LLWorldTour

Every country I visit has its share of amazing local food; fantastic fromage and charcuterie in France, fresh vegetables and layered spices in Vietnam, super fresh, still nearly breathing sushi in Tokyo, overflowing plates of tasty mezze in Greece and Turkey. And then there’s the comforting food of Italy. Perhaps it’s because, as Americans, it is one of the foreign foods that we barely consider foreign. Who didn’t grow up in the United States eating pizza, lasagna, baked ziti, spaghetti Bolognese (pasta with meat sauce) or veal parmigiana?  It seems no matter what your background was, mom always made some kind of Italian meal at least once a week. And if you grew up in or near New York like me, local, first and second generation Italian pizzerias and pasta joints were more common than McDonald’s.  My spot of choice was Frank’s Pizza just a few doors down from my high school job at the local, family-owned (and second generation Italian) video rental store, Image Photo & Video. I could always pop in for lunch for a slice of yummy mushroom or prosciutto pizza. Or maybe some Eggplant parmigiana?

So, as I journeyed my way down the bountiful boot of Italy, I devoured the foods I’ve always eaten, but here with a bit more robust flavors, often times fresher ingredients, and of course, the backdrop of a centuries old piazzas (squares) all adding to the experience.

Torino (Turin)
Italy’s fourth largest city had a major facelift recently thanks to the Winter Olympic Games that were hosted here in 2006.  This capital of the Piedmont Region has had many food innovations, not to mention it’s the home of the ‘little Italian car that could’ – the Fiat (lovingly said to stand for “Fix it Again, Tony”).
Turin is the home of Lavazza Coffee and one of my favorite things on the planet – Nutella. This jar of chocolaty goodness is available at just about every supermarket around the world – and why wouldn’t it be? Who can deny the rich flavors of chocolate and hazelnuts spread on a slice of bread, cracker, or just simply licked off a finger. If you haven’t ever tried it yet then run, don’t walk, to your nearest grocer and buy several jars, because I promise, one won’t be enough.

Turin is also the home of a big culinary movement that is growing fast – Slow Food. In the US, for decades we have wanted nearly everything done fast – our commutes, our meetings, and our meals. Often times, we scarf down some kind of mystery meat on a bun at our desk at lunch…all the while keeping our eyes on the computer screen and one hand placed upon on not so hygienic mouse. Gradually, it seems we are more enjoying the art of dining out with friends and making it last. When was the last time you savored a meal – slowly masticating each tender morsel and taking the time to enjoy the flavors and think about what you are eating? Maybe that’s part of our problem we don’t even think what we shove down our gullets and five minutes later the meal is over and we go about our business.

In 1987, McDonalds began its inevitable expansion into Italy. A few Italian foodies got together to make sure this was not the end as they knew it to the fabulous Italian sit down meal. Carlo Petrinim and some of his foodie friends (neoforchettoni or ‘big forks’) wrote a manifesto which was published in the Italian foodie Culinary Magazine, Gambero Rosso.  LINK They declared that a meal should not be measured by its speed, but by its pure pleasure. From this they founded the soon-to-be world famous Slow Food organization.  Its mission was to reconnect artisanal producers with interested and consumers. And it’s working. Slow food has grown fast. Their membership is close to 100,000 in 50 countries worldwide. And their message of biodiversity, sustainability, and shared food resources is traveling around the world at lightening speed.  Just as they had hoped, the Slow Food movement is growing faster than McDonald’s expansion – at least in the Piedmont Region. There are now about 30 of Ronald’s burger joints, but at least twice as many acclaimed Slow Food restaurants plus the fabulously chic and well-stocked new slow food superstore, Eately. Catchy name, eh? I visited this Whole Foods crossed with an Italian food-lover’s paradise and drooled over the enormous selection of cheeses, meats, breads, pastas, fish, chocolate, and olive oils. Stark white shelves heave with perfectly aligned jars of oily, salty anchovies, a plethora of pestos, tasty tapenades, freshly made pastas, and so much more. But luckily there are cafes sprinkled throughout the store where you can sit down and chow on some of the delights right before your eyes.  And for dessert, of course, there is a gelato stand where part of the proceeds goes to charity.

Parma
This lovely provincial town may be one of the most expensive and richest in all of Italy. Why? Two words: prosciutto and parmigiano. High in the hills of Parma in the Emilia-Romagna Province of Italy amidst the evergreens and snowy mountaintops, live a few hundred producers of what is possibly the world’s most famous ham: prosciutto di Parma. I got a ‘behind the scenes’ tour of one of the local producers, San Nicola, one of the first in Parma to go from a small artisanal family practice to a more industrialized shop trotting out 100,000 legs of prosciutto each year. But don’t let the word “industrialized” fool you, San Nicola is still a family-owned operation employing just 13 folks.   It is among all the other hundreds of shops in the area who together ultimately produce 10 million legs of prosciutto each year – 450,000 of which are exported to the USA.  That’s a lot of ham.

