When folks learn that I write restaurant reviews, they often ask me to name my favorite restaurant. I’ve been known to try wriggling off the hook by suggesting a visit Sonny Bryant’s barbeque joint in Dallas, Texas, or Pascal’s Manale, where Cathey gets her oyster fix whenever we’re in New Orleans. If they persist, I ask a question of my own.
What are you looking for?
Seafood? Try Starfish Brasserie. Celebrating an anniversary? Savory Grille won’t disappoint. Mexican? Give Cactus Blue a try. (We'll review each of these dining establishments in time.) But if the answer is that the questioner is seeking that one restaurant that encompasses all that makes for a pleasant, dependable fine dining experience, Bay Leaf in Allentown is high on my list.
Thai natives Tong and Sopa Manasurangkul brought their New American & Asian Cuisine to Allentown over 25 years ago. The menu is at the same time creative and stable – after more than two decades Chef Tong knows his clientele. They appreciate the Thai sauces, wasabi and other signature Asian ingredients that are used to accent rather than overpower. The space, always tastefully furnished and recently redecorated, can be configured to handle both large parties and quiet twosomes at the same time, making Bay Leaf a destination for both local corporations and the downtown crowd.
One way to determine whether a restaurant suits your taste is to start with a visit for lunch. At Bay Leaf, lunch entrees run about $10.00 and there is a wide variety of choices. I enjoy such dishes as the grilled chicken breast sandwich with Black Forest ham, tomato, onion, fresh mozzarella, and Thai chili mayo on grilled sour dough bread...a pleasant ensemble of tastes both East and West. There are traditional Thai dishes: Pad Thai rice noodles, shrimp, tofu, egg, bean sprouts, and crushed peanuts in a sweet & sour sauce. And there's more familiar Western fare like the open-faced tuna and cheese sandwich on toasted rye.
The dinner menu features a wide variety of appetizers, primarily Thai-inspired, at about $10.00 apiece and entrees with a more Western focus in the $18.00 to $30.00 range. How about starting with shrimp and crabmeat ravioli with saffron cream sauce followed by filet tips with oyster and Bearnaise sauce?
There are those for whom downtown Allentown is an anathema. There are those who are always looking for the latest buzz. Get over it. For a well-prepared, well-presented meal in pleasant surroundings served by a knowledgeable, attentive staff, Bay Leaf is hard to beat.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
GUIDING PRINCIPLES
Whether you're buying a hot dog for a buck and a quarter to eat on the run or a multi-course meal in a white tablecloth, fine dining establishment at $75 per person, you deserve value for your dollar.
That dog better be meaty, properly cooked and served on a fresh bun with the fixings the way you like them. At that price, ambiance is not a consideration and good service may be defined as not having to wait in line too long.
At the upper end of the scale, however, every one of the five senses come into play:
*The room should be easy on the eyes, the lighting just right. The look of the food on the plate should be carefully considered and inviting. At home, we consider the color combination of the entree and sides almost (but not quite) as carefully their preparation.
*The design of the room should serve to dampen noise - that is, unless the establishment is going for that urban "buzz" thing, not my favorite but valid nonetheless. If there's background music, it should be in the background. We prefer classical or light jazz. And you shouldn't have to listen to dishes clattering or unnecessary jabber from your server.
"Hi. My name is Phil and I'll be your best friend for the night." NOT.
And yes, there's sound associated with the with food itself. Words like sizzle and crunch come to mind.
*The sense of touch may be the least considered of the five senses when it comes to fine dining but is an important component of a well-rounded experience. The feel of the linens, the weight and balance of the silver, the way the wine glass fits in your hand...very important to the more decadent among us.
*That a restaurant should not assault you with extraneous smells and that the food that it serves should be invitingly aromatic goes without saying. I said it anyway.
*Same goes for taste. Doubled.
So, when I review a restaurant, cafe, joint, or hole in the wall, understand that it's all about the food and then builds from there.
Final notes: I never identify myself as a reviewer before dining in a restaurant for the first time and I always pay for the meal that I review.
That dog better be meaty, properly cooked and served on a fresh bun with the fixings the way you like them. At that price, ambiance is not a consideration and good service may be defined as not having to wait in line too long.
At the upper end of the scale, however, every one of the five senses come into play:
*The room should be easy on the eyes, the lighting just right. The look of the food on the plate should be carefully considered and inviting. At home, we consider the color combination of the entree and sides almost (but not quite) as carefully their preparation.
