Thursday morning, seeking a taste of Europe, I walked over to the Keltic Krust in West Newton, a bakery that my mother discovered after moving here many years ago. They make delicious buttery scones and I was hunkering after one. I decided to eat it there and ordered a cup of coffee to go with it. Sitting in the empty cafe, which was quiet except for the sound of a local radio station, I missed the noises of Italy's pasticcerias, where people drink their espresso and eat a pastry while standing at the counter chatting with the barrista, the saucers, cups and teaspoons gently clanging on the glass. Italians don't linger over their morning snack and as new customers enter, the barristas create the custom coffees, first placing the saucer on the counter - clang - then the cup filled with the brew - clang.
I discovered these sounds towards the end of my trip when, uninspired by the offering of individually packaged "toast" and average coffee at my bed & breakfast in Florence, I decided to eat where the locals were. For a few days I enjoyed my favorite panini - bresaola (dried beef), arugola, parmesan - and a macchiato, with the bustle of the barristas and clanging of cups as background music.
During my scone, the rain began to come down and, umbrellaless, I chose to wait it out. It was an opportunity to try another of their offerings - I chose a hot cross bun. While not hot, it was very tasty, denser and more filling than the scone. At the quiet counter I noticed another delicacy - a chocolate potato - which reminded me of a similarly named creation I ate in Venice. Remembering the dense, rich, alcohol-soaked confection I had enjoyed a few weeks ago and many miles away, I bought one to go, saving it for that evening.
If I needed a reality check that I was no longer in Europe, this potato was it. Dry and containing barely a hint of rum, it was more like a cocoa turd than the chocolate potato of Venice. Perhaps the Keltic Krust should stick to scones, and maybe I should, too.
Showing posts with label Food. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Food. Show all posts
Saturday, June 2, 2007
Sunday, May 27, 2007
A Signora Alone
After a brief freak out over prices in Venice, I decided to get over my sticker shock and start enjoying some dinners in restaurants. In Ravenna, during my mosaics class, I often had company for dinner. But in Rome and Florence I've mostly been a signora dining alone, and I can't say that I've been received with open arms.
Yes, they have space for single diners, but it usually the worst seat in the house. Last night, at a popular enoteca (wine bar) in Florence, I agreed to be seated at the bar; the previous night there had been no seats whatsoever so I was glad to at least have a chance to sample their food and wine. At first I chose a spot at the end of the bar, but it turned out to be in front of the meat slicer. I realized this when I looked up and found myself staring at a pig's hoof, which was attached to the pig's leg, which was attached to the pig's thigh, which was being shaved into thin pieces of prosciutto.
I moved over a few chairs so that I would have a different view. But then a few more people came in and wanted to be seated at the bar, and the maitre d', an unsmiling woman with cropped hair, asked if the signora could move over. I did, but I was a bit annoyed.
Tonight I went to another bustling restaurant with outdoor and indoor seating. They only had room inside, I was told, which I accepted. I was shown to a seat at the end of a bench, facing the kitchen, in a room with no other diners.
Um...no.
I asked if there was another spot available. The maitre d', a brisk woman with long hair, grudgingly showed me another place, in a room that had other people in it.
"Is this OK for the signora?"
It would do.
Tomorrow is my last night in Italy and I'll be spending it in Venice. I know a great self service restaurant there - it has good food and no attitude, and I can sit wherever I want.
Yes, they have space for single diners, but it usually the worst seat in the house. Last night, at a popular enoteca (wine bar) in Florence, I agreed to be seated at the bar; the previous night there had been no seats whatsoever so I was glad to at least have a chance to sample their food and wine. At first I chose a spot at the end of the bar, but it turned out to be in front of the meat slicer. I realized this when I looked up and found myself staring at a pig's hoof, which was attached to the pig's leg, which was attached to the pig's thigh, which was being shaved into thin pieces of prosciutto.
I moved over a few chairs so that I would have a different view. But then a few more people came in and wanted to be seated at the bar, and the maitre d', an unsmiling woman with cropped hair, asked if the signora could move over. I did, but I was a bit annoyed.
