Sometimes the best food comes from the street

We've been in Ansouis, in Provence, south of France since April 1, and today's April 17. So I guess we've been here a little bit, and are getting settled in. We're here for five weeks total, so it's close to the halfway point. Susan's been good about timely blogging. Check out If It's Tuesday, this Must be Ansouis.

It does seem like a lot of our time is spent thinking about food. We're doing most of our own cooking, save for a few lunches while we're out. We've opted not to have a car, at least for awhile, which means that we need to pay attention to where and when "market day" is in the towns we can reach by bike or bus.

Sunday mornings, our little village has a small market. Really small. The first Sunday there was the Chicken Guy, a produce vendor, and a purveyor of salamis. The next week saw one garment and one jewelry vendor. We'd seen the Chicken Guy and his competitors at the various markets. They have chickens cooking on rotisseries, with potatoes cooking in the fat just below. I promise to take a picture next time, but the picture doesn't convey the scent. The chicken guy does more than chicken. He also has ribs, ham, and rabbits.

We decided on Saturday, planning ahead to Sunday, that we'd get a rabbit with some potatoes. I dreamt about the potatoes. (Have I told you about the potatoes around here? Light, smooth-skinned, waxy on the inside. A little yellow in the flesh. Kind of like Yukon Gold, but much creamier in texture and sweeter in flavor. I'm told they're local. Susan, who doesn't normally like potatoes, has become a fan.)

But I digress. The way it works with the rabbits is that you tell the Chicken Man that you want one, he puts it on the spit, and you come back 40 minutes later to claim it. Which we did. Hurrying back, laying it all out, and bustling up the two precarious flights of stairs to the deck. The rabbit was simply prepared, simply cooked, and simply delicious. Perfectly done. Perfectly seasoned. The potatoes were everything I had hoped for and more. I think we added a little salad, but really, it was all about the rabbit.

Then, just yesterday, we ventured to the small city of Pertuis by bus, for the fairly large market there.  I'd seen a stall that sold paella the first time we'd been there, and determined to get some to bring home this time.  Mussels, clams, shrimp, other unidentified seafood.  I bought the version without the rice, but with the amazing saffron-scented broth.  Once the seafood was gone, the broth kept on giving as I dipped piece after piece of bread in.  And it kept giving a couple of days later when I reheated the broth to go with a simple dinner.

 When you do the same thing every day, all day, you can get pretty good at it, as evidenced by the Paella Madam and the Chicken guy.

A little photography

See my Tabblo>

While in Paris, we had the pleasure of being hosted by an old friend of Susan, named Richard.  We were grateful for a place to stay, and a place to be around some real people, rather than the hotels we'd gotten used to.  And home cooked meals and tour of the Paris food market, too! 

Anyway, I got it into my head that it would be fun to do some portraits, and Richard was a willing participant, especially when I told him he could play guitar while we photographed.  Fortunately, Richard's Paris apartment had nice big windows that let in soft light -- perfect for portraits.  It was a nice break from the street shooting and tourist subjects I'd been shooting.

The hardest part, of course, was editing.  A bunch are on the Flickr stream.  And my six favorites are in the Tabblo , part of which is shown above. Click the picture.

I haven't done a whole lot of portrait work, and this was fun. So thanks Richard for being a willing subject.

Serendipity

After a month of sightseeing the tourist meccas of Europe, we've settled down in Ansouis, a little village of about 1,100 people in Provence, in the Luberon (just south of the actual mountains, but inside the protected park).  I've been here before. Five years ago I attended a photo workshop here run by Andrew Squires and had a great time. Pictures of that previous journey were terrific (at least I had fun taking them, and being in Provence, and I had fond memories.

Although we started our time here with a car, we decided to try a slower lifestyle without one for awhile. After a few days of taking in the popular tourist destinations around here (watch the Flickr stream for photos) we needed to dump the car in the center of Aix-en-Provence. Armed with a little photocopied map provided by the car rental agent, we sallied forth, confident we could find our way easily. The signage is great around here.  Wayfinding from town to town clearly marked at each junction (usually a well-designed roundabout). Aix-en-Provence turned out to be more challenging, though, since there didn't seem to be ANY street signs. I drove and Susan navigated. My role was to shout out "signs coming up!" and Susan tried to figure out where we were by the few clues that correlated the map with what we saw whizzing by. Then, shout out the appropriate instruction,  After having done this through Germany, Austria and Hungary, we found that whomever was driving just had to trust the navigator and go with the directions, without, thinking, military style.  Mistakes would be made, for sure, but at least we avoided truly irresponsible driving behavior.