*The design of the room should serve to dampen noise - that is, unless the establishment is going for that urban "buzz" thing, not my favorite but valid nonetheless. If there's background music, it should be in the background. We prefer classical or light jazz. And you shouldn't have to listen to dishes clattering or unnecessary jabber from your server.
"Hi. My name is Phil and I'll be your best friend for the night." NOT.
And yes, there's sound associated with the with food itself. Words like sizzle and crunch come to mind.
*The sense of touch may be the least considered of the five senses when it comes to fine dining but is an important component of a well-rounded experience. The feel of the linens, the weight and balance of the silver, the way the wine glass fits in your hand...very important to the more decadent among us.
*That a restaurant should not assault you with extraneous smells and that the food that it serves should be invitingly aromatic goes without saying. I said it anyway.
*Same goes for taste. Doubled.
So, when I review a restaurant, cafe, joint, or hole in the wall, understand that it's all about the food and then builds from there.
Final notes: I never identify myself as a reviewer before dining in a restaurant for the first time and I always pay for the meal that I review.
Saturday, January 3, 2009
HOW I BECAME A FOOD WRITER
As a membership perk of being a member of WDIY, the Lehigh Valley's local National Public Radio affiliate, I began receiving Lehigh Valley Style, a bi-monthly glossy lifestyle magazine. In one of the first issues that I read, I came across an article about local delis. Having grown up with Katz's Delicatessan in New York City as my model, I decided to indicate my dissatisfaction with the article by writing a letter to the editor. It went like this:
++++++++++
As a practicing gourmand who believes that the existence of herring in cream sauce is proof that there is a God and that She loves us, I sat down to read Lenora Dannelke’s article on delicatessens with great anticipation. It was immediately apparent, however, that Ms. Dannelke has never walked through the door of a real deli.
Contrary to Ms. Dannelke’s opinion, the owners of real delis are not happy people. They resent being taken away from their newspapers to ring the cash register. Customers are a necessary inconvenience to be tolerated – not entertained. Nor are the customers particularly happy. They’re carrying too many packages, they’ve waited in line for too long, and they know that the food isn’t what it used to be and is too darn expensive. And while we’re at it, the waiters are old men with sore feet who think your children need to be popped upside the head to teach them manners. This is fun?
In a real deli, the lox is sliced to order from a slab of smoked salmon by an old man missing the tips from two fingers. In a real deli, pickles don’t come from a stainless steel tray behind a glass case – you fish them from the barrel in front of the counter that’s next to the barrel with the sour tomatoes. The waiters (old men/sore feet) don’t take your order, they tell you what to order. “The corned beef is too fat today. Try the pastrami.” And real delis don’t serve potato chips to anybody for any reason.
So the simple fact of the matter is that there is not a single real deli in the Lehigh Valley, just a few pretty good gourmet sandwich shops. That’s not to say that there aren’t some joints that approximate the atmosphere and dining pleasure of a real deli – they just don’t serve deli food.
Take, for instance, La Placita Mexicana on the corner of 12th and Turner in Allentown. First of all, as is the case in a real deli, English is a second language for the owner and everyone who works there. It’s cramped. There aren’t many seats. The deli case is filled with unfamiliar foods that aren’t date-stamped. But you’ve got to try the torta con chorizo.
A torta is a sandwich and chorizo is spiced sausage that comes in as many different varieties as there are Latin countries. On a Portuguese-style roll they pile fried chorizo, lettuce, tomato, jalapeno, and slices of avocado. I prefer to wash this confection down with lemon/lime soda hecho enMexico
While you’re in La Placita, purchase some queso fresco - a salty, crumbly cheese something like feta that you can use to garnish your next salad.
So the next time you enter an eatery that advertises itself as a delicatessen, look for gourmet coffees, muffins, or gift baskets. By all means, enter if you will. The food may well be exemplary, but you can tell by the smiling faces that wherever you are, the real deli is down the street.
++++++++++
The editor wrote back that she was looking for a new food writer. Was I interested?
I was.
So, for about the next five years, I was the food writer and restaurant reviewer for Lehigh Valley Style. It was not always fun. Restaurants are major advertisers. Give a restaurant a bad review, no matter how well deserved, and that restaurant, as well as many others, might pull their ads. So I was forced to put the best face on things, to write in code, to pretend that I enjoyed eatng in places that were not worth the time or, more importantly, the money.