What is prosciutto exactly? Isn’t it simply some cured ham? Well kind of yes…and kind of no. If you ask Luca Baratta, the Manager of Production at San Nicola, he will tell you it is much, much more than that. It is a centuries old tradition that is now regulated by the government in which nearly every aspect of this ham production is regulated and approved.  His factory for the most part feels like a library…a library of meat. Rows and rows of metal shelves with quiet hanging pink legs just waiting, relaxing, and aging in peace. It is super clean and quiet with a handful of workers only seen at the beginning of the assembly line where the fresh legs come in from the local pig farmer. Here they are checked for quality, sorted and stamped with metal seals of approval. From here they are salted, then rinsed and eventually hung to age for anywhere from 16 to 30 months.

For ham to actually be given the regal moniker of Prosciotto di parma it must follow strict guidelines established by the government in 1970 under what is called the D.O.P. – the Denominazione di Origine Protetta (or Parma Ham Consortium). In a country that takes its food very seriously, this is kind of like the food police and you don’t want to mess with them.  The guidelines pertain to many criteria including where the pig came from, how they are raised, what they eat, how they are slaughtered, and of course the actual salting and curing processes.  Every step of the way is checked, monitored, and given a stamp of approval. In fact, in today’s over-marketed world where nearly everything is “new and improved,” “genuine,” and “premium” it is nice to know that the prosciutto governing body forbids these qualifications and others like it. The only words allowed to be used are “boneless” and “sliced,” if that is in fact the case.

Some of the not-so-secret secrets of good prosciutto are the length of time it’s aged and having a thicker layer of fat encasing the meat. Some may seem this as unhealthy, but in the aging process it’s this fat that locks in the moisture and flavor making ham magic happen and ultimately creating some of the best prosciutto I’ve ever had the pleasure of tasking - tender, melt in your mouth deliciousness. Luca says through the process, this food product is actually better and healthier than when it first started.  Perhaps he’s right because it tastes like heaven.

Bologna
No my friends this is not the home of that odd and bland American invention, Baloney. Nor is it home to the U.S. version of spaghetti bolognese. But it is the home of 

alla bolognese …the real deal meat-based sauce with actually very little tomato and never served over spaghetti (a Naples invention), but with the local egg pastas tagliatelle or lasagne. The recipe, issued in 1982 by the Bolognese delegation of Accademia Italiana della Cucina, confines the ingredients to beef, pancetta, onions, carrots, celery, tomato paste, broth, red wine, and (optionally) milk or cream.
Perugia
The original chocolate kiss, the Baci is from here. These hazelnut, chocolate morsels are made by internationally imported chocolatier – Perugina, one of the most successful confectioners in Italy. The company was introduced to the U.S.A at the 1939 World’s Fair in New York, and have since become known for fine chocolate around the world.  And, of course, in this time of mergers and big business, Perugina is now a division of the Swiss Nestlé corporation.

I could go on and on about the specialties from each region: the rich more robust sauces of Calabria and Sicily, the Napolitano Pizza, the secretly sniffed-out truffles of Umbria and so on. But perhaps like me, you are now hungry…so get down to your local farmer’s market for some fresh produce, hit your local Italian market for some fresh pasta (or better yet, learn to make your own), grab some extra virgin olive oil and mangia!

Whatever you call it: café, coffee, espresso, café latte, or just a ‘cup of joe,’ coffee has been drunk for centuries and varies depending on the species of coffee plant the bean comes from - a misnomer for seed (arabica, robusta, etc.) - and the type of roast (Italian, French, American, etc.). It was discovered originally in Ethiopia, spread through Arabia into Turkey and eventually to the thriving trade port in Venice. Today coffee drinks are big business and, for better or worse, a cup of coffee has become part of the uniform of the American worker (and an eco-disaster). Noted as one of the world’s largest, most valuable, legally traded commodities after oil, coffee has become a vital cash crop for many Third World countries. Brazil is the world leader in production of green coffee, followed by Vietnam and Colombia. Of course with all this demand comes big ecological impacts as well. A major issue concerning coffee is its use of water. According to New Scientist, it takes about 140 liters of water to grow the coffee beans needed to produce one cup of coffee and coffee is often grown in countries where there is a water shortage.

