SambaMaster On The Road

Happy Birthday, My Brother Cris

2011-02-09T17:00:00.000-08:00

Cris Quinn in his jock wear

Today is my brother Cris’s birthday. One slight hitch: Cris is dead.

If that statement seems harsh, abrupt, sudden, it is so for a reason.

My brother Cris’s death was harsh, abrupt, sudden. You see, he was murdered. Murdered in cold blood by a cold blooded murderer.

An angry old man shot him dead, in an instant, with a pistol-grip shotgun.

It was a pistol-grip shotgun that he bought “legally” at a pawn shop in Orange, Texas, where pistol-grip shotguns, I imagine, are considered akin to a new pair of roller-skates intended for a child to play with. A pistol-grip shotgun is not a weapon used for hunting. It is an assault weapon, intended to kill human beings. Cops carry pistol-grip shotguns in their squad cars. They carry pistol-grip shotguns in order to kill human beings. A pistol-grip shotgun is designed to kill at close range, and to kill quickly, violently, abruptly, harshly.

And this is how my brother died on June 13, 2002. At the cold blooded hands of a madman, a cold blooded madman.

This mother-fucking, selfish madman upturned the lives of thousands of people. Spiraling out from my brother Cris’s five children, to my brother Cris’s seven siblings, to an extended family of dozens of cousins, nephews and nieces, aunts, uncles, in-laws, to a larger circle of hundreds of co-workers, old friends, new friends, clients, to the outer rings of the thousands of people who had never met him, but had, in some way, benefited from my brother Cris’s generosity and love.

You see, my brother Cris was a lawyer. But he was one of the good guys. He earned a lot of money, but he hated what he did. He told me that often; at one point, he talked about running for public office, but thought the stress of putting his beloved family in the public eye would be untenable.

So, instead, he did many wonderful things with his money, some public, some private, some, very private, many of his kindnesses known only to him. He was not out for the spotlight, he was a humble, quiet sort.

He helped finance an education building at his church. He donated his time, talent and professional skill via pro bono work to many unions and other organizations. He paid for a nephew’s undergraduate studies—that nephew is now pursuing a medical degree. He loaned me money, some of which I even paid back. He helped with the funding of a regional soccer complex in Beaumont, Texas, where he lived...and died. Encompassing at least 25 or 30 fields, his generosity toward this project extended far beyond the monetary. He helped plant the sod, the trees, he watered those plants, he cut that grass on a tractor he could barely drive. At 5 a.m. on the morning he was selfishly and needlessly shot in cold blood with a pistol-grip shotgun, he was watering the grass at this enormous facility. After his self-assigned chore, he fetched his youngest daughter Caitlin, and took her to another of their morning breakfasts at the nearby Pig Stand. The day after my brother Cris’s funeral, I happened to sit in that exact booth at the nearby Pig Stand where he ate his last meal with Caitlin. I broke down in tears. I am breaking down in tears as I write these words, thinking about the joy he felt sitting in that booth with his delightful Caitlin. And thinking of the eggs, the hash browns, the whole wheat toast, or maybe a breakfast taco that would have been his last, and of his final moments and last round of laughter with that bright, sunny child he called Caitlin.

And why? Why did this happen? The dumb ass bishop who delivered the homily at my brother Cris’s funeral said, “In time, the reasons for this tragedy will be revealed.” Well, your holiness, your fuckheadedness, I’m still waiting. The cloud with the secret message has yet to descend. If you see it there in Beaumont, will you snap a photo with you iPhone and send it along to his children, his seven siblings, his fellows at work, those firemen and pipe fitters who benefited so much from Cris’s generosity? Please, we are waiting. How long before the reasons for this tragedy will be revealed? Dear Bishop, I think your skullcap is on too tightly. There is only one reason this happened.

Selfish greed. The cold blooded murderer who shot my brother Cris with a pistol-grip shotgun was selfish and greedy. He wanted money to which he was not entitled. He was 79 years old. He was a thrice convicted felon, convictions dating back to the late 1930s. The NRA, who greedily defends the rights of gun owning numbskulls so that their weapon-manufacturing clients can continue to profit greedily from truly needless gun and ammunition sales, has lobbied for weak gun regulation. And as a result, the cold blooded, greedy old man was able to slip through the system and purchase a pistol-grip shotgun which, on June 13, 2002, he senselessly—in yet another form of armed robbery, stole my brother Cris’s life, and he stole my brother Cris from me, from his children, and from thousands of others whose lives were touched by this patient and wonderful man.

Bishop, I am still angry with you about those naive, silly words. I so wanted to stand and confront you that sad, terrible Saturday, but I held back. The reason for my anger will be revealed one day.

*****************************

My brother Cris with sisters Barbara, Susan (the baby) and me.

Today, February 9, 2011, my brothers and sisters are exchanging stories about our brother Cris via email. I have not contributed any stories yet. So I've decided, instead, to write this blog entry. And I am doing it at 30,000 feet in an airplane above Colorado where my brother Cris loved to ski with his five young children.