Eventually, I became disgusted with the hypocrisy. It showed in my writing. The editor informed me that she had decided to go in a different direction. Hence, this blog. I can say what I think and have only my conscience to answer to.
Get ready. Here we go.
++++++++++
As a practicing gourmand who believes that the existence of herring in cream sauce is proof that there is a God and that She loves us, I sat down to read Lenora Dannelke’s article on delicatessens with great anticipation. It was immediately apparent, however, that Ms. Dannelke has never walked through the door of a real deli.
Contrary to Ms. Dannelke’s opinion, the owners of real delis are not happy people. They resent being taken away from their newspapers to ring the cash register. Customers are a necessary inconvenience to be tolerated – not entertained. Nor are the customers particularly happy. They’re carrying too many packages, they’ve waited in line for too long, and they know that the food isn’t what it used to be and is too darn expensive. And while we’re at it, the waiters are old men with sore feet who think your children need to be popped upside the head to teach them manners. This is fun?
In a real deli, the lox is sliced to order from a slab of smoked salmon by an old man missing the tips from two fingers. In a real deli, pickles don’t come from a stainless steel tray behind a glass case – you fish them from the barrel in front of the counter that’s next to the barrel with the sour tomatoes. The waiters (old men/sore feet) don’t take your order, they tell you what to order. “The corned beef is too fat today. Try the pastrami.” And real delis don’t serve potato chips to anybody for any reason.
So the simple fact of the matter is that there is not a single real deli in the Lehigh Valley, just a few pretty good gourmet sandwich shops. That’s not to say that there aren’t some joints that approximate the atmosphere and dining pleasure of a real deli – they just don’t serve deli food.
Take, for instance, La Placita Mexicana on the corner of 12th and Turner in Allentown. First of all, as is the case in a real deli, English is a second language for the owner and everyone who works there. It’s cramped. There aren’t many seats. The deli case is filled with unfamiliar foods that aren’t date-stamped. But you’ve got to try the torta con chorizo.
A torta is a sandwich and chorizo is spiced sausage that comes in as many different varieties as there are Latin countries. On a Portuguese-style roll they pile fried chorizo, lettuce, tomato, jalapeno, and slices of avocado. I prefer to wash this confection down with lemon/lime soda hecho en
While you’re in La Placita, purchase some queso fresco - a salty, crumbly cheese something like feta that you can use to garnish your next salad.
So the next time you enter an eatery that advertises itself as a delicatessen, look for gourmet coffees, muffins, or gift baskets. By all means, enter if you will. The food may well be exemplary, but you can tell by the smiling faces that wherever you are, the real deli is down the street.
++++++++++
The editor wrote back that she was looking for a new food writer. Was I interested?
I was.
So, for about the next five years, I was the food writer and restaurant reviewer for Lehigh Valley Style. It was not always fun. Restaurants are major advertisers. Give a restaurant a bad review, no matter how well deserved, and that restaurant, as well as many others, might pull their ads. So I was forced to put the best face on things, to write in code, to pretend that I enjoyed eatng in places that were not worth the time or, more importantly, the money.
Eventually, I became disgusted with the hypocrisy. It showed in my writing. The editor informed me that she had decided to go in a different direction. Hence, this blog. I can say what I think and have only my conscience to answer to.
Get ready. Here we go.
ABOUT THE FOOD DUDE - PART 4
Our decision to fly into Paris, then drive the 800 or more kilometers to our ultimate destination near the shores of the Mediterranean, might at first seem a waste of precious vacation time and energy. But we’ve found that we get the most satisfaction from just this kind of self-directed auto touring. We can sniff the air, taste the local wines and cheeses, get the feel of the dirt between our toes. Flexibility appeals to us as well. Hopping off the A71 on a whim to gape at the Old Town atop the hill overlooking modern Montlucon while nursing a Pelforth Brun (dark beer) in front of the Café de la Gare is as relaxing to us as a massage and a sauna at our health club in the States.
The French have a reputation as bad drivers – fast and aggressive. Don’t believe it. Well, the fact is that they are fast and aggressive. Like me. But they’re not bad drivers. After 800 kilometers (500 miles, my American friends) of driving on four-lane highway, we only encountered two cars meandering in the left-hand lane. Every other time that we moved up on a car going slower than we wanted to in the left lane, the driver politely pulled over. Compare that to an American drive of equal distance.