The concept of fair trade labeling, which guarantees coffee growers a negotiated pre-harvest price, began in Europe in the ’60s.  Fairtrade is about better prices, decent working conditions, local sustainability, and fair terms of trade for farmers and workers in the developing world. By requiring companies to pay sustainable prices (which must never fall below the market price), Fairtrade addresses the injustices of conventional trade, which traditionally discriminates against the poorest, weakest producers. It enables them to improve their position and have more control over their lives.

The production and consumption of “Fair Trade Coffee” has grown in recent years as some local and national coffee chains have started to offer fair trade alternatives. Starbucks, one of the largest buyers of Fair Trade Certified coffee, will double its purchases to 40 million pounds in 2009, making the company the largest purchaser of Fair Trade Certified coffee in the world.   A number of studies have shown that fair trade coffee has a positive impact on the communities that grow it by strengthening producer organizations, improving returns to small producers, and positively affecting their quality of life. The families of fair trade producers were also more stable than those who were not involved in fair trade, and their children had better access to education.

I used to never drink the stuff; all through high school, university, and through my twenties – not a drop. After the Starbucks craze (and, in case you don’t live in the US, there are also many independent cafes and coffee bars in the US) I was sucked in just a little and would maybe treat myself to a few coffees each month. And since I wasn’t a true coffee drinker, these were, of course, the frou frou coffee ‘concoctions’ of Starbucks – like a mocha (espresso with a shot of chocolate syrup…for me minus the whipped cream). Now as I’ve traveled around the world and through Europe, my coffee and thus caffeine intake has dramatically increased - for a few reasons. First, when you are walking around towns and cities for months…you simply need something to do when you ‘take a break.’ And, of course, there are all these inviting cafes lining the streets beckoning you in with happy patrons laughing while they sip a cappuccino. So it was nice for me to join in. Plus if I sat down and ate something every time I wanted to take a break, I’d be as big as a house. Next, I did actually start to appreciate the taste and differences of coffees around the world. From the surprising, yet good, café culture in Melbourne, Australia (where I worked as a barista) and the chains of Asia to the less-than-stellar instant coffee commonly served up in Eastern Europe and the pleasing café au lait of France and rich espressos in Italy. In fact, the more coffee I drink, the less milk I add. I’ve gone from a crazy Starbucks caramel macchiato (not the real macchiato—an espresso ‘stained’ with a drop of milk) to a simple, yet robust, real Italian espresso (in 3 sips you’re done). I used to never order an espresso thinking it was too strong and dark for me, but I have to tell you, these are delicious.

The one coffee I just could not force myself to like is Turkish. For me, it’s just too strong. The grounds are left in the cup which makes for a bit of a sludgy beverage. But the after show is nice…having someone read your fortune in the bottom of your cup. Maybe mine would say, ‘you are drinking too much coffee.’ Well, probably not since the fortuneteller probably gets kick backs from the establishment.

I am on a shiny, fast train heading toward shiny, efficient Geneva.  As we ride the rails, we go through woods ablaze with fall colors-bright yellows, flaming reds, and pumpkin oranges. The undulating green French countryside has given way to granite rocky hills signaling we are entering Alp country. There is something about the Alpine country that I love - the crispness in the air, the clean oxygen in my lungs, and the cute flower-box adorned homes clinging to the green hillsides.

But what was I doing in Geneva? I hadn’t planned on a visit to Switzerland - one of the most expensive countries on the planet where a Starbucks cappuccino literally costs $7.  I was actually just here for a few hours to be picked up by new friends working at the UN Headquarters here. You may be sick of me talking about new friends, but I can not stress enough how this is the most amazing and wonderful part about travel. I met Leyla through my website when she emailed a comment about my post of the reverse culture shock some travelers feel when they return home after a long journey. She, too, has her own travel website, called Women on the Road and we kept in touch over the months through emails and she even interviewed me for her site.  She lives in France not too far from the Swiss border and told me if I ever was in France I should stop by. Well, you know me…so that’s just what I did.

Leyla and her partner, Anne, live in an amazing, renovated (work in progress) farmhouse near Seyssel, a small town about an hour southwest of Geneva. I was excited to meet them. And I had no idea how old they were or what they looked like. I kind of like that. It’s great developing relationships just through words/thoughts (in emails) and not having any preconceived notions or judgments because of how a person looks - their age, sex, race…whatever.

I spent a lovely week at their home. We drove around the beautiful surrounding areas all under surrounded by the amazing back drop of the Alps and Mont Blanc.