Tonight I went to another bustling restaurant with outdoor and indoor seating. They only had room inside, I was told, which I accepted. I was shown to a seat at the end of a bench, facing the kitchen, in a room with no other diners.
Um...no.
I asked if there was another spot available. The maitre d', a brisk woman with long hair, grudgingly showed me another place, in a room that had other people in it.
"Is this OK for the signora?"
It would do.
Tomorrow is my last night in Italy and I'll be spending it in Venice. I know a great self service restaurant there - it has good food and no attitude, and I can sit wherever I want.
Sunday, May 20, 2007
A Real Roman Restaurant
There is more to an authentic Italian restaurant than just the food. There is also the attitude. And so it was, when I joined my older brother (in Italy for work) and a few of his Roman colleagues and friends for dinner on Saturday night, that we encountered the real deal.
A large older woman with a sharp nose, wearing a white apron over her shapeless dress, her hair covered in a white cotton cloth à la Vermeer's Girl with a Pearl Earring and with a blue latex glove on her right hand only, greeted us at the entrance. By greeting, I mean she chastised us for not having the entire party arrive on time, as if she were our grandmother who had prepared food especially for us and it was now getting cold. A woman named Valeria, who had made the reservation, was running late. Someone mentioned the presence in our group of an American professor (my brother), as if that would elicit different behavior, to which she said, not unkindly, "I don't care."
"I think the food here is going to be good," I ventured, figuring that there was a reason she could afford to be so rude. After a few more minutes of standing outside the restaurant and conferring with Valeria by cell phone, we decided to sit at our table and wait there.
"Ciao, American Professor," the woman said to my brother as we entered, shaking his hand. She was now in a slightly better mood.
We were about to embark on what would turn out to be dinner theater with extremely limited audience participation. In Ravenna, a mosaics classmate and I had eaten at a place where there was no written menu. The waitress asked us what we wanted to eat (e.g. pasta or meat) and then rattled off the choices for that evening. I was not quite sure what I was in the mood for, but since I didn't understand much of what she said and she was getting impatient, we ended up choosing a pasta dish, cappelletti, whose ingredients (cheese, asparagus) I recognized. The steaming food was delivered to our table in the sautee pan in which it was prepared.
At this bustling Roman place, near Campo de' Fiori, we had no say as to what we'd be eating. The antipasti (fresh tomatoes, lentils, fried rice balls, fried eggplant for my brother and me, prosciutto for the Italians) were plunked onto the table by a waiter who seemed resentful that we were giving him a job to do. Ditto for bottles of mineral water and a carafe of white house wine (what if we had wanted red?). Perhaps he would have preferred to toss the dishes, frisbee style, to our table, so that he wouldn't have had to deal with us. The only choice we were given was whether we wanted parmesan cheese on our pasta course, but the question was asked in such a way that it was clear that the only acceptable answers were "Yes" or "No", and not, "Could I have some on the side?" or, "Could you just put a little bit on it?," or any other personalized instruction. Never mind that we had no idea what the pasta dish even was. People choosing this restaurant, and it was packed, trust the chef to determine what they will eat.
Plunk, plunk, plunk, bowls of rigatoni were dropped on our table.
Next came the second course, roasted veal with fried slivers of potato and a green salad.
No one asked us if we wanted dessert. It, too, was plunked on the table. We each received a glass dish of fresh strawberries along with a spoon. Wedges of a fruit tart were arranged on two plates, one for each side of the table. I waited to see if forks would appear, but they did not, so we ate the delicious cake with our fingers.
However, the restaurant did ask if we wanted an after dinner liqueur. Why not? Small glasses of limoncello arrived, a sweet ending to an evening's entertainment in which our role was to shut up, eat up, and be grateful.
It was past midnight when we left the restaurant. The once grouchy, blue gloved woman hugged Valeria and warmly thanked us for coming.
Encore!