This misconception is most likely the result of the centuries-long enmity between the British and the French. They just don’t like each other. And since most of the English language information available on living, buying property, and retiring in France is authored by Brits, that prejudice shows through.
Would you believe that my love affair with the Languedoc began in a highway rest stop?
We pulled over for a picnic lunch in sight of Carcassonne, that old city’s walls just discernable across lush green fields. Behind the city, blue-gray hills in the distance. Above, clear blue skies. Around us, French families and tourists on vacation were eating, playing and passing around binoculars and long-lens cameras for a better look at the city where Costner filmed his version of the Robin Hood legend. At least four different languages could be heard spoken.
Cathey and I pulled out our baguette, smeared on some sweet French butter and layered slices of saucisson and country pate. The wine was red, cheap and good. The countryside mirrored the rolling hills and neatly tended fields of my youth in Hunterdon County, New Jersey.
I was hooked.
We quickly learned that the Languedoc is a simply marvelous corner of the globe. The climate is among the best in the world - a bit warm (read: devilishly hot) in the midd
le of the summer, but the winters are mild with only occasional freezes and, every few years, dustings of snow quickly dispersed by the Mediterranean sun. Spring and fall are spectacular. The villages are clean and well-kept, the country roads are satisfactory two-lane blacktops often lined with and shaded by ancient trees, and there are no billboards to impede the views of hundreds of acres of carefully cultivated vineyards. Even today, there is no suburban sprawl. You are either in a village or in the country. It is easy to see why many of the great French Impressionists chose this region for resting and honing their landscape skills and why so many Europeans - and the occasional atypical Americans - find Languedoc so engaging for vacationing or retirement.
And forget the fiction of the rude French who hate Americans. Not a single false note has ever shadowed our visits. Oh, I suppose that Parisians can sometimes be counted on to demonstrate a certain air of superiority, but on the whole we’ve found that the French appreciate a sincere attempt to learn the language and get with the flow of daily life.
In Languedoc, that flow can only be described as leisurely. One awakens early enough, if only to be assured of the freshest baguette and croissants, but shops other than the bakeries and tabacs (the state-controlled shops allowed to sell cigarettes) rarely open before 9:00 a.m., often as not 10:00. And everything except the res
taurants and cafes close down at noon for at least one and as many as two hours. Takes getting used to. But there it is. Life at a different pace.
So, we bought a house in the little working class village of Cazouls les Beziers. Check out our website – that includes a comprehensive blog concerning our decision to buy, the steps that we took and the mistakes that we made: http;//www.southfrancerental.com.
The French have a reputation as bad drivers – fast and aggressive. Don’t believe it. Well, the fact is that they are fast and aggressive. Like me. But they’re not bad drivers. After 800 kilometers (500 miles, my American friends) of driving on four-lane highway, we only encountered two cars meandering in the left-hand lane. Every other time that we moved up on a car going slower than we wanted to in the left lane, the driver politely pulled over. Compare that to an American drive of equal distance.
This misconception is most likely the result of the centuries-long enmity between the British and the French. They just don’t like each other. And since most of the English language information available on living, buying property, and retiring in France is authored by Brits, that prejudice shows through.
Would you believe that my love affair with the Languedoc began in a highway rest stop?
We pulled over for a picnic lunch in sight of Carcassonne, that old city’s walls just discernable across lush green fields. Behind the city, blue-gray hills in the distance. Above, clear blue skies. Around us, French families and tourists on vacation were eating, playing and passing around binoculars and long-lens cameras for a better look at the city where Costner filmed his version of the Robin Hood legend. At least four different languages could be heard spoken.
Cathey and I pulled out our baguette, smeared on some sweet French butter and layered slices of saucisson and country pate. The wine was red, cheap and good. The countryside mirrored the rolling hills and neatly tended fields of my youth in Hunterdon County, New Jersey.
I was hooked.