They took me to Chamonix where I ascended the incredible, Aiguille du Midi at 12,600 feet, The views were fantastic. Jagged snow-capped peaks pierce the cobalt sky and in wintertime the place is mobbed with skiers schussing down the mountain side.  After my short time at the frozen summit, my altitude-challenged lungs were ready for sea level and my stomach was ready for lunch.   Luckily back down in town Anne and Leyla were waiting to take me for the local specialty-raclette (from French: to scrape). You are basically served a mini charcoal grill sitting on its side like a birdcage of briquettes with a tasty hunk of cheese positioned in front of it. As it melts, you scrape the gooey goodness onto to the accompanying bread or potatoes. And enjoy with the plate of charcuterie of salamis and similar. Yummy.

We also took in Annecy, an absolutely charming medieval town (and one of the most appealing I’d been to in France)…with the quintessential cobblestone pedestrian lanes filled chock-a-block with shops, cafes, and strolling inhabitants.

Some other local musts I partook in: chowing down on garlic and butter soaked frogs legs and enjoying Seyssel’s annual town fair - with bric-a-brac to buy, foods to sample…and the odd cow or chicken for sale. Moo.

And to top it all off, Leyla took me to the local Sunday Bingo game. It doesn’t get less touristy than this. You can picture it - the local community center with a high pitched ceiling supported by sturdy wood beams, long tables at which random locals sat averaging the age of 75, and a table against a wall with locally baked goodies to buy - the proceeds going to some local charity.   After several hours, Leyla and her lucky cards brought her good fortune in the name of a frying pan, a gift basket filled with edible goodies, and even a vacuum cleaner. Like Charlie Brown, all I got was rocks.  I got nothing. Actually, I did benefit from the three-hour lesson of French numbers. Now I can count to 100 in French. Well, more accurately, 99-Bingo cards only have one or two digits.

I spent a few days in the French Countryside with my friend Caroline at her cousin’s house in the tiny, rural town of Bias (pronounced BEE-ah). It was just what I needed - a quiet place to relax, leave my bag on the floor for several days untouched, catch up on some much needed writing, and just hang out by the crackling fire. The house was warm and cozy with terracotta tiled floors and wood beamed ceilings overhead, and the aforementioned big stone fireplace.  We didn’t do a whole lot and I liked it. We cooked a little, sat by the fire, and met some of the sweet French neighbors who had us over for drinks our very first night. We couldn’t really speak much French, they spoke zero English and yet it was a blast.

One day we rode our bikes through the lush and tranquil (except for the random hunter’s gunshots echoing through the air) forest land that surrounds Bias to the beach - normally packed with oiled-up holiday makers in the summer months, now it was quiet and delightful. We had a wonderful lunch in the warm sun of an outdoor café as the waves of the Atlantic crashed up onto the beach down below.

Another day we took a day trip, two hours south to Spain. I love the fact that in Europe, crossing country borders is like crossing state borders in the US; except that here…everything changes-the people, the culture, (formerly the currency), the language. Well, I guess that’s true too if you are crossing into Texas.  It was a lovely day. In San Sebastian, we met up with a friend of mine that I met last year at Pueblo Ingles.  He gave us a great tour of the city - a place that has been compared to Rio since the city comes right down to the beach. It is also known for its amazing food. We went on a mini pintxos (tapas) and beer crawl-going bar to bar trying some of the local treats. Mmm. Good friends and good food - really a perfect day.

I’ve been traveling alone for nearly two years. And I love it. I can honestly say that I now prefer to travel alone than any other way (well how many ways are there really?). Of course, it’s always fun to meet up with a friend here and there, but going solo is, for me, the only way to go.

The funny thing is - by being alone you actually meet more people and in essence are never really even alone.

So the more I travel alone, the more people I meet. The more I travel with a friend, the less people I meet. It’s as simple as that. Many times I’ve been asked the question: “Aren’t you scared being a woman traveling alone?”

Not at all. Yes, being a woman can certainly sometimes bring on unwanted attention, but this is rare and usually not threatening. To me the benefits far outweigh the negatives. As a solo woman, if I need help anywhere, friendly locals will help me. On the few instances I’ve really needed help with my bag or couldn’t lift it over my head to shove it in an overhead bin on the train, there is always a nice strong Frenchman waiting in the wings to help a poor helpless girl. If I’m out eating or at a bar, I’m much more likely to be able to strike up a conversation with a stranger - man or woman. I’m a woman so as a stranger I don’t seem threatening or dangerous. But if I was a man and started talking to random people, they may worry that I was some kind of weirdo or looking for something besides just conversation.