But I do have my own stories about my brother Cris, many stories. Enough, I suppose, to fill a slim book.

I remember the day when my brother Cris was brought home from the hospital by my beaming parents, a newborn in swaddling, emerging from the sky blue 1954 Ford Country Squire station wagon. I was nearly three-years-old and excited to see this strange package. But I seem to also remember some feelings of jealousy, the sort we read about in books, see in films, or perhaps, experience in our own lives, when a younger sibling makes his first appearance into the family. This is one of my first memories of my existence, maybe the very first.


My brother Cris with pigeon, Oklahoma City

I remember when this picture of my brother Cris was taken, a pigeon atop his head. He was three years old at the most, say, 1958, and we lived in a grand three-story home in central Oklahoma City. My older brothers used to taunt, capture, and sometimes shoot their BB guns at these pigeons from their third-story “suite”.

I remember, in the backyard of our small rented house in Shawnee, Oklahoma, the hole my brother Cris and I dug with shovels and soup spoons. It was, perhaps a couple feet wide and, maybe three feet deep, but to kids of five and eight, it seemed like a cavern. And it was much narrower at the bottom than the top...kids of this age armed with pilfered soup spoons from their mother’s kitchen are neither great engineers nor excavators. So, my very little brother Cris managed to get his foot stuck at the bottom of this hole, his head barely reaching the level of the soil around him. He started crying. And he continued to scream for help because I was unable to get him out of this mess. I imagine it was my saintly mother, Frances, who managed to pull him free. I also imagine we were scolded, but were probably also given a glass of milk and an admonition to dunk into it. “Bury the hole and don’t do it again.” Needless to say, that admonition must have dissolved into the milk, because, you know my brother Cris and I dug another hole somewhere else, behind another house, maybe in another town. Mother, you should have whipped our little asses.

I remember my brother Cris and I puking our guts out in the front yard of our parents’ home in Houston. It must have been 1975 or ’76. I think I was about to move to Austin, and my brother Cris and I decided to drop a few bucks with some of his friends at the Dollar Margarita night at a nearby bar called the Courtyard. The drinks were the size of a Hollywood swimming pool, and I am sure we each had three or four. Or five. Or six. In the restroom, one of his friends, Matt Pace, heard me spouting some sort of gibberish and emerged from the John insisting I was speaking Russian. Maybe I was. No, surely I was. Linguistic ability is always linked to excessive drinking, don’t you know? When we somehow got back to that house on Winter Oaks, the house where we both came of age, whatever that means, we were falling down drunk, hugging the pine trees my father had planted in 1967 when we moved into the house. I vaguely remember St. Frances emerging from the house, observing her sloppy drunk middle sons rolling on the lawn, uttering a “tisk, tisk”, and then going back inside to finish her popcorn. “I hope those boys learn a lesson from this,” I’m sure she thought as she shut the door behind her. I’m pretty sure neither Cris nor I learned anything from that. Nothing.

I remember another time in the early 1980s when my brother Cris came to visit me in Austin. He had been having some trouble with a girlfriend—he was not yet married to the wife who never loved him—and decided to come to me for some brotherly consolation, or something along those lines. We had a great meal at Austin’s Fonda San Miguel, consuming great food, and, big surprise, too many beers. He confessed the following to me: I had been his idol when we were kids. He wanted to be just like me, he wanted to do everything I did. And this was a total revelation to me. I never imagined myself as anyone's idol. But thanks, Bro, and now I can say, my Brother Cris, I wish I could be one-one thousandth of the loving, generous man you were. Even one-millionth would do. Brother Cris, I really mean this. I really mean this.

I still need my brother Cris. I often open my phone book to find his number which is still scribbled in there because I feel the need to talk to him about something. Maybe to borrow some money, maybe to lean on his big, brotherly shoulder. And then I realize I can’t call him. I can’t talk to him, I can’t travel with him again to Italy and fart with him through the night in our hotel room, or gross him out with the smell of my prosciutto-inspired bowel movement hatched just feet away in the hotel room’s tiny bath, I can’t ever hug those pine trees with him again.

I miss my brother Cris. He is gone. He left abruptly, suddenly. They said justice was served because the selfish, greedy old man, the cold blooded murderer, was sentenced to life in prison, and given a $10,000 fine, the maximum “punishment” for the crime he committed. They said the system worked. That fuckhead bishop probably believes that line also.

Justice? That would involve bringing my brother Cris back. Back to those who loved him, and returning him to those whom he loved. And that, my friends, just isn’t going to happen. It just isn’t going to happen.

I love my brother Cris. I miss my brother Cris.

Another View of the Real Bologna

2010-12-12T16:38:00.000-08:00

Again I'm gonna steal from my old junk, this time a profile I did of Biba Caggiano, the great Italian cookbook author, for The East Bay Monthly back in June 2001. I was delighted to interview her in her restaurant, the food was great, but the tastiest treat was the comment she made to me, and I am sure she meant it: "This has been a great pleasure today. Unlike most so-called food writers, you actually know something about food!" I melted when she said that, and was on a cloud for days afterward.