A large older woman with a sharp nose, wearing a white apron over her shapeless dress, her hair covered in a white cotton cloth à la Vermeer's Girl with a Pearl Earring and with a blue latex glove on her right hand only, greeted us at the entrance. By greeting, I mean she chastised us for not having the entire party arrive on time, as if she were our grandmother who had prepared food especially for us and it was now getting cold. A woman named Valeria, who had made the reservation, was running late. Someone mentioned the presence in our group of an American professor (my brother), as if that would elicit different behavior, to which she said, not unkindly, "I don't care."
"I think the food here is going to be good," I ventured, figuring that there was a reason she could afford to be so rude. After a few more minutes of standing outside the restaurant and conferring with Valeria by cell phone, we decided to sit at our table and wait there.
"Ciao, American Professor," the woman said to my brother as we entered, shaking his hand. She was now in a slightly better mood.
We were about to embark on what would turn out to be dinner theater with extremely limited audience participation. In Ravenna, a mosaics classmate and I had eaten at a place where there was no written menu. The waitress asked us what we wanted to eat (e.g. pasta or meat) and then rattled off the choices for that evening. I was not quite sure what I was in the mood for, but since I didn't understand much of what she said and she was getting impatient, we ended up choosing a pasta dish, cappelletti, whose ingredients (cheese, asparagus) I recognized. The steaming food was delivered to our table in the sautee pan in which it was prepared.
At this bustling Roman place, near Campo de' Fiori, we had no say as to what we'd be eating. The antipasti (fresh tomatoes, lentils, fried rice balls, fried eggplant for my brother and me, prosciutto for the Italians) were plunked onto the table by a waiter who seemed resentful that we were giving him a job to do. Ditto for bottles of mineral water and a carafe of white house wine (what if we had wanted red?). Perhaps he would have preferred to toss the dishes, frisbee style, to our table, so that he wouldn't have had to deal with us. The only choice we were given was whether we wanted parmesan cheese on our pasta course, but the question was asked in such a way that it was clear that the only acceptable answers were "Yes" or "No", and not, "Could I have some on the side?" or, "Could you just put a little bit on it?," or any other personalized instruction. Never mind that we had no idea what the pasta dish even was. People choosing this restaurant, and it was packed, trust the chef to determine what they will eat.
Plunk, plunk, plunk, bowls of rigatoni were dropped on our table.
Next came the second course, roasted veal with fried slivers of potato and a green salad.
No one asked us if we wanted dessert. It, too, was plunked on the table. We each received a glass dish of fresh strawberries along with a spoon. Wedges of a fruit tart were arranged on two plates, one for each side of the table. I waited to see if forks would appear, but they did not, so we ate the delicious cake with our fingers.
However, the restaurant did ask if we wanted an after dinner liqueur. Why not? Small glasses of limoncello arrived, a sweet ending to an evening's entertainment in which our role was to shut up, eat up, and be grateful.
It was past midnight when we left the restaurant. The once grouchy, blue gloved woman hugged Valeria and warmly thanked us for coming.
Encore!
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
My Favorite Italian Phrase: "Self Service"
Italy has "self service" restaurants (yes, they use the English expression), which are jazzy cafeterias serving fresh and freshly made food. In front of your eyes, you can have a pizza baked to order or watch a chef swirl olive oil in a skillet before she adds pasta and sauce. Often there are several varieties of pasta cooking on a stove, but not in such large quantity that the food sits around. The chefs keep busy during lunch hour, when these places fill up with Italians and tourists alike.
For the non-Italian speaker, the "self service" restaurant takes some of the mystery out of ordering as you can peek at all the choices before selecting, to both figure out what they are and to see if they look appealing. And frequently you can build your own salad; they charge by the plate size, not by weight, so if you have no shame about loading up a small bowl with all sorts of vegetables you can have a healthy meal for just a few euros.
In Italy, eating at a cafeteria is no less festive than dining at a restaurant. Wine is readily and plentifully available, in sizes ranging from a full bottle to a single serving, reds and whites both. And of course there is an espresso machine!