Fortunately, there were several roundabouts, the beauty of which is the ability to circle round and round until you figure out where you want to go. The downside of this approach, however, is that it makes the navigator too dizzy to navigate. We'd wandered around, taken a few turns on pure hunches, and finally got to the point where we were sure we were utterly lost. Susan shouted "pull over here...we need to figure out where we are!!!".  So, I pulled over onto a little frontage road. Looked up. And there, a half-block ahead of us, was the welcoming red of the Avis sign. If we had waited until we'd seen the sign, we would not have been able to get on the frontage road, would have had to find some way to double back among the cacophony of one-way streets, and would have had another half hour of confusion.

We looked at each other. Burst out laughing. And gave thanks with a long French kiss. Of course.  Serendipity has been our companion on this journey, and we enjoy giving thanks.

Serendipity visited in the kitchen last night, as well.

Having eaten at restaurants for the last month, we're now thrilled to have a kitchen.  We've been stocking up at the local markets and at the Hyper-U.  I found some flageolets -- little greenish/white dried beans that I'd always wanted to try, and now that I was in France, some French beans were in order.  We found some unidentified greens (seemed to be softer than bok-choy, but stiffer than swiss chard).  And I had seen a recipe for beans and chard on 101 Cookbooks recently for something similar so I thought I'd give it a go.  I ventured pretty far afield from Heidi's original, but hers was pretty far afield from her own source.

Beans were cooked in the afternoon, and then pan-fried till a little brown. Since the beans were green, and the greens were green, I'd add some color with diced carrots.  And a little celery root for flavor.   I was going to add garlic, but the garlic here in the rented house had been here all winter, and was only a papery shell, so I was short on flavoring, so i thought I'd add some diced chorizo that we picked up at the market.  But this chorizo was mild compared to what I get at home, so it didn't add that much zing.  I added a little harissa and some worcestershire sauce at the end, hoping to salvage the effort, but it was still blah.

It was a disappointing meal, and I was glum.  The fact that is was nutritious was not much consolation.  I don't know where the thought came from, but serendipity was its name.  There was a little bottle of vinegar with herbs-de-provence sitting on the counter.  What about a splash or two?  I'm often astounded by how much flavor a few splashes of vinegar will pack.  It was the perfect final touch, bringing all the flavors together and adding the just enough tartness to wake up my mouth.

Serendipity.

On Language

At 52 I'm old enough to be allowed a few regrets.  One is not having learned languages while I was younger.  (The other is not having learned music.)

When growing up, my parents spoke a mixture of English and German to each other and to others of their mostly German-Jewish immigrants and friends.  And they particularly spoke German when they didn't want me to understand anything.  As a result, I picked up, through osmosis, some basic German, but never really spoke it, and they never really encouraged me to speak.

I went to a Yeshiva for middle school, so I learned Hebrew, and when I got to high school, the choices were Spanish and French (of course), Russian (hey, the Cold War was still on) and Hebrew.  Hebrew?  Well, the Bronx High School of Science had a lot of Jewish students, and I guess the parents had some pull, so Hebrew was offered.  If they had offered German, I would have taken it, but since I already knew some Hebrew, I opted for the easy route, and went with another four years of Hebrew.  I can't say I learned a whole lot, but it did me OK when I had a project in Israel about ten years ago.  But other than that, not a whole lot of value.  I did take a semester of beginning German in college, which was of more value than I ever thought it would be.

We chose to get in and out of central Europe via Frankfurt, since we hadn't quite known what our plan would be, and Frankfurt was, well, central.  Most people spoke a little English, but it was fun trying to communicate in German.  I was surprised and pleased at how much I could say, and that I could make myself understood in kindergarten sort of way.  I'm sure a kindergartner knows more German than I do, but I could ask for directions, figure out a menu (sometimes), joke around a little.  I neglected to learn the trick of asking people to speak a little slower, and often used the deer in the headlights face when I had no clue of what someone said to me.  But I managed to buy a toll pass at the Austrian/Hungarian border when the toll attendant did not speak English, but did speak "a little" German.