Here ya go:

*****

The Real Bologna

Biba Caggiano

In the not-too-distant past, when Chef Boyardee and Kraft Grated Parmesan set the standard for Italian food in this country, a young woman, recently arrived from Bologna in northern Italy, traveled, after a short stint in New York, to the then-hinterlands of Sacramento, California to start a new life. If you think it’s hard to find a decent Italian meal today, imagine the withdrawal Biba Caggiano felt when she found herself drowning in a raging cesspool of Spaghetti-Os.

But the relentless Biba pulled together her memories of the amazing cuisine she grew up with, and has since then assembled an empire worthy of any Caesar—but we’re not talking salads here. With the sixth in her series of authoritative cookbooks behind her (Biba’s Taste of Italy, William Morrow, 2001), Biba Caggiano’s domain also includes thousands of hands-on cooking classes, countless episodes of television instruction including two years on the Learning Channel, and the showcase for her crusade: Sacramento’s Biba, one of the finest Northern Italian restaurants outside of Italy.

Biba's Taste of Italy, 2001

    “We’re talking 1969,” recalls Biba, “if I wanted to eat the foods I grew up with, I had to learn to duplicate what my mother used to do. What led me to the food I am known for today was my palate and my eye. When I looked into that pot, I could tell if it was almost right or not, too liquid, too light, too whatever. But it was my tastebuds that really guided me. For the first 23 years of my life I learned how the food should taste.”

    And Biba was lucky enough to grow up in Bologna, the center of the region known as Emilia-Romagna, respected by most Italians as the ne plus ultra of a country already considered by the world as a food paradise. Imagine the flavors that trained her palate (and which constitute the focus of her new book as well): Emilia-Romagna is the home of Parmigiano-Reggiano, the most majestic of all cheeses; prosciutto di Parma, the most heavenly preparation of a pig’s hind leg imaginable; balsamic vinegar, the much abused curative and syrupy magic condiment; paper thin handmade pastas, filled and unfilled, regarded as Italy’s finest; ragù bolognese, which, when done properly, transcends any notion most of us have of what a pasta sauce can be; and of course mortadella, the true bologna, a melt-in-your-mouth treat that will permanantly erase all thoughts of Oscar Meyer you might be harboring.

    “When you are young growing up, if you are lucky enough to live in a place like Bologna, you really don’t understand how lucky you are until you find yourself out of your homeland. That’s when your find out how different the world can be. When I first arrived in this country we were living in Queens with my husband’s parents, we were so broke. I went out one day to buy some bread and saw women on the street with rollers in their hair and slippers on their feet and there I was with my heels, my stockings, my good outfit, as we do in Italy when we go out. I looked at these women and thought, ‘Wow!’ And that’s when it hit me. I was really in a different place, I became really homesick for everything I left behind,” Biba remembers.

    And the food memories?

    “The first thing I wanted was the aroma of that broth on Sunday mornings when we kids would sleep in and my mother would get up early to put on the pot with all those bones and mixed meats; that is what used to wake us up,” says Caggiano. “The aroma was fabulous, and she would make these tiny tortellini which my brother and sister and I would help seal, or she would roll out a very thin delicate pasta, tagliolini, to go into the broth.

    “We were raised in that kitchen, that nice large kitchen which was the center of our home, it’s where we did our homework. I stirred the sauces, I tasted, I would do things to help my mother. All these things came back to me, and as I thought about them, I gained a new appreciation of how wonderful it was to have had all those things. Lots of phone calls from Sacramento to my mother in Italy helped me remember all the correct ingredients, but, like I said, my palate and my memory guided me.”

    In no time, her reputation as a cook spread through the capital city and she began giving cooking lessons in her home, eventually growing into the facilities of William Glen, a major source for things culinary in Sacramento. She started out with what she knew, the recipes from her hometown of Bologna, but eventually expanded her course to include other parts of her region as well.

    But to Biba, one dish shines as the most exemplary of Bologna, and it is the dish that launched her career as a messenger of Bologna’s riches: lasagne alla bolognese.

Lasagne alla Bolognese

    “I remember the first time I served lasagne to friends at one of our dinner parties. I saw people eating and they would stop and look at each other and I thought, ‘Gee! What did I do?’ So I asked, ‘Is anything wrong?’ They said, ‘No! This is wonderful! Why is it so delicate?’ Because you know, this was the time when the only lasagne they new were those thick packaged noodles, that’s what was in the stores. They had never had the real thing from Bologna. I was so pleased that the lasagne delighted them so.”

    She adds, “It’s the classic, it’s so good. It’s not the type of food you eat every day, it is so rich, but when you eat it slowly, savoring every bite, and it goes down slowly, you know you are eating something special.

    “It is one of those rare dishes that is perfect, but you have to do it right. You have to have the pasta that is transparent, you have to have the bechamel that is creamy, you have to have the meat sauce that is simmered slowly so you have just the meat essence.”

