much that I would have failed to figure it out, but more that he really did not give me enough of an opportunity. Rather, he only got a verse or so in before he scrapped the original plan altogether. Instead of continuing on with the operatic number, he started half-singing, half-shouting in English. It was the same verse over and over, a wildly original tune comprised of three words: "Money for me, money for me!" He sang/shouted as he held his hands out to all of us metro-riders in the hopes of gaining some recompense for his "entertainment."
This event was amazing to me. Not due to how I think it represents the sheer audacity of human beings, because that is actually something I have somewhat come to grips with; reality television is responsible for that epiphany. Yet his "show" seemed to me to embody what is wrong with the world in general. Maybe that sounds extreme. But it is 2011, and one of my new year's resolutions is to embrace my proclivity toward extremism.
Another one is to stop being so sarcastic. And you can see how well that is sticking thus far.
By the way, my thoughts that the metro performer was exemplifying the errors of the world in general is not to say that I did not find him amusing. In fact, I laughed aloud at the preposterous brazeness of this man who seemed to be only marginally less tone deaf than me.
I can sing not at all well, by the way.
So here is my issue: I actually enjoy street performers and the like. I applaud the people who set up their guitar cases on the ground in front of them as a sort of jelly jar for money and then play an instrument and sing in the metro/subway/tube stop. In fact, when we were in Madrid, we saw a legititmate band of elderly men, all seriously engaged in the musical number they were performing on what seemed to be an arbitrary street corner. I loved it--what is better than walking around a random corner, and voila! a jazz quartet is having at it in the middle of the day. I enjoy mimes and other strangely-garbed street performers. I love the guys in Venice Beach, CA who listen to hip-hop as they bounce around doing gymnastics and dancing. In St. Germain de Pres, I saw a similar troupe of men who were able to dance in between performing various types of handstands and whilst doing backflips--on a very crowded steet. I love this stuff.
Because these people have talent.
So, talent is something the guy on the metro seriously lacked, at least with regards to what he was showcasing (for all I know he could have been very adept at astronomy or a quite good metal welder, but singing was decidedly not his forte). In Paris, this sort of display is not unusual. There is also a slew of men who bring accordians onto the the metro and then play a tape recorder of someone (presumably not them) singing while they mime playing the accordian along with the tune. Or, occassionally, they will play a few rather ill-timed bars on the thing. Then they walk around sort of aggresively asking for money. What is that? Why would I pay for that cacophany?
But I do not think it is their fault, per say. And this is where the problem of the world at large comes in. What reality television has shown us is that any Joe/Jane can have a show dedicated to him/her and whatever excruciating minutiae that makes up his/her life. By the way, I am not implying that my life is any more fascinating. It isn't, and frankly I never understood why a brand of tuna would call itself Chicken of the Sea either. But I am also not looking for a television show to follow me around as I engage in mild family drama after a few too many glasses of chardonnay. Or when I accidentally hold hands with a foreign grocery clerk. It is just not interesting enough for anyone to pay me for it.
So the guy singing, "Money for me!" on the metro was certainly funny. And I am impressed by his courage: I mean who has the gumption to get on a crowded metro car and just demand money?
But my beef is that had he had talent, it would have been a better thing. And it seems like a rare day that the street performers (like the men in Madrid) are actually worthy of a couple euros. Because nowadays, it seems like everyone suddenly feels like they can be a star, everyone feels like they deserve money, a TV show, etc., just for walking around with a who gives a darn attitude and imaginatively coiffed hair. People think that just by demanding money they have somehow earned it. What is that about? Yet, this attitude seems to have infiltrated the world at large, and I find it to be a shame.
Athough I am admittedly probably being a tad extreme.
But let me just say this: dang those Jersey Shore hooligans, for they have obliterated the need for substantitive entertainment.
So the streets and the metros of Paris are rife with people asking for money for doing nothing. Yes, even this city of amazing cultural opportunity and heightened sophistication is not immune to the reality TV bug. As we enter a new year, I just want to note that I am happy to give a little money away to random entertainers. But you have to entertain me to warrant it. That's another new year's resolution: higher entertainment standards. That said, I hope the singing metro men step it up in 2011.
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