Friday, June 15, 2012
Story of my life
Saturday, June 2, 2012
CARPACCIO: THE EUROPEAN TOURS, VOL. I
THE MOOD was set early, a Sunday morning walk on a 77-degree day through the Jardin Tuileries, then along the right bank of the Seine. The iPod provided the mood music: John Coltrane, Live in Antibes, 1965 – a phenomenal performance, nearly 50 minutes of “A Love Supreme” capped by a sly finale on soprano sax by Coltrane and special Pharoah Sanders.
The housekeeping came first: the Boy wanted a photo of L’Tour Eiffel, and mission accomplished. The harder part, the underestimated part, was navigating the gastronomic brick and cobblestone streets of Paris.
If “No” is an international word, when it comes to food, the most fitting international phrase is “Can You Vouch?” I hadn’t been to Paris since November 1999, and had not cultivated a list of restaurant stalwarts. I scoured the Internet for recommendations, but was reduced to recommendation, the always dangerous, always tricky, always uncomfortable space where Friends Go on Trial.
The first day was easy. Tennis at Roland Garros rolled into the night, making it difficult for true adventure. I chose conservatively, Bar Tuileries, otherwise known as the hotel bar at the Westin Paris. The Westin represented something of a haven for English speakers. It was a French-free zone best illustrated by a late-night scene in the elevator during the trip, where reserved Parisians (and reserved foreigners) heading up were awoken by a big, booming American voice and his giggling female companion. “EVERYBODY HAVIN’ A GOOD TIME? WHO’S GOT SNACKS?”
(A point of information here: I was suffering from the severe, self-inflicted handicap of not speaking French. A general exchange for me went something like this:
“Bonjour, monsieur.”
“Bonjour. (whispering lower) Um, do you speak English?” (weak, helpless smile).
“Oui, monsieur. How may I help you?”
Only begging for a piece of bread would have been more embarrassing than my attempts at French).
I settled in on the beef tartare, salad and French fries. To add to the odd mix was a mojito, or perhaps it should be called an “18-euro mojito.” It wasn’t overly adventurous, but in the States, I never order beef tartare because few places do French food well. Paris was the place to make the leap.
It was a welcome score. The mixture of capers and mustard was interesting and the beef was robust instead of looking like it was headed for the dumpster until it was rescued by some idiot ordering the tartar. Things were off to a good start.
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| Note the portion size, but the tartare was quite dense. |
The housekeeping came first: the Boy wanted a photo of L’Tour Eiffel, and mission accomplished. The harder part, the underestimated part, was navigating the gastronomic brick and cobblestone streets of Paris.
If “No” is an international word, when it comes to food, the most fitting international phrase is “Can You Vouch?” I hadn’t been to Paris since November 1999, and had not cultivated a list of restaurant stalwarts. I scoured the Internet for recommendations, but was reduced to recommendation, the always dangerous, always tricky, always uncomfortable space where Friends Go on Trial.
The first day was easy. Tennis at Roland Garros rolled into the night, making it difficult for true adventure. I chose conservatively, Bar Tuileries, otherwise known as the hotel bar at the Westin Paris. The Westin represented something of a haven for English speakers. It was a French-free zone best illustrated by a late-night scene in the elevator during the trip, where reserved Parisians (and reserved foreigners) heading up were awoken by a big, booming American voice and his giggling female companion. “EVERYBODY HAVIN’ A GOOD TIME? WHO’S GOT SNACKS?”
(A point of information here: I was suffering from the severe, self-inflicted handicap of not speaking French. A general exchange for me went something like this:
“Bonjour, monsieur.”
“Bonjour. (whispering lower) Um, do you speak English?” (weak, helpless smile).
“Oui, monsieur. How may I help you?”
Only begging for a piece of bread would have been more embarrassing than my attempts at French).