    Dear reader, please notice there is no heavy ricotta, mozzarella, or sausage.

    She will not stand for anyone trying to mess with such a perfect formula. “Years ago I had a friend in catering who wanted to serve my lasagne recipe. But he said it was not complicated enough for his clients. He said, ‘It’s kind of simple, can I jazz it up? Can I put some mushrooms in the meat sauce?’ I said, ‘WHAT?! You do not understand a damn thing! DON'T TOUCH THE DISH! It has stood the test of time over centuries. No, you may not alter the recipe.’ ”

    Her devotion to her roots is evident in her Sacramento restaurant where I was lucky enough to have had lunch recently. I was transported back to Italy in a way no other Bay Area eatery has been able to do for me. The food was achiote- and kiwi-free, but instead, redolent of the purity of the simple, spare, and elegant ingredients found in each dish. Italian food ain’t necessarily some spicy meatball.

    The spring-inspired menu I sampled offered a light pasta punctuated with prosciutto, asparagus tips, and fresh peas, all bound and contrasted with a slightly sharp, yet smooth parmigiano cream sauce. A lamb loin was simply grilled and framed with asparagus—no chef-ego-boosting lemongrass-crème frîeche sauce to weigh it down. And the torta di noci was the perfect, not-too-sweet walnut cake. Readers take note: this is a place you don’t want to miss, and is no farther than many of the trendoid joints up in Napa, of which Biba, not surprisingly, has a view (which I wholeheartedly share):

“These cooks are one of my pet peeves. There are several in Napa that are always being touted in magazines as serving wonderful Italian, let’s call what they do California-Italian, then I can understand that. But the thing is, if you do a dish, and you call it, let’s say, spaghetti carbonara, okay, then do that dish. We all know what goes into that dish: the eggs, the parmigiano, some put in a touch of cream, some don’t, pepper, and of course pancetta. I ordered that dish in one of these places, supposedly so great, and it came with how many other ingredients on top I don’t know. There were peas, tiny carrots. Okay, it was spring, the guy wants to put something seasonal on the menu, I have no problem with that. But don’t call it with that name, spaghetti carbonara, because it’s really a misrepresentation if you call a dish with a certain name that is classically made a certain way. If you have eaten it in Italy, that’s what you think it is; but people here change recipes all the time, they think they can improvise on them, but these recipes have been around for generations.”

Biba's Northern Italian Cooking

    These are the standards, then, that you can expect when you pick up one of Biba’s books. You will get the real deal, nothing more, nothing less. Her first book, Northern Italian Cooking, was an offshoot of her early classes in Sacramento. Around 1981, after five years of teaching, she had amassed enough material for a book and wanted to do one about the cuisine of Bologna. “The publisher said, ‘Uhh, Bo-? Bo-bo what?’ I said, ‘Bologna.’ They said, ‘Where’s that?’ I explained it to them and they said people will never be able to pronounce it, they will never know where it is, they will never be able to pronounce it. ‘Do a book on Northern Italian cooking,’ they said. This was a time when people thought Northern Italian meant just cream sauces and Southern meant red sauces. That book is still out there and has been selling well forever.” It has helped define the cooking of Northern Italy for more than 400,000 book buyers. Quite a feat for a cookbook.

    Twenty years later she has finally published the book she could only dream about in the beginning. Biba’s Taste of Italy paints a delectable portrait of the most edible region of Italy. The book compiles recipes gathered from small trattorie, restaurants, at the market, from friends, family, all over years of travel back home, though it took her two and a half years to do the specific research for this volume, discovering along the way the essence of her native cuisine. “I know my region pretty well, she says, “but it was only when the book came together that I realized the dominance of Bologna as the center of the region—luckily, that’s where my gustatory gift came to life. It was nice doing this work, it was a good thing.

    “I talked to anybody who seemed to know about food,” Biba explains, “I remember we were at the market one day selecting beautiful fresh fennel and there was a beautiful, elderly woman dressed so well picking up the fennel and I asked her, ‘How are you going to cook it when you get home?’ And she said, ‘I don’t know. I’ll figure it out when I get home.’ And that is really the essence of Italian cooking. Go to the market, get what is fresh and in season, take it home and then figure out how to cook it.”

    Biba, who admits to having a weakness for potato chips and honey-roasted peanuts, sums up her career in a philosophical manner: “I am a mother. [Her own daughters have not strayed far—Carla, a new mother herself, lives blocks from Biba and her husband Vincent, and Paola, an avid cook herself, is a lawyer in Oakland.] I think I have always been a mother, even when I was young. I like to nurture people, I like to take care of people. And as I began to work with food, I found great joy.

    My daughters would come home from school with some friends in tow and they would go into the kitchen where I would always have something ready for them. I was taking over what my mother had done without knowing it. That time around the table with family and friends is still one of the best things you find in Italy. It’s a wonderful cultural thing; so this is what I do now, it’s what I’ve been doing all my life.”