We quickly learned that the Languedoc is a simply marvelous corner of the globe. The climate is among the best in the world - a bit warm (read: devilishly hot) in the midd
le of the summer, but the winters are mild with only occasional freezes and, every few years, dustings of snow quickly dispersed by the Mediterranean sun. Spring and fall are spectacular. The villages are clean and well-kept, the country roads are satisfactory two-lane blacktops often lined with and shaded by ancient trees, and there are no billboards to impede the views of hundreds of acres of carefully cultivated vineyards. Even today, there is no suburban sprawl. You are either in a village or in the country. It is easy to see why many of the great French Impressionists chose this region for resting and honing their landscape skills and why so many Europeans - and the occasional atypical Americans - find Languedoc so engaging for vacationing or retirement.And forget the fiction of the rude French who hate Americans. Not a single false note has ever shadowed our visits. Oh, I suppose that Parisians can sometimes be counted on to demonstrate a certain air of superiority, but on the whole we’ve found that the French appreciate a sincere attempt to learn the language and get with the flow of daily life.
In Languedoc, that flow can only be described as leisurely. One awakens early enough, if only to be assured of the freshest baguette and croissants, but shops other than the bakeries and tabacs (the state-controlled shops allowed to sell cigarettes) rarely open before 9:00 a.m., often as not 10:00. And everything except the res
taurants and cafes close down at noon for at least one and as many as two hours. Takes getting used to. But there it is. Life at a different pace.So, we bought a house in the little working class village of Cazouls les Beziers. Check out our website – that includes a comprehensive blog concerning our decision to buy, the steps that we took and the mistakes that we made: http;//www.southfrancerental.com.
Friday, January 2, 2009
ABOUT THE FOOD DUDE - PART 3
Early in our marriage, Cathey and I camped on the rocky shores of Maine and boiled rock lobster on a Coleman stove. We power lounged in the Florida Keys and ate conch fritters and alligator soup in creaky shacks masquerading as restaurants. We swapped stories with Big Sur jade miners around a California campfire, watched the moon rise over the Willard Reservoir in Utah and sucked the juice from the heads of crawfish in the Louisiana back country.
As the years have passed, we opted more for comfort, flying to destinations instead of driving, nestling in boutique hotels in the French Quarter and in Aspen instead of camping in pop-up tents. (Cathey readily admits that today her idea of camping out is staying at a Days Inn.)
In other words, we’ve done the Lower 48, with the possible exception of North Dakota, and we’ve traveled both on a shoestring and in style.
We haven’t confined our joint explorations to the States, either. For our honeymoon, we drove from our New Jersey home to Mexico City, where the Sheraton chain had transferred Cathey’s father, to spend two months in the home of her parents. (Yes, I honeymooned with my wife’s parents. Vernon and Florence were charming, welcoming people who accepted me into the family without reservation.) We’ve rented a beach house on Virgin Gorda and a condo on Isla Mujeres off the coast of Cancun. But I’d never been across the Atlantic until we decided to visit Paris fifteen or so years ago.
Contrary to American perceptions even in those days, we found Parisians warm and welcoming. We stayed in a small, commercial two-star hotel a few blocks behind L’Opera. Each day began with petite dejeuner in the hotel basement – fresh orange juice, hot coffee, a variety of breads spread with that wonderful sweet French butter and my most favorite of all – pain au chocolat, that marvelous cross between a croissant and a chocolate bar. After breakfast, we’d take a brisk walk, cruising local food shops, choosing from among cheeses, pates, saucisson, whatever looked tempting. Clerks were always willing to cut off a sliver of this or a slice of that for us to taste. Wine to match, a fresh baguette, perhaps an outrageous dessert tidbit, then back to our room. But not to eat. These provisions were to be saved for our evening meal. It was winter, so we used the balcony for a fridge.
By now, it was time for lunch. (Do you get the picture? We ate our way through Paris. Couldn’t be helped. Cathey is a gourmet cook and I learned to eat at an early age.) From one of the several guidebooks we’d cadged from friends and family, we chose the café of the day. We’ll return one day to Au Gigot Fin, a neighborhood joint with ambience straight out of a World War II French resistance movie, specializing in lamb in all of its incarnations, and the Café du Musee, in the Mairie District not far from the Picasso Museum, where the proprietor serves his family’s wine in brightly decorated ceramic jugs to accompany the flakiest of fresh fish.
Having eaten breakfast and lunch and provided for our dinner, the rest of the day was free for sightseeing – a stroll along the Seine, checking out the view from Sacre-Coeur, scratching our heads at I. M. Pei’s silly glass pyramid in the courtyard of the Louvre. We had the time of our lives and were ready for more.