In fact, I meet so many people while traveling that I’ve joked that I have to stop. I’ve seemed to reach capacity in my brain for all the new friends I’ve made in such a short time - names, interests, families - it’s a lot to remember. I mean when in my life (except for maybe just during university) in just 2 years have I ever made over a hundred new friends that I keep in touch with on a semi-regular basis. Perhaps it’s my fault and I shouldn’t be so good at keeping in touch. I do have a tendency to be a super-efficient emailer who never likes to not answer someone’s email within a few days of receiving it, but it’s usually more like a few hours. This is one of my pet peeves of the modern world - people that do not answer emails or do not answer questions posed in an email. To me this is like not calling someone back who has left you a message. In fact, since I’m traveling without a phone, this is exactly what this is like for me. Why would I write you if I didn’t want you to respond? Why would I type questions out if I wasn’t genuinely interested in the answers?

My good friend Marsha had gone on her own extended travels alone and said to me before I left Chicago two years ago, “I was never alone more than three days.” And she was exactly right. There are rare times when I don’t meet anyone, but it’s usually because I don’t want to. Most of the time I put myself in situations where meeting people is somewhat inevitable: hostels, couchsurfing, working, volunteering, taking the occasional tours, and just plain smiling.

Here is just a small example of one day in my life as a solo traveler recently. And this is not atypical. Most days I meet someone.

Caen to St. Malo:

20:00    Train Station in St. Malo-Helen: I arrived at 8pm in the small shuttered town of St. Malo. I left the modern train station and headed outside into the dark chilly night to search for a bus that could drop me off near my hostel.  Right in front were several shelters for bus stops. I studied the schedule and map posted and figured out which bus to take, but in this sleepy little off-season town, it seemed the buses were already done for the night. There was not a soul around except one girl standing on the curb, smoking a cigarette with a suitcase by her side. I approached her with a smile, “Bonsoir. Parlez vous Anglais?” Yes she did. In fact she worked in a hotel in Paris so her English was quite good. I asked her if she knew about the buses. She did not. But she was waiting for a friend to pick her up and offered within seconds to just drive me to wherever it was I needed to go. Shortly after, her two guy friends screeched up in their car and were happy to drop me off at my hostel. They were all complete strangers, but, unsurprisingly helpful.

21:00    Hostel-Amelie: When I arrived at my hostel in St. Malo I checked in to a shared room with 4 beds. There was only one other traveler using the room. Her name was Amelie and she was on holiday from Montreal. We proceeded to chat about our travels and then went down to the bar for a local Brittany beer and hang out like old friends. The beauty of meeting people when you travel is you are all in the ‘same boat.’ No one knows anyone so it’s almost like an unspoken rule that you will become friends faster and easier than in ‘real life.’ This is another reason I like travel so much. People are just friends. No questions. No rank. No status.

12:30    In town-NJ kids: The next day I was walking around town and passed two teenagers sitting on a stone wall. I overheard one finishing his sentence with “…the tri-state area, ya know, New York, New Jersey and Connecticut.” I stopped in my tracks and said “I’m from New Jersey.” They were traveling with their folks through parts of France and visiting an uncle who lived here. We chatted a bit, swapped respective NJ hometown names and then I went on my way with a smile and warm feeling of familiarity.

13:00    In town-folks from Little Rock and Baltimore: I was waiting for the tourist office to open after it’s ‘lunch break’ as some American tourists walked up. I alerted them that the Tourist Information office was closed for lunch and we proceeded to chat about each others travels for the next 15 minutes.

16:00    Café-UK man who had a few too many beers: I ended up being the translator between a café owner and a slightly inebriated man who was trying to find his way back to his hotel.

16:20    Café owner: After previously mentioned drunk man left, the café owner thanked me and we proceeded to chat in broken English and French as she told me she was a big fan of the soap opera, “The Young and the Restless.”

The very next day, I took two buses to nearby Mont St. Michel-perhaps the most famous image of Northern France of the spectacular Abbey on the hill surrounded by water. During the tour, I met a lovely couple from NJ: Janet and Marvin. They offered to drive me back to St. Malo where they were also staying. For me a ride in the countryside was wonderful. I rarely, if ever, am in a car while I travel and it was great to take the scenic route along the ocean and chat with my fellow New Jerseyans along the way. The best part? We stopped in a fabulous little seaside town called Cancale-famous for its huge oyster beds that line the beach. We walked down the small boardwalk lined with cute colorful restaurants, shops, and stone buildings. We breathed in the salty sea air and couldn’t help craving the local ‘fruits of the sea.’ So we sat down at an outdoor café, as the late afternoon sun dipped into the Atlantic drank the local cider and slurped down the freshest (and almost still alive) and best tasting oysters I have ever had.