    Biba Caggiano has educated thousands, if not millions, in the way of the one-true lasagne. Through her books, her television exposure and her admittedly Big Night-like travails leading her restaurant patrons to an authentic Italian trough, she has labored long and hard to maintain the memory of the food and techniques she learned at her mother’s side, that her mother learned from her mother and her mother from her mother. That’s the way it used to be. Might still be in some places. But if not, at least we can adopt Biba as our foster mom to show us around the kitchens of Bologna so we might start our own traditions in the shadow of Sacramento.

Sidebar:

Biba’s Domain

Books:
Northern Italian Cooking, HP Books, 1981—A quick survey of the classic foods found north of Rome. Lots of photos and illustrations make this an ideal book for beginners.

Modern Italian Cooking, Fireside, 1992. This is a reprint of her second book. Just what it says—she takes a slightly modern approach to tradition and lightens things up a bit and includes a slew of pasta dishes ready in 20 minutes or less.

Trattoria Cooking, Macmillan Publishing Company, 1992. A fantastic survey of simple recipes found in some of Italy’s most charming eating establishments. I love this book.

From Biba’s Italian Kitchen, William Morrow, 1995. This was published to accompany her program on the Learning Channel and concentrates, naturally, on recipes from the north. Another good starting point.

Italy Al Dente, William Morrow, 1998. This is a close-up look at first course items: pasta, risotto, gnocchi, polenta and soups collected primarily in the north, but includes some great stuff from Naples and Sicily.

Biba’s Taste of Italy, William Morrow, 2001. A fantastic, detailed survey of Emilia-Romagna, with special emphasis on Bologna and surrounding areas. If you can’t make it to Italy in person, this book will take you there.

Restaurant:

Biba's, Sacramento

Biba, 2801 Capitol Avenue, Sacramento, (916)455-2422. Open Monday-Friday for lunch and Monday-Saturday for dinner. Friday and Saturday nights can be jammin’, so call ahead. Biba is there most of the time, unless she is working on a book in Italy. This is one of the few restaurants in this country that does Italian the Italian way. And of course, the menu changes with the season, and the many rotating specials come out of her ongoing book research. On the Web at: www.biba-restaurant.com.

Mike Quinn, associate editor of The Monthly, has traveled to Italy 12 times since 1992 to research food, eat, drink and be merry. His attempt to buy a restaurant in Montalcino near Siena was thwarted by a stack of liens against the place, taller than the tower of Pisa.

The SambaMaster's Rio de Janeiro

2010-12-05T20:54:00.000-08:00

I'm gonna cheat again. I want to add some additional thoughts on Rio and Italy soon. I have to bring my Italian sojourn up to the end, from Montalcino to Alba, via the amazing butcher shop of Dario Cecchini in Panzano north of Siena, the crazy, Dante-spouting butcher. But that will be a few more days.

In the meantime, I am posting a piece I wrote in 1986 for the Austin American-Statesman, back when they had a reasonable travel section. This was a "service piece" in part because it has, at the end, specific recommendations for restaurants, bars and clubs. Some of these are now out of date, but I may leave them in. Or not. Always check before traveling or venturing out. The Internet is your friend.

So, here is my still timely take on one of the greatest cities in the known universe. Rio de Janeiro.

***************

My soul is singing,
I see Rio de Janeiro,
I am dying of homesickness.
Rio, your sea, your beaches
All in all, Rio, you were made for me.
[With] Christ the Redeemer,
Arms open over Guanabara Bay,
This samba was written just for you,
Rio, because I like you!
—Antonio Carlos Jobim, Samba from the Plane

Rio de Janeiro

Unfortunately, the international traveler no longer flies into Rio as described in this Jobim classic. Instead of gliding into the tiny downtown airport nestled snugly between Sugarloaf Mountain and the ever-present Christ the Redeemer on top of Corcovado, today’s 747s and DC-10s land at an old air force base about 15 miles out of town.

Perhaps the romantic drama is gone, but the excitement can never be dissipated—a viscous vitality peculiar to this city of eleven million still permeates the air. Undulating samba blaring from the cab on the ride into town, towering palms lining the road, motorists ignoring traffic lights and lane markings, the ever-present Christ on Corcovado, a noise level above normally tolerable limits, these signs could indicate one place, and one one place only—Rio de Janeiro, one of the most beautiful and fascinating cities in the world!

Brazilian flag, Cinelândia, Rio de Janeiro

Rio, situated on Brazil’s east coast, with the Atlantic on one side, and the more tranquil Guanabara Bay on the other, is scattered among numerous verdant hills, better described as stubby, overgrown obelisks. It is the compartmentalization of the city by these rather imposing, at times sheer rock peaks, combined with the contrasting openness created by the sea and the resulting beaches which gives Rio its unique physical character.

And its unique cultural character? That is not quite so well defined or explained. But the carioca, as anything from Rio is called, is clearly a world apart from fellow Brazilians: the speech is different, the food is different, the pace is different, the music is different and the party, the party, like the Christ on Corcovado, is, in some form or another, ever-present. If the Paulista in São Paulo dedicates the day to work and business, then the carioca dedicates the day to living life to the fullest and sucking every drop of enjoyment from the daily grind whether it be work or play.