It should not be surprising then, that at about the time that we turned 50 and Cathey and I began planning for our retirement, we knew we wanted to continue our travels and where we wanted to travel was Europe. Why not live there? To be honest, we were looking for a certain … well … decadence. I’m not talking debauchery here, just a willingness to indulge in the finer things – an appreciation for a slower, measured, comfortable lifestyle.
Western Europe. Definitely.
Given Cathey’s delicately worded instructions concerning the shoveling of snow – “When we retire, I will never do that again.” – we were clearly not headed for Scandinavia. Not that I have anything against Scandinavia. There’s nothing quite like the Norwegian contemporary folk music scene. But regardless of the heat of the music, the probabilities of snow in winter are relatively high. No, we clearly were headed farther south.
Where to begin?
We made a practical decision. We’d start our explorations as close as we could to the United States, then work our way east. First stop? Portugal. Specifically the Algarve, that southernmost region of Portugal along the Atlantic coast.
Cathey and I decided on a February visit. How warm does it get when it’s as cold as it gets? We booked our flights – TAP direct to Lisbon from JFK in New York. We booked a room in a guest house in the Algarve – Casa Domilu (www.casa-domilu.com). We made appointments with real estate agents from the most promising of the websites that I’d Googled and with a property advisor. And off we went.
I found Lisbon disappointing. It seemed a sad, tired town, lacking the romance of Paris, the energy of Barcelona. We visited a couple of interesting museums – check out the National Tile Museum – and we ate some good food. We even watched the sun set over the port from a hilltop park packed with hippies passing joints and playing bongos. I swear to God. Even so, we were glad to hit the road headed south. And a good road it was, straight and true and 140kph all the way to the Algarve in our rented Fiat Punto – a sewing machine with wheels.
On carefully landscaped grounds near the village of Benafil, Casa Domilu used to be a private home – palatial with swimming pools, tennis courts, a workout room, and a view of the ocean in the distance. Our room, in a small annex by the tennis courts, was spacious and comfy. A truly pleasant place to spend a vacation. But to live? No, thanks.
First of all, Portuguese is a language from Mars. It sounds almost Spanish but it isn’t. It isn’t anything but Portuguese. Cathey, fluent in Spanish, was completely befuddled. I could never have learned it. Besides, the houses that we were shown in our price range were either in compounds, brand new and without character, or dilapidated and in need of extensive renovation. And as soon as you travel inland the land takes on an Iberian, low scrub, red dirt look that Cathey and I both found unappealing.
So, we crossed Portugal off our list, decided to skip Spain for similar reasons and, in spring of the next year, headed for France.
As the years have passed, we opted more for comfort, flying to destinations instead of driving, nestling in boutique hotels in the French Quarter and in Aspen instead of camping in pop-up tents. (Cathey readily admits that today her idea of camping out is staying at a Days Inn.)
In other words, we’ve done the Lower 48, with the possible exception of North Dakota, and we’ve traveled both on a shoestring and in style.
We haven’t confined our joint explorations to the States, either. For our honeymoon, we drove from our New Jersey home to Mexico City, where the Sheraton chain had transferred Cathey’s father, to spend two months in the home of her parents. (Yes, I honeymooned with my wife’s parents. Vernon and Florence were charming, welcoming people who accepted me into the family without reservation.) We’ve rented a beach house on Virgin Gorda and a condo on Isla Mujeres off the coast of Cancun. But I’d never been across the Atlantic until we decided to visit Paris fifteen or so years ago.
Contrary to American perceptions even in those days, we found Parisians warm and welcoming. We stayed in a small, commercial two-star hotel a few blocks behind L’Opera. Each day began with petite dejeuner in the hotel basement – fresh orange juice, hot coffee, a variety of breads spread with that wonderful sweet French butter and my most favorite of all – pain au chocolat, that marvelous cross between a croissant and a chocolate bar. After breakfast, we’d take a brisk walk, cruising local food shops, choosing from among cheeses, pates, saucisson, whatever looked tempting. Clerks were always willing to cut off a sliver of this or a slice of that for us to taste. Wine to match, a fresh baguette, perhaps an outrageous dessert tidbit, then back to our room. But not to eat. These provisions were to be saved for our evening meal. It was winter, so we used the balcony for a fridge.