I celebrated the Jewish New Year in the city of lights by treating myself to the best falafel sandwich my taste buds have ever had the pleasure of tasting. L’as du Falafel is a tiny joint on rue des Rosiers in the heart of Paris’ Jewish Quartier. The neighborhood is a lively maze of narrow cobblestone lanes, twisting and turning in an un-grid-like fashion, the way Paris streets do so well. I read about the joint in my travel guide and I’d seen this article in the NY Times. It was even recommended to me by real-life local Parisians themselves. Good food with rave reviews, well then I must go.

I wandered into the mint-green walled no frills eatery and decided to splurge the extra 2 Euros to ‘eat-in’ and sit at a table instead of taking it to go like most Parisians who seem to eat and walk everywhere. For this messy delicacy, I needed a napkin and a seat-I only have so many clothes-can’t afford to get them all gooey. The falafel sandwich was delivered to me on a paper plate in a plastic wrapper (as so many good street foods seem to come) and good for keeping your hands (your main utensil) clean and vice versa.

The pita shell was fresh and soft. The small balls of fried chick peas were moist, soft, and well-seasoned. Add to that some fresh shredded cabbage, crunchy cucumber, sweet tomatoes, and a great yoghurt sauce and you have a meal from the heavens. Plus it didn’t hurt that it was served to me by possibly the best looking Israeli waiter I had ever seen. L’shana Tovah.

I touched down in New York City with a slight feeling of sadness and worry. I was returning to my grandmother’s nearly empty apartment. But it wasn’t the stuff missing that was bothering me. It was that she was missing.

I worried if New York would ever be the same for me since this is the place I always came to be with her. And she was truly the glue that held New York City together for me. I never had to find a hotel when I came here. I never needed to search for some good bagels and lox…she already had it waiting for me.

So, after a four month stint in the sun and easy-life of LA, I was back in harried, frenetic New York City for ten days. I shouldn’t have worried. I loved it all over again and more.

In just my first five minutes walking on the crammed sidewalk amongst the people it hit me all at once how great this city is and what a contrast it is to Los Angeles. Even though they are two huge cities, New York really is a true city inside and out, uptown and downtown, down below in the subterranean jungle of the subways and high up above in the posh financial offices scraping the sky. I know this has been said before a zillion times. But I can’t help saying it again: it’s the stew, the pot pourri, that good old melting pot. I don’t think I ever saw it as clear as I did now after being in LA. You can’t help notice it as you walk down the crammed sidewalk. New York is a true coming together of all races, all classes, and all kinds - young and old, sane and crazy, filthy rich and broke and homeless, every race, every gender, ever class. People are walking alone and yet altogether in one massive sea of life. Wall Street tycoons in Armani suits ride the public bus next to Hispanic moms with three kids in tow next to gussied up teenage girls on their way for some cappuccinos.

I had just come in from a five hour flight from LAX and I was tired and famished. I thought I’d start my stay off here with a New York ‘must:’ a greasy, floppy, delicious slice of New York pizza. But unlike the old days when you could just stand in one place and do a 360 spin to spot the nearest pizza joint, now my view was crowded with Starbucks, CVS, and other chains. Then I spotted a guy sitting on a bench with the package I sought: a white paper bag, a white paper place, and that famous gooey slice. I walked up to him and asked where he got it. He answered in a garbled voice and I realized I was talking to a homeless man. I asked him again. And he said, “I don’t know. Someone gave it to me.”

It couldn’t have been more perfect. New York strikes again. Although often misunderstood, it’s not uncommon that New Yorkers are friendly and generous and very tolerant of one another. Many people chat up their local bums everyday and when going for a bite, often get a little something extra for that ‘guy’ they pass on the way home. Whenever My friend Mark would go buy himself a hamburger at his local fast food establishment he would get two and hand one to the guy that stood outside on the sidewalk holding the door open for customers. Better that then handing him a dollar he’d drop on liquor or worse. Although…perhaps the McDonalds’ burger was just as bad?

After I walked away from my new pizza-eating friend, he called after me and yelled out that he thought the place was just around the corner. I followed his gesture up 8^th Avenue and around to 23^rd street. There it was – the classic New York pizzeria. It’s nothing fancy – just a few tables, that glass counter which gives you a view of the pies on offer – cheese, pepperoni, sausage, mushroom, and a calzone or two – a soft drink fountain, a brick oven and big, white cardboard pizza boxes stacked up ceiling high. I ordered a simple cheese slice and sat down to enjoy the delicacy. And here I saw it just like I had walking around outside. Every kind of citizen was coming in for a slice – the construction worker, the student, the ladies discussing interior design, the lawyer in a suit, and a mother and son. Here everyone eats a slice. Here everyone rides the bus.

It was New York…always there and always accepting. It was the same as it’s always been – except the slice was now $2.75, not $1.00 like it was when I was a kid. So I picked it up, folded it in half and took that first fabulous bite.