Carioca spirit in action

    A few observations of regularly recurring events reveal much about the city and it inhabitants: the daily procession to the beach between 8 and 10 a.m.; the voracious consumption of quick snacks on the run, especially tiny cups of very strong and sweet coffee, the ubiquitous cafezinho; driving habits which appear to be anarchical and self-centered and in total disregard of anyone’s personal safety; a helpful and courteous smile for the tourist (Rio has yet to be truly discovered as the tourist mecca it could be); a healthy disregard for the clock resulting in one to two hour delays for any marked encounter (remember that when setting social meetings); and a profusion of ceremony and social grace never imagined in the the U.S.A.

    All this and more is typical of the carioca. One could safely summarize the resulting whole as r-e-l-a-x-e-d.

    It all works, but in a way that can sometimes be mystifying and frustrating to the ever-efficient and organized North American tourist. Rio forces you into a very different approach to the rest of the world, somehow illogically logical. You soon get used to the mayhem in the streets where red lights are mere suggestions, and pedestrians targets. Walking to the beach, you find yourself stopping for a steaming hot cafezinho and a fried something or other in 95 degree weather. Lyrical and strongly rhythmic music pervades the night, much like the constant ocean breeze as you show up for an 8:30 p.m. dinner at 10. Before you go into the restaurant, look up and you’ll see the ever-present Christ atop Corcovado, now illuminated.

    Welcome to Rio, now you’ve arrived!

********

The Arcos da Lapa, the old aquaduct, Rio de Janeiro

    The history of Rio and its people is a long and complicated one. The site, thought to be the mouth of a large river, was discovered on January 1, 1501, thus the name, River of January. First settled by the French, Rio was won by the Portuguese in 1567 and grew in importance as gold and other riches passed through its port on the way to the crown in Lisbon.

    By 1763 the seat of government was transferred to Rio, and as the city grew, spreading among the hills, Europe began to boil and the Portuguese Empire transferred its center to Rio de Janeiro, an event that would cast a behavioral influence well beyond the pure historical and political aspects of the move.

    Eventually the Portuguese throne returned to Lisbon leaving remnants which were soon transformed into the independent Empire of Brazil. The fact that Brazil was ruled by a royal family with its ceremony, formalities and ensuing bureaucracy can still be felt in day-to-day life throughout the country.

    As a result of the abolition of slavery, in 1889 the Empire fell. By that time several million blacks had entered the country, greatly influencing the cultural makeup of the nation in such basic areas as food, language, music and religion. Africanisms are much more obvious in Brazilian culture than ours owing to the attitude of the Catholic Church which was more tolerant than the repressive puritanism of our South’s Anglo forefathers. By the turn of the century, cosmopolitan Rio was a fantastic racial and cultural mix, brimming with a Paris-like exuberance which spawned the samba, Carmen Miranda, the bikini, and eventually bossa nova.

    In the early 1960’s, the capital of Brazil was moved once again, this time from Rio to the newly constructed city of Brasília. With the government out of the way, Rio could get on with its job as the cultural heart of the world’s fifth largest nation.

    Early in 1986, the Brazilian government instituted a tough series of economic reforms to fight the 300 percent inflation of previous years. A new monetary unit, the cruzado, and frozen prices for everything, have so far produced the desired results: inflation is down and buying power is up. More importantly, the morale of the people has skyrocketed from rock bottom to a new high, returning the general atmosphere to its former optimism. [The money is now the real, and the economy is booming and most folks are much better off. China, USA, look out!]

Cold Brazilian "chopp", tap beer

The carioca’s pace and zest for life creates an ability to appreciate the mundane as well as the spectacular. The merits of a particular street snack and a cold Antarctica beer are argued as hotly as those of a tender cut of expertly grilled beef and cold Antarctica. For, in addition to great coffee, Brazil is a beer lover’s paradise boasting some very fine German-style lager delivered up in icy twenty-ounce bottles, just perfect for a hot day in Rio.

And yes, there are plenty of those in this Cidade Maravilhosa (Marvelous City). The daytime high averages around 80, climbing past the 100 degree mark in the summer (remember our seasons are reversed) and plummeting into the upper 60’s in July! Nights can be cool from May to October, so a light jacket or sweater is recommended.

Rio juice bar

Other drinks to beat the heat in Rio are not to be overlooked. An amazing variety of fresh tropical fruit juices can be found literally on every street corner: try the refreshingly different maracujá (passion fruit), the peculiarly delicious cajú (cashew—the nuts we know are seeds from this fruit) or the strange, but tasty abacate (basically an avocado milkshake!).

Brazil has its own national soft drink, guaraná, originally an Amazonian Indian refreshment. It is highly carbonated and satisfying without the overpowering sweetness of our sodas.