Bits and pieces of things learned 30 and 40 years ago came to the surface so that I could communicate with someone.  Best of all was carrying out a conversation with my father's schoolmate (90+ years old) where she spoke no English.  We spent about 45 minutes together and between my little German, her vast patience, and lots of hand gestures, we managed to understand each other.  Oh, and it turned out she did speak a little French, so Susan and she had a splendid time.

So, with us about to spend about five weeks in Provence, lack of French is frustrating.  Fortunately, Susan is fluent and easily charms everyone we meet with her seemingly effortless French sense of humor.  While I try to pick up a word or two.  I had Susan in stitches tonight at dinner recounting my adventure at the boulangerie (bakery) asking for UN PAIN COMPLETE (one loaf of whole wheat bread), which I pronounced UN PAAA COMPLET, instead of Uuuuuuu paaaaa complaaaaaa, or some such nasal intonation that sounds nothing like the way it looks. 

Interestingly, as facile as Susan is with French, she has struggled similarly with German pronunciations, finding everything impossibly guttural.  German was much more natural for me, having heard it for years (and that semester of German taught me something!)

I had thought I might try to learn some on our travels, but truly, we did not have enough down time.  I'm hoping that our five weeks in one place in Provence provides the opportunity to make the effort.  And by my posting it here in my blog, at least some a little incentive to make good on that.

On Tipping

I've long been frustrated by the idea of tipping.  Why should the compensation of waiters, bellhops and others in the service industry be dependent on the goodwill (or not) of their customers?  If a waiter provides great service in the hope of getting a good tip, but the customer is in a bad mood, or cheap, or mean, that good service goes unrecognized, and the server is basically screwed.  Tipping allows restaurants to pay their employees a pittance, and saddles the employees with the risk of not getting paid.  Maintaining good service should be the responsibility of management.  If I get bad service, I won't come back to the restaurant.  If I get good service, and good food, I will.  Ensuring that these happen is management's responsibility.

So it was with great joy that I discovered in Italy that there is no tipping.  The price on the menu is the price you pay.  Tax and tip included.  How simple.  Of course, it took me a few days to figure this out, and I was happily leaving little tips (I knew tipping was "less" in Europe).  Until we shared a meal with some Norwegians and Dutch, who clearly left no tip. 

I continued this behavior through Budapest and Austria.  Getting to Germany, I found that there's generally no tipping, except for extraordinary service.  And then, it's only a euro or two.  And the way you tip is odd.  The waiter brings over the bill, and stands there waiting to be paid.  Let's say the bill is 48 euros.  You would tell them, to their face to make it 50.  Or 52.  Or whatever. Or simply round up to the nearest euro or 5 euros.   And they'd make the change accordingly.  I figured this out on the last day after being tutored by our accidental dinner companions from Berlin.  Their attitude was you could tip "a little" for very good service, but that if you weren't planning to go back, then you didn't need to tip at all.  That seemed a little unfair, so we left a little.

Paris seemed to be a mix.  Tax was always included, and sometimes a "service charge" of 10-15 percent was also included (but included in the menu price, and simply called out specifically on the bill).  Why you would have a separate "service charge" at a restaurant, where having a waiter serve you is clearly part of the experience is another annoyance.  Extra good service warranted a little more.  If service was not included, I guess you're supposed to tip about 10 percent, but we didn't run into that situation.

Given the differences from place to place in Europe, I would think the waiters in Paris get forgotten a lot.  I'd argue for consistency, and that consistency would be -- the price on the menu is what you pay.  Let the restaurant owner pay his staff the right amount to keep them happy, and let them manage their employees so that they provide excellent service.

I'm going to have a hard time coming back to the States where 15-20 percent is expected.

Home runs are hard to predict

We've wandered from town to town.  Whatever the differences between places, there are a few constants.  We need to figure out where things are.  How to get around.  What we want to see.  How to use the money.  What the tipping customs are.  Sleep.  And eat.