My friend Mark lives in a great apartment complex in LA called the Palazzo. It has a huge pool ringed with plush cushioned lounge chairs, a clubhouse complete with a buzzy little business office and concierge for all your concierging needs, a bright gym and spa full of the tanned toned celebs of tomorrow, and beautifully landscaped grounds full of constantly pruned shrubs, bougainvillea covered trellises, trickling fountains, and swaying palms. And of course he has a fully appointed apartment…and he pays dearly for it. He personally has everything he needs.

And then there was…the toaster. This metal box lived on his granite countertop mocking us daily with its crappy features, non-dinging toast function, and all around crap-tasticness. It was the most excruciatingly slow toaster I’ve ever encountered in all my travels. You want your bread to turn brown and crunchy with just the right crust on top sealing in a chewy center? Good luck. It was uneven at best and ‘es’, ‘el’, ‘oh’, ‘double-you’ - SLOW. You want a piece of bad toast? Well, pull up a chair and wait about thirty minutes. The thing sucks at toast. And, let’s remember what it’s called. That’s right – a toaster.

SO, I took it upon myself to buy him a brand-spankin’ new twenty-first century toaster with all the bells and whistles and dingers. You want it light? You got it. Dark and slightly burnt – a little more your style? Not a problem. All was good in the breads and whole grains world once again.

But what to do with the old piece of crap toaster? Only one thing of course – smash the hell out of it.

I had the genius idea of taking it out and basically clubbing it to death just for fun. See what happens when neither of us is working and we have too much time on our hands? Don’t tell the toaster-lover protesters. We don’t want them picketing outside or pelting us with bagels, slices of marble rye or, even worse, dense flax seed and multi-grain loaves.

Here’s how it all went down:

Operation: Kill the Toaster

• The Tools: One toaster, one hammer, one golf club, protective eye gear (aka swimming goggles)
• The Location: Ross Back Parking Lot
• The Motive: Years & Years of Shitty Toast

It was a total smash-for-all. I took the hammer and wailed as hard as I could at the top of the toaster. The metal buckled and clanged and plastic bits went flying everywhere. Now it was Mark’s turn. He took the 3-iron and did his best golf swing right into the toaster door. The glass shattered with a crunch and shards of glass went flying all around. Wooo! This was fun. IT was like a reality episode of “when toaster’s suck” or “when bad toasters happen to good people.” We were onto something. I know FOX will call soon.

I decided just to let it rip. I went ballistic and start pummeling the damn thing with my hammer shouting with each blow, “YOU STUPID NO GOOD TOASTER. I HATE YOU! SHITTY, STUPID TOASTER!!” Ah, it was cathartic and way cheaper than paying a shrink for the hour.

By now we were making quite a ruckus and I think other ‘would-be’ parking lot loiterers and hoodlums were possibly scared of us. I think I even heard a M63 gang member whisper to his comrade: ‘watch out for those toaster thugs—they’re ruthless.’ Just then a security guard rounded the bend. Were we some thugs wreaking havoc? Were we gangbangers out to get revenge? Were we drug addicts beating up a toaster to score some change to keep our habit going?

No, we were just two white whack-jobs with nothing better to do on a Thursday afternoon. But when the guard saw these two strange casually-dressed Caucasians get out our little dust pan and broom and clean up the mess we just made he turned around and went about his business. I think I heard him mutter, ‘stupid, bored white-folk.’

Just remember friends: Don’t ever take crap from your toaster again. You can have your toast and eat it too.

Go ahead, make my toast. Yippe-ca-yay mother Toaster.

And one more thing…wait for it….that toaster was…toast.

Mission Accomplished.

Yeah Toast!

London is an expensive city. The British Pound is worth twice as much as the sad, weak U.S. ‘greenback.’ So for those making bags of Sterling, that can mean a lot of disposable income floating around and of course, there are a lot of places to spend it. Besides the glittering and massive stores like Harrods and Harvey Nichols, there are other great places to find just about anything you ‘don’t’ really need. Oh, and the first ever (and the largest) Whole Foods outside of the United States has recently opened here in the fashionable South Kensington neighborhood.

I had fun checking out several of the local markets:

Camden Market— Commercialized hippie Market with intense incense, smiling Buddhas, and heaps of hemp clothing. It’s huge, fun, and goes on forever, but you can always take a break and feast at some of the great ethnic food stalls scattered about.

Borough Market— In a great location just under the London Bridge across from the gothic Southwark Cathedral. This arched brick cavern of gourmet delights was one of my favorites. It was all about food and I’m all about that. What to eat? Ostrich burgers, Panini sandwiches, German sausages, juicy olives, Moroccan cous cous, gooey brownies, and steamy coffees beckon you on a chilly, damp London afternoon. And apparently the famous ‘naked chef,’ Jamie Oliver, shops here often for his local organic ingredients.