Cachaças

And if the beer didn’t offer enough of a kick, sample one of the several concoctions based on cachaça, basically a Brazilian rum. The simplest and most potent is the caipirinha, nothing more than crushed lime, cachaça, sugar and ice. It packs a punch, but one simply does not go to Rio without trying one. The batida, usually served “up,” is cachaça blended with any available fruit juice. Standouts are the batida de côco (coconut milk) and the batida de maracujá (passion fruit).

Caipirinha

One of the great bargains of Rio is the food which can be had in great quantity and great variety for very little money. Rio, remember, is a very sensual city, so the attention to food is legendary. Every restaurant features an army of helpful, white jacketed waiters, laden with tray upon tray of gastronomic and olfactory delights. It seems as though, no matter what kind of place you eat in, the tantalizing aroma of sauteing garlic wafts through the air every five minutes or so. Luckily, “mouth watering” is translatable into Portuguese! Dar aqua na boca!!!!!!!!

The average tourist, for some reason, does not think of pizza while in Rio which is a mistake. Many pizzerias still utilize wood burning ovens and the pizza is excellent and very different; much lighter than we are used to eating, often dotted with sliced tomatoes instead of a heavy sauce. The calabresa sausage pizza and the pizza portuguesa (sliced onions and tomatoes, crumbled boiled eggs and ham) are not to be missed.

Churrascaria Majórica

Another culinary highpoint in Rio is the churrascaria, or Brazilian barbecue. With all due respect to the great BBQ chefs of Texas, the Brazilians really know how to cook meat (their beef is world famous also) and serve it in portions that would choke the average Texan. Meat is grilled quickly over white-hot coals without losing its tenderness or one drop of flavorful juice. And no dry brisket or chewy fajitas are to be found. Brazilians prefer filet mignon, tenderloin and other substantial cuts of beef about which the average American can only dream.

But the crowning glory of the carioca kitchen is the feijoada. The best insight into the lifestyle of Rio is to experience this traditional Saturday lunchtime feast. The way to do it is to spend the morning at the beach, returning about 1 p.m. to locate a busy restaurant serving feijoada (hotel employees can recommend a good one since there is no bad feijoada in Rio). Be prepared for a leisurely three hour meal which will transform anyone into a Carioca with a capital CEEE.

Feijoada Completa

Feijoada is a dish built around black beans (feijão) and rice originated by slaves to take advantage of whatever scraps of meat they were allowed. Today it is a hearty mix of beans stewed with dried beef, ribs, sausage, bacon and other cured and smoked meats. Accompanied by rice, tender collard greens heavy with garlic, manioc flour toasted in butter, and mountains of orange slices (included to help digestion), the meal should under no circumstances be rushed, but slowly absorbed along with the passing carnaval of life and ice cold Antarctica (estupidamente gelada, stupidly cold!) or the more traditional caipirinha. Anyway, speeding through a feijoada can be potentially dangerous, leading to a blimp-like feeling for several days following.

Though the temptation exists to spend an entire vacation eating one’s way through Rio, the city is rich with other attractions ranging from its natural features and colonial churches to quaint, historic streets and stark contemporary edifices, in sum, much more than a two-week stretch can safely contain.

Corcovado

To understand the lay of the land, the first half-day should be dedicated to visiting the ever-present Christ atop Corcovado. From this vantage point, the entire city of Rio can be seen and, with the aid of a map, understood, at least in geographic terms; your mileage will vary on understanding anything else!!!! Sugarloaf (Pão de Açúcar), the many beaches including Copacabana, Ipanema and Leblon—Rio’s crown jewels, the crisscross of streets through plush vegetation, the gigantic lake almost pushing Ipanema into the sea, the somehow optimistic favelas—Rio’s ubiquitous slums, it can all be taken in from Corcovado. No better orientation could ever be devised.

The trip to the summit should be made not by auto, but by the charming cogwheel train (the trenzinho) which cuts through thick jungle on its way to the top. Once there it will be impossible to believe Rio could be a city of eleven million, it’s simply too beautiful. Before or after the climb, investigate the Largo do Boticário, just up the street from the station. It is a small square surrounded by charmingly restored colonial homes, a world unto itself only one block off the busy street. If you are lucky, the woman responsible for the restorations will come out and give you a little tour in English.

Largo do Boticário

The complementary peak on the other side of the city, Sugarloaf (Pão de Açúcar), should be done in the afternoon, say, taking off in the cable car from the Urca station at the bottom at about 2 p.m. The trick is to be at the top of Sugarloaf as Rio, just across the yacht basin, turns on its lights for the evening. A lovelier, more enchanting sight would be hard to imagine.

Rio’s downtown (Centro) is dotted with colonial churches, traversed by charming narrow streets lined with 18th century architecture and studded with history. This is where the city started; wandering a bit in this area, it is easy to imagine the city as it once was. Investigating its mysteries for a few hours would be time well spent.

Ipanema, Spring 2010, Rio de Janeiro

Beaches are the reason many people travel to Rio, and with great reason. Rio is practically surrounded by some of the best beaches in the world, they seem to be endless and the show available at the beach is like no other anywhere. The growth of the city in the the last thirty or forty years has followed the beach, forcing the reigning trendy stretch further and further out.