Because the food is relatively inexpensive (about half the price of a regular restaurant), I am often tempted to order many things, just to try them all. But my waistband keeps getting tighter, and I need to leave room for my daily gelato fix...I may need to return to Italy to complete my due diligence!
For the non-Italian speaker, the "self service" restaurant takes some of the mystery out of ordering as you can peek at all the choices before selecting, to both figure out what they are and to see if they look appealing. And frequently you can build your own salad; they charge by the plate size, not by weight, so if you have no shame about loading up a small bowl with all sorts of vegetables you can have a healthy meal for just a few euros.
In Italy, eating at a cafeteria is no less festive than dining at a restaurant. Wine is readily and plentifully available, in sizes ranging from a full bottle to a single serving, reds and whites both. And of course there is an espresso machine!
Because the food is relatively inexpensive (about half the price of a regular restaurant), I am often tempted to order many things, just to try them all. But my waistband keeps getting tighter, and I need to leave room for my daily gelato fix...I may need to return to Italy to complete my due diligence!
Sunday, May 13, 2007
Full in (but not of) Bologna
Looking for a place to spend a day or so in between Venice and Ravenna, I decided to visit Bologna, where food reigns supreme. Instead of stores filled with glass objects and souvenirs, there are shops loaded with cheeses, meats and homemade pastas, all neatly displayed in cases or in the windows. Gigantic parma hams cluster in large bunches from the ceilings, each probably worth more than its weight in gold. The fact that I don't eat pork slashes my choices considerably, making it easier to decide what to taste.
My guidebook strongly recommends an award winning ice cream shop, Sorbetteria Castiglione, so off I go, wandering through arcades and porticos that are at least two storeys high. To call Bolognese architecture grand is an understatement. Many of the doorways to older churches and buildings are dozens of feet tall, and I feel like a dwarf as I make my way down Castiglione Street. Sadly, many of these buildings are also amply adorned with graffiti. Bologna is a student town, perhaps that explains the prevalence of spraypainted gobbledygook?
Soon I arrive at the ice cream place. They have a limited selection of flavors, half of which are the house specialties. You pay by the weight - I choose 250 grams worth of three flavors: dark chocolate, Michelangelo (an almond based flavor) and a cream of ricotta with caramel. Simply stunning, making Venetian gelato seem like a Hoodsie. I am tempted to order another portion and try even more of their special recipes but want to leave room for something healthy (um...before this I also sampled some pizza).
Bologna is home to several brick towers, erected back in the 12th century by wealthy families who wanted to make a statement - the Donald Trumps of that time? There used to be 180 towers, and now there are around a dozen, of which one can be climbed (another, right next to it, was poorly built and now leans more than 3 meters off center). I figured climbing nearly 500 steps will be a good way to work off the ice cream...up I go! Oddly, the ticket booth is not located on the ground, at the entrance, but a good 50 steep steps inside the tower, where the clerk perches in a tiny alcove and collects the three euro admission.
The ascent makes the four flights of to my Venice hotel room seem like not such a big deal. Halfway up, on a wooden staircase that hugs the inside walls of the tower, with just air in between, I decide that I really shouldn't look down or worry about when the last time the tower was inspected. Periodically, there is a floor or platform in between endless staircases where the out-of-shape can catch their breath. At the top, the view is well worth the effort and there is a refreshing breeze. Mission accomplished.
Returning to terra firma, I spot a religious procession, with clerics in many different colored outfits parading through the main square while singing. A small group of protesters has gathered, but they don't look particularly angry or upset (many are laughing and smiling) and the signs they are holding or wearing (affixed with tape), advocating civil unions and equal rights, are simply white pieces of paper lettered with magic markers. No large placards to be found, no one is chanting or shouting. Uniformed police stand around, just in case. Some photographers zoom in for shots of these signs. The writing is so small that you have to be quite close to read them. Later, I read in my guidebook that Bologna has one of the country's "better organized" gay communities....