I love finding good food.  But it can be daunting.  I'm constantly on the lookout for fabulous meals, but the reality is that most of them have been pretty mediocre.  (We haven't been to France yet, however!)  I've already mentioned the lack of variety in Italy.  Germany, Hugary and Austria have had more diversity, but we've consistently tried to find authentic cuisine that's spectacular.  Actually, that's been more of my mission than Susan's but she enjoys great food too.  TripAdvisor and other web resources can be of some help, but that takes time and effort, and a lot of times we just find ourselves out and about, hungry and tired, and just have to pick.

There have been good meals, to be sure, but nothing in the memorable category.  Until last night, in an utterly unexpected place.  This part of our journey, the driving part, was to have lasted a week and taken us to Budapest, Vienna, and Prague.  Cost and logistics considerations caused us to fly from Venice to Frankfurt (Hahn airport, 100 km west of Frankfurt) and drive to Budapest, working our way back to Frankfurt where we would rail to Paris.  With two days in Budapest, and then a day in Vienna, we realized we'd bitten off more than we could chew, so we discarded the Prague piece to spend an extra day in Vienna.  Since Vienna-Frankfurt was going to be more than 6 hours, we decided to break it up and stay in a well-preserved city called Regensburg.

The Hottentotten Inn, an inexpensive, African-themed hotel located in the parking lot of a car repair yard, a bit outside the city walls was run by a crusty older man and his wife who had lived in Africa for seven years.  He recommended the Braueri Kneitinger, a Bavarian brewery/eatery that had been in the same family since the 1860s.  It was late Saturday afternoon, and stepped into the crowded beer hall where much of the crowd was intent on the fusbol.  The host found us a table that we shared with a friendly retired couple from Berlin, who were nice enough to help us interpret the menu.  Susan was intent on sausages, this being Bavaria and all.  I figured I'd have sausages too, until the Berlin couple mentioned the Schweishaxn, a Bavarian specialty, served with Kartoffelknödel and krautsalat.  Schweishaxn is a braised pork shank with skin on, where the skin crisps up. Kartoffelknödel are a mixture of cooked and raw potatoes, formed into a ball a little smaller than a tennis ball.  These are served on the plate with a rich brown gravy, which I'd guess is made from the pan drippings and onions.  The pork was tender on the inside, crisp on the outside.  Salty, but not overwhelmingly so, with a deep savory flavor that was easy to, well, savor.  The potato balls were like enormous gnocchi, but not with that starchy texture -- they went down smoothly and were perfect for soaking up the gravy.  The cabbage salad was a simple, plain counterpoint.  And the house-brewed beer was terrific.  We tried two of the heavier ones, the bock (17% alcohol) and the dunkel (12%) were smooth, rich, but not too heavy or overwhelming.  They stood up well to the heavier meat.

As I was enjoying this meal, I realized that a home run had snuck up on me.  The meal was fantastic.  Our table companions were friendly and engaging, telling stories of traveling central and northern Europe in their motor home.  And we seemed to be among as many Regensburgians as tourists.  To top it off, the meal was inexpensive.

I'm writing this on the train from Frankfurt to Paris, where I have high expectations for the food -- hoping for the best!

Another Planet

Rome was spectacular with its antiquities tucked among the modern.  Florence had ridiculous displays of opulence by people that called themselves "the Magnificent".  But Venice is another planet altogether.  Venice reminds me of a science fiction story where one basic element of life that we all take for granted is changed, and as a result everything else changes.  In Venice, it's the canals.  On the 180 islands that comprise Venice, you get around by foot or by boat.  Period.  No cars.  No trucks.  No firetrucks.  No wheeled ambulances.  Not even any "pedestrian only" zones as there's no way for cars to get there.

Everything's different without the cars.  Goods are brought in on little boats, and then hauled by hand on special carts with an extra set of wheels used to pivot up and down the steps on one pont (bridge) after another .  The UPS truck is a boat.  The mail comes by boat and then by foot.  The pace is slower as a result.  No dodging cars or waiting for traffic lights to change.  Some dodging of tourists and tour groups, but nothing too stressful.  The water buses go everywhere and frequently (though they are expensive). 

It's mystical.  Surreal.  While we were there, the sun filtered through a light haze, causing the distant church domes and bell towers (of which there were no shortage) to appear as if shot through a soft filter in a movie.  The soft focus of the place worked well with the soft color palette on all the buildings, adding to the effect.   I half expected to see two or three moons appear on the horizon, as if this were a different planet.