I settled in on the beef tartare, salad and French fries. To add to the odd mix was a mojito, or perhaps it should be called an “18-euro mojito.” It wasn’t overly adventurous, but in the States, I never order beef tartare because few places do French food well. Paris was the place to make the leap.
It was a welcome score. The mixture of capers and mustard was interesting and the beef was robust instead of looking like it was headed for the dumpster until it was rescued by some idiot ordering the tartar. Things were off to a good start.
And dessert...
Bar Tuileries
I arrived on the grounds at roughly 10 am and proceeded to get acclimated, an endeavor which included having Martina Navratilova, the finest, fiercest competitor of them all, sprint by, and watching Francesca Schiavone lose to newly minted American citizen Varvara Lepchenko in three sets. When Schiavone won the French Open in 2010, she was frequently compared to Navratilova (perhaps as much for her wearing her competitive emotions without the pretense of being ladylike as for her aggressive serve and volley).
Schiavone has never been as good as she was when she won, but she is still a compelling figure to watch.
By 3:30 pm (my apologies, 15:30 hrs. I am in Europe), I still hadn't checked into my room and hadn't slept since waking up Friday morning. Upon walking back to the hotel, a quick walk from the Corcorde Metro stop along Rue de Rivoli to Rue de Castiglione, it was obvious I needed a plan: I'm in the greatest food city in the world and don't have the slightest idea of where to go.
The smart move was to regroup at Bar Tuileries, enjoy a €17 mojito (damn!) To go with a delicious beef tartare. Eating the first meal in Paris at the hotel bar may not have been the most inspired choice, but it had to be done for strategic purposes - and it wasn't like I ordered a cheeseburger.
Tuesday, May 22, 2012
An Unacceptable Lull...
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| Carpaccio from Abe and Louie's, Boston (and yes, that's a fried egg on top) |
MORE THAN THREE MONTHS HAVE PASSED since the last entry, a dereliction of duty that without care could have become fatal, leaving The Carpaccio Files chipped, run down, ignored. It would have been not unlike driving by a dilapidated tennis court or ballfield, overgrown and neglected, its vibrancy but a memory. There is a lesson in this: Blogs in motion stay in motion…
Forgotten tennis courts with inch-wide cracks and grass growing diagonally across the service box is due to neglect – no one is actually playing tennis on those courts anymore. The same is true for those sad and sagging baseball diamonds where the fences are broken, the grass tall and wild and nobody cares – people have moved on to other things.
Here, the offense is actually worse, because discovery and discussion is alive, the adventure in gastronomy is ongoing, wonderfully and dynamically - I have simply been too lazy to water the plant. As I load up the Ipad and Ipod for the Next Big Trip _ the French Open _ my dereliction has been boundless.
There have been trips to Scottsdale, Arizona (Sweet Baby Ray's Barbecue, http://www.sbrbbq.com/), Boston (Sonsie http://sonsieboston.com/flash/, Abe and Louie's Steakhouse http://www.abeandlouies.com/), and, yes, Laramie, Wyoming (Altitude chophouse, http://www.altitudechophouse.com/), which will all be discussed.
I even failed to mention the BNP Paribas Open at Indian Wells, California back in March, which featured not only another lack of conviction from one of my favorites, Jo-Wilfried Tosnga, Roger Federer dusting a distracted Rafael Nadal in a weather-marred semifinal and John Isner stunning the great Djokovic in the other, but the abundance of carving stations during the hospitality reception that made me think of only one thing: death by box lunch during the World Series.
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| Tsonga couldn't put it together against Nalbandian... |
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| ....but no dead rat sandwich, with an apple and chips for me at Indian Wells. We got first-class sushi... |
WHEN RULES COLLIDE
HB Rule no. 1: Never experiment when you're hungry.
HB Rule no. 2: Avoid chain restaurants whenever possible.*
* (I didn't know Sweet Baby Ray's was a chain until I got there, so back off...)