By now, it was time for lunch. (Do you get the picture? We ate our way through Paris. Couldn’t be helped. Cathey is a gourmet cook and I learned to eat at an early age.) From one of the several guidebooks we’d cadged from friends and family, we chose the café of the day. We’ll return one day to Au Gigot Fin, a neighborhood joint with ambience straight out of a World War II French resistance movie, specializing in lamb in all of its incarnations, and the Café du Musee, in the Mairie District not far from the Picasso Museum, where the proprietor serves his family’s wine in brightly decorated ceramic jugs to accompany the flakiest of fresh fish.
Having eaten breakfast and lunch and provided for our dinner, the rest of the day was free for sightseeing – a stroll along the Seine, checking out the view from Sacre-Coeur, scratching our heads at I. M. Pei’s silly glass pyramid in the courtyard of the Louvre. We had the time of our lives and were ready for more.
It should not be surprising then, that at about the time that we turned 50 and Cathey and I began planning for our retirement, we knew we wanted to continue our travels and where we wanted to travel was Europe. Why not live there? To be honest, we were looking for a certain … well … decadence. I’m not talking debauchery here, just a willingness to indulge in the finer things – an appreciation for a slower, measured, comfortable lifestyle.
Western Europe. Definitely.
Given Cathey’s delicately worded instructions concerning the shoveling of snow – “When we retire, I will never do that again.” – we were clearly not headed for Scandinavia. Not that I have anything against Scandinavia. There’s nothing quite like the Norwegian contemporary folk music scene. But regardless of the heat of the music, the probabilities of snow in winter are relatively high. No, we clearly were headed farther south.
Where to begin?
We made a practical decision. We’d start our explorations as close as we could to the United States, then work our way east. First stop? Portugal. Specifically the Algarve, that southernmost region of Portugal along the Atlantic coast.
Cathey and I decided on a February visit. How warm does it get when it’s as cold as it gets? We booked our flights – TAP direct to Lisbon from JFK in New York. We booked a room in a guest house in the Algarve – Casa Domilu (www.casa-domilu.com). We made appointments with real estate agents from the most promising of the websites that I’d Googled and with a property advisor. And off we went.I found Lisbon disappointing. It seemed a sad, tired town, lacking the romance of Paris, the energy of Barcelona. We visited a couple of interesting museums – check out the National Tile Museum – and we ate some good food. We even watched the sun set over the port from a hilltop park packed with hippies passing joints and playing bongos. I swear to God. Even so, we were glad to hit the road headed south. And a good road it was, straight and true and 140kph all the way to the Algarve in our rented Fiat Punto – a sewing machine with wheels.
On carefully landscaped grounds near the village of Benafil, Casa Domilu used to be a private home – palatial with swimming pools, tennis courts, a workout room, and a view of the ocean in the distance. Our room, in a small annex by the tennis courts, was spacious and comfy. A truly pleasant place to spend a vacation. But to live? No, thanks.
First of all, Portuguese is a language from Mars. It sounds almost Spanish but it isn’t. It isn’t anything but Portuguese. Cathey, fluent in Spanish, was completely befuddled. I could never have learned it. Besides, the houses that we were shown in our price range were either in compounds, brand new and without character, or dilapidated and in need of extensive renovation. And as soon as you travel inland the land takes on an Iberian, low scrub, red dirt look that Cathey and I both found unappealing.
So, we crossed Portugal off our list, decided to skip Spain for similar reasons and, in spring of the next year, headed for France.
Thursday, January 1, 2009
ABOUT THE FOOD DUDE - PART 2 and a Recipe for Barbecue Shrimp
I owe most of my knowledge of fine dining to The Southern Woman That I Married.
Cathey was born in
A quick story…
The first time that I visited
The next morning, I stumbled out of the guest bedroom to find medicine for an extreme case of dry mouth. There sat
That night we went out to dinner to a restaurant in the Garden District that has become a personal favorite, Pascal’s Minale. It’s a sports bar, really. But the food is pure
Now, the oyster openers in places like Pascal’s are professionals, none faster. But soon, as the first guy fell behind, a second opener was called in. I looked on in amazement. One dozen. Two dozen. Finally, after slurping three dozen raw oysters in a very few minutes, opened as quickly as two professionals were capable, my sweet young paramour took a deep breath, looked up and said, “Gee, I’d better save room for dinner.”
I don’t remember what Cathey had for dinner that night although I do remember being impressed that she cleaned her plate. I had Pascal’s famous barbecued shrimp. Cathey makes it at home. Now you can, too.