Spitalfields Market— A trendy, modern glass-covered market surrounded with restaurants and boutiques, this market has the standard jewelry, photography, and t-shirt stalls.

Sunday Up Market—This one was just a block away from Spitalfields, but was it’s edgier pierced cousin. Located inside the Old Truman Brewery…which is old, just like its name, and in 1873 it was the largest brewery in the world, .is a hip, alternative market full of young artists and designers selling overpriced cool t-shirts, jewelry, and the like. This market of current coolness is also has some great food stalls—from Ethiopian specialties and Spanish paella to hand rolled sushi and Turkish delights.

I celebrated my American Thanksgiving Holiday in Sevilla, Spain. I was lucky enough to be invited by a friend (an Australian friend, no less), Kristy, to the traditional American feast at where else? An Irish Pub, of course. I have found that these are the unofficial meeting spots of expats all over the world. And there seems to be an Irish Pub in just about every city and small town I have visited. Since moving to Sevilla to be with her Spanish boyfriend, Kristy has fallen into a group of American girls who also live there. They call themselves “the Americanitas, and one odd Aussie.” Catchy, isn’t it?

There were about twelve of us on a back heated patio of the Irish bar that was advertising a special scrumptious ‘Thanksgiving’ feast for 20 Euros—not very cheap for what they gave us, but it was worth it to me to be meeting new people and spending the holiday laughing and socializing.

Okay, I’ll admit the food they served looked more like airplane food or the ‘fine cuisine’ we got back in the day under the fluorescent lights of the high school cafeteria. The stuffing and mashed potatoes looked dry and were perfectly round ball shapes probably scooped out of some huge prison-like cooking vessel with an ice cream scooper. But looks can be deceiving, because it actually tasted quite good. And, believe me, it wasn’t because I was missing ‘American food.’ In fact, that brings me to my next point actually. What really is American food? Recently, a Spanish friend asked me to make him some traditional American dishes. He wanted to know, ‘what is American food?’ It took me mere seconds to answer, ‘Mexican, Chinese, Sushi, Indian, Thai, Italian (really what is more American—than pizza?!), Greek, Middle Eastern, Ethiopian, Polish, on and on.’

He was like ‘No, I mean real American food?’

Unfortunately, around the world, for those who haven’t stepped onto our fair shores, many assume we are all chowing down at the ‘Golden Arches’ (McDs) or KFC and eating hamburgers and hot dogs ‘til we explode. Now, for some, I guess there is some truth to this. But, I would say, living in Chicago, I have food from all over the world right out my front door. I guess it’s just like the stereotypes Americans have about some foreign cultures. Well, don’t feel bad ‘my fellow Americans’ because there are many, many negative stereotypes floating around the world about America and Americans especially amongst people who have never traveled to the US, but feel they have because they have seen “Cops” reruns or movies like “Dumb and Dumber” and “Hey Dude, Where’s My Car?” (cinematic excellence I’m sure…but this American hasn’t seen either of these Oscar-worthy films).

“Okay, fine, but what did you eat growing up?”

Well, that was easy—like most people coming from the Northeast—Pizza and Chinese food.

Still not sounding very ‘American’ to him he replied, “Okay, but what foods did your parents or grandparents cook at home?”

Okay. Okay. We had our fair share of meatloaf, chicken with rice, and the occasional spaghetti with meatballs (still sort of Italian I guess—although, I’m sure the Italians would scoff at this 1970s American dish or some horribly lame can of ‘Chef Boyardee,’ a chemical-laden packet of ‘Hamburger Helper,’ or my personal childhood fav: a tasty, comforting box of completely processed, bright yellow Kraft Macaroni and Cheese.) Mmmmmm-mmmm. My mom would always add some onions and an extra slice of plastic-wrapped canary yellow Kraft ‘cheese-food’ for that just-right, gourmet touch. But for many, actually, having their grandma’s cooking, was even more ethnic since the grandparents were often literally just ‘off the boat,’ from some far off land. So what is my point? What is American cooking? I guess I can consult the master chef’s in America: Chicago’s Charlie Trotter and Grant Achatz, NYC’s Mario Batale (before his Food Network fame) and Alfred Portale (Gotham Bar & Grill), and Thomas Keller of the French Laundry who all use a lot of seasonal locally grown and farmed ingredients in their internationally influenced masterpiece fish, meat, and poultry dishes. But I think it is indisputable that American cooking has been influenced by the millions and millions of immigrants that started it all and that now call America home. Buen Provecho!