Indian Wells forced a collision of two important pillars of The Carpaccio Files. Palm Desert was lovely, and there was just something fun and breezy about navigating Doris Day Drive from Frank Sinatra Drive and I think Bob Hope Drive runs into Kirk Douglass Way in Palm Springs. Nevertheless, I wasn't overjoyed by The Nest and wound up at Roy's, the high-end Hawaiian fusion chain that receives a waiver from the rule. I have dined at Roy's in Kauai, Philadelphia, San Francisco, New York, Baltimore, Newport Beach and Tampa, and it was sad to walk along 15th Street and find the Philadelphia edition to be wiped out, closed. Over.
Roy's Palm Desert didn't disappoint, and while rule no. 1 was reinforced at the expense of rule no. 2, I nevertheless believe I came out ahead and morally intact. Roy's is consistent. It can be counted on (unless you're in Philly looking for it).
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| The pineapple upside-down cake at Roy's is as reliable as Ripken... |
Meanwhile, local discussions are taking place at high and serious levels. New Year’s resolution no. 2 _ only eat sushi in Approved Sushi Zones _ is facing a serious challenge, a recall perhaps, if you will.
Challenge and competition is good for democracy, and Northampton, MA is petitioning ASZ status. Before the resolution, I had dined at Zen Sushi on Main Street. Zen was erratic, sometimes more valuable for its Chinese food than its sushi, which brings us to a Red Flag:
1. You can either be a Chinese Restaurant or a Japanese Restaurant, but you cannot be both. This is a stone-tablet fact.
The sushi at Zen was reliable for reduced expectations, solid and passable if you happen to be 90 minutes from Boston and yet are craving a dragon roll. Still, like Arigato, my old local sushi in Fairfax, Virginia (DEFINITELY NOT AN APPROVED SUSHI ZONE), the eel would be overcooked or mushy, and the mackerel might be wet, slimy and/or fishy or surprisingly good. Arigato simply couldn’t be counted on. The same became true for Zen over the past couple of years, prompting a New Year’s sushi resolution.
Danielle Mann, a friend who once called Northampton home, suggested Moshi Moshi, located diagonally from Zen as a local joint worthy of ASZ inclusion while another told me the only acceptable sushi in Northampton was Osaka Japanese Steakhouse and Sushi. Danielle (who, as an aside, should be a hand model in her spare time. Like Charlie Brown and the Little Red Haired Girl, I do notice hands, but that is another story for a different blog) not only vouched for Moshi Moshi, but also worked there. Vouching, as we know, is serious business, for not only is it a referendum on credibility, but also on taste. By vouching we find out a lot of things, sometimes _ when a highly recommended restaurant turns out to be dreadful _ information we wish we hadn't. There is an inherent danger in this...
Nevertheless, I determined a runoff between Osaka and Moshi Moshi: Five separate visits to each ordering the same meal. The reason for the five visits ordering the same thing was to determine consistency, always important. Last week it was a dragon roll, crunchy dynamite roll and an order of saba (mackerel) nigiri.
Round 1 went to Osaka. Danielle vouched well, and I happily don't have to question her taste and she can avoid for the moment calling me a sushi snob. Moshi Moshi was more energetic and friendly. Immediately upon entering, Sam, the gregarious sushi chef, bellowed comically and melodically, “Welcome to Moshi Moshi! Thank you coming!” Style points are not insignificant, especially when choosing a local joint, and as a rule, anyone who is a regular should be treated with respect. It was clear that frequenting Moshi Moshi would only enhance the neighborhood experience. Places like Moshi Moshi make a town feel like home.
On this day, however, even though the nice people at Osaka barely said hello, the food was better on each item. The price was negligible, and I will be watching Osaka to determine if it is the kind of restaurant that treats regulars like strangers, but eel, mackerel and dynamite rolls won the day. The local sushi runoff is officially underway....
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| Osaka 1, Moshi Moshi 0 |
Sunday, February 19, 2012
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