¾ cup butter
¾ cup margarine
4 cloves garlic, minced
3 Tbs Worcestershire
1 – 2 tsp
2 Tbs fresh rosemary
3 ½ Tbs coarsely cracked black pepper
2 tsp salt
3 pounds large shrimp in shells (15 – 16 per pound)
3 whole lemons, sliced
French bread
Preheat oven to 400 degrees. Melt butter and margarine together. Remove from heat and add garlic, rosemary, Worcestershire,
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
ABOUT THE FOOD DUDE - PART 1
Mom was a lousy cook.
I loved my mother, may she rest in peace. A raven-haired beauty in her youth, she was a gentle, sensitive soul who loved her children and taught us all we needed to know about family. Mom lived all of her life within ten miles of her parents, brothers and sisters. She spoke to them every day. She didn’t deserve to lose her husband so young, didn’t deserve the strokes and the cancers and, in the end, the Alzheimer’s disease. But the fact remains, the woman couldn’t cook a lick. Her best shot at a home cooked meal? Open a can of chicken noodle soup, rip up some iceberg lettuce and cover it with bottled dressing, bake a chicken dry and boil canned green beans until they turn soggy. For dessert? Store-bought apple pie with ice cream on top.
Not her fault. Born nine years after the next youngest of her siblings, Mom was raised by her brothers and sisters with one directive from their mother – keep Esther out from under foot. And Grandma Rose was one of those big-chested, broad-shouldered, no-nonsense Russian women who ruled her house as surely as the czars that she’d fled had ruled. Her children, not being Bolsheviks, considered rebellion out of the question. Mom was kept out of the kitchen. Mom never learned to cook.
I have no quarrel with Grandma Rose other than the fact that she failed to teach my mother the arts of housewifery. I was the eldest son of her youngest daughter and she spoiled me rotten. She gave me Cokes when I was already high on sugar. She hugged me close and told me she loved me. Doesn’t change the fact. She should’ve taught Mom to cook.
Fast forward thirty years. (Get used to it. This will not be a chronological narrative.) I have met and married Cathey, the best cook that I know amateur or professional. Cathey reads cookbooks with the same intensity that a teenager plays video games. When it’s just the two of us, we eat at 7:00 PM every night. We take our time. We talk. We dine together. We have dinner parties with friends that start with appetizers at 6:30 and finish with dessert at 9:00.
In other words, I’ve spent three decades learning what it means not just to eat, but to enjoy the food and the rituals that surround food.
I loved my mother, may she rest in peace. A raven-haired beauty in her youth, she was a gentle, sensitive soul who loved her children and taught us all we needed to know about family. Mom lived all of her life within ten miles of her parents, brothers and sisters. She spoke to them every day. She didn’t deserve to lose her husband so young, didn’t deserve the strokes and the cancers and, in the end, the Alzheimer’s disease. But the fact remains, the woman couldn’t cook a lick. Her best shot at a home cooked meal? Open a can of chicken noodle soup, rip up some iceberg lettuce and cover it with bottled dressing, bake a chicken dry and boil canned green beans until they turn soggy. For dessert? Store-bought apple pie with ice cream on top.
Not her fault. Born nine years after the next youngest of her siblings, Mom was raised by her brothers and sisters with one directive from their mother – keep Esther out from under foot. And Grandma Rose was one of those big-chested, broad-shouldered, no-nonsense Russian women who ruled her house as surely as the czars that she’d fled had ruled. Her children, not being Bolsheviks, considered rebellion out of the question. Mom was kept out of the kitchen. Mom never learned to cook.
I have no quarrel with Grandma Rose other than the fact that she failed to teach my mother the arts of housewifery. I was the eldest son of her youngest daughter and she spoiled me rotten. She gave me Cokes when I was already high on sugar. She hugged me close and told me she loved me. Doesn’t change the fact. She should’ve taught Mom to cook.
Fast forward thirty years. (Get used to it. This will not be a chronological narrative.) I have met and married Cathey, the best cook that I know amateur or professional. Cathey reads cookbooks with the same intensity that a teenager plays video games. When it’s just the two of us, we eat at 7:00 PM every night. We take our time. We talk. We dine together. We have dinner parties with friends that start with appetizers at 6:30 and finish with dessert at 9:00.In other words, I’ve spent three decades learning what it means not just to eat, but to enjoy the food and the rituals that surround food.
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