And now, you've guessed correctly, it is time for dinner. So far, my guidebook is batting 1,000 with food recommendations in Bologna, so I walk out of the center in search of a trattoria it mentions as being popular with locals. It is Saturday night, and the touted prix fixe menu is not available, but I decide to try the place anyway. A typical Italian meal has a first course (usually pasta) and a second course (meat or fish), but I can't fathom eating all that food. I order a side salad and truffle flavored cheese filled tortelli (larger than tortellini), and a 1/4 liter of insanely inexpensive house wine, which I can't finish. I had forgotten how intense the truffle aroma is, and when my plate arrives it stinks (at first I thought that the waitress had neglected to shower...). But the pasta is handmade, the cheese mouthwatering and I am smitten.
In a bit of a stupor and completely full, I waddle back to my bed & breakfast and go to sleep, under a crucifix.
My guidebook strongly recommends an award winning ice cream shop, Sorbetteria Castiglione, so off I go, wandering through arcades and porticos that are at least two storeys high. To call Bolognese architecture grand is an understatement. Many of the doorways to older churches and buildings are dozens of feet tall, and I feel like a dwarf as I make my way down Castiglione Street. Sadly, many of these buildings are also amply adorned with graffiti. Bologna is a student town, perhaps that explains the prevalence of spraypainted gobbledygook?
Soon I arrive at the ice cream place. They have a limited selection of flavors, half of which are the house specialties. You pay by the weight - I choose 250 grams worth of three flavors: dark chocolate, Michelangelo (an almond based flavor) and a cream of ricotta with caramel. Simply stunning, making Venetian gelato seem like a Hoodsie. I am tempted to order another portion and try even more of their special recipes but want to leave room for something healthy (um...before this I also sampled some pizza).
Bologna is home to several brick towers, erected back in the 12th century by wealthy families who wanted to make a statement - the Donald Trumps of that time? There used to be 180 towers, and now there are around a dozen, of which one can be climbed (another, right next to it, was poorly built and now leans more than 3 meters off center). I figured climbing nearly 500 steps will be a good way to work off the ice cream...up I go! Oddly, the ticket booth is not located on the ground, at the entrance, but a good 50 steep steps inside the tower, where the clerk perches in a tiny alcove and collects the three euro admission.
The ascent makes the four flights of to my Venice hotel room seem like not such a big deal. Halfway up, on a wooden staircase that hugs the inside walls of the tower, with just air in between, I decide that I really shouldn't look down or worry about when the last time the tower was inspected. Periodically, there is a floor or platform in between endless staircases where the out-of-shape can catch their breath. At the top, the view is well worth the effort and there is a refreshing breeze. Mission accomplished.
Returning to terra firma, I spot a religious procession, with clerics in many different colored outfits parading through the main square while singing. A small group of protesters has gathered, but they don't look particularly angry or upset (many are laughing and smiling) and the signs they are holding or wearing (affixed with tape), advocating civil unions and equal rights, are simply white pieces of paper lettered with magic markers. No large placards to be found, no one is chanting or shouting. Uniformed police stand around, just in case. Some photographers zoom in for shots of these signs. The writing is so small that you have to be quite close to read them. Later, I read in my guidebook that Bologna has one of the country's "better organized" gay communities....
And now, you've guessed correctly, it is time for dinner. So far, my guidebook is batting 1,000 with food recommendations in Bologna, so I walk out of the center in search of a trattoria it mentions as being popular with locals. It is Saturday night, and the touted prix fixe menu is not available, but I decide to try the place anyway. A typical Italian meal has a first course (usually pasta) and a second course (meat or fish), but I can't fathom eating all that food. I order a side salad and truffle flavored cheese filled tortelli (larger than tortellini), and a 1/4 liter of insanely inexpensive house wine, which I can't finish. I had forgotten how intense the truffle aroma is, and when my plate arrives it stinks (at first I thought that the waitress had neglected to shower...). But the pasta is handmade, the cheese mouthwatering and I am smitten.
In a bit of a stupor and completely full, I waddle back to my bed & breakfast and go to sleep, under a crucifix.
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