First there is Copacabana, the widest and still most crowded section. It remains Rio’s quintessential beach. Around the point from Copacabana are Ipanema and Leblon which appear to be one beach, but are very definitely two, each with its own particular character. Ipanema continues to set the trends in beach fashion while Leblon tends to serve as a “neighborhood” beach, attracting few outsiders which is just fine with the area’s celebrity population. Several miles down the road is the current “in” place to build a home, the Barra da Tijuca. This beach is over nine miles long, starting out residential like the others, it becomes progressively more and more deserted.

Ipanema Beach

Going to the beach is a carioca specialty. It is done about 9 or 10 a.m., but not at all if there is more than one cloud in the sky! Another secret to a happy vacation in Rio is to leave everything in the hotel when going to the beach. Don’t take anything to the beach you wouldn’t want to give away to a perfect stranger. (In fact, generally speaking it is a good idea to always leave valuables and excess money in the hotel safe. Be sensible.) A morning at the beach can be an incredibly effective universal cure, both spiritually and physically healing, and relaxing beyond one’s greatest expectations.

Still, the best thing to do in Rio is hang out in sidewalk cafes and watch the world go by—cheap, unbeatable entertainment. But some people still want to sightsee.

Rio sidewalk cafe, Bar Picote, Flamengo

    The Jardim Botânico (Botanical Garden) was founded in 1808 by the Emperor of Portugal, at that time, himself a carioca. Its collection of flora from all over the world is unbeatable. The Imperial Palms alone make the visit worthwhile.

    The Carmen Miranda Museum offers a fascinating view of this legend of the stage and screen. Oddly enough, she spent most of her career in Los Angeles. The entry fee is twelve cents.

    If it can be arranged, a soccer (fútbol) game at the gigantic Maracaná Stadium, where crowds of 100,000 are common, should not be missed, especially on Sunday. Dozens of drum-based samba bands and spontaneous fireworks punctuate the game in a rhythmic and driving way that Dallas cheerleaders will never achieve. The game is more than exciting; exciting is the trip out of the stadium!

    And every traveler is interested in bargains and shopping. Brazil has plenty and the current exchange situation puts the visitor with American dollars at a real advantage. The aforementioned economic reforms included a freeze of the official exchange rate at13.77 cruzados to the dollar. For one reason or another, there is a “parallel” rate which offers an advantage of about 35-45%, or Cz$18-21 to the dollar, depending on current conditions. [This is not the case in 2010...the dollar has crashed and the real is hot...prices, in ten years, have doubled for gringos bearing the almighty (!) dollar!)

    Hotels will usually exchange close to the “parallel” rate as will many businesses, but the best rate is usually found in travel agencies. Newspapers quote the current rate in the financial section and, as long as you can get within one or two cruzados, don’t fret and waste time running around the city looking for a better exchange. Brazil is already a bargain. But the best arrangement is to use credit cards only in emergencies and take advantage of the “paralelo.” [Brazil ain't no bargain any longer, but...you still can't beat if for it's beauty, complexity, music and people.]

    Aside from several pounds gained from eating, what does one take back from Brazil? Leather goods, anything from shoes to bags, are very affordable, as are precious and semi-precious stones. Brazil’s rich musical resources offer an endless variety of recordings and fine, very stylish clothing can be a very good buy. For those interested in visual arts, the Galeria Jean-Jacques (Rua Ramon Franco, 49, two blocks from the Sugar Loaf lift) offers unique, high quality Brazilian naive paintings and prints at reasonable prices ($20 for prints, paintings range from $50 to over $1000). [I think they are now out of business.]

Afro-Brazilian Folk Art, Pei de Boi Gallery, Rio de Janeiro

Combined, Rio’s treasures create an irresistible magnet the attraction of which very few can overcome. Although the city can present what seems to be an insurmountable series of frustrations and a division between rich and poor capable of pulling at the toughest heartstrings, visitors to Rio fall in love with its romantic charm and addicting daily rhythm. The contrasting, multiple layers of its culture never cease to amaze foreigners. An example: Brazil is the world’s largest Catholic country, yet a very large percentage of the population lends some form of credence to the religious beliefs brought from Africa by the slaves.

Rio is its own city; world-class in its sophistication and manner, yet timeless and singular in the character it has developed over the last 400 years. A classic great escape, Rio, you were made, not just for Antonio Carlos Jobim, but surely for tourists as well!

-30-

SIDEBAR 1: RIO’S NIGHTLIFE

    The first-time visitor to the Cidade Maravilhosa with a desire to experience the “real Brazil” in Rio is faced with a very difficult task. Places offering Brazilian food or Brazilian music or both can be quite evasive. Afterall, the upper class Brazilian who regularly frequents the better restaurants and clubs wants continental cuisine and American music. So why wouldn’t the American tourist, obviously wealthy with dollars, want the same?

    But the charms of Brazilian cuisine and music can be uncovered with a little patience.

Casa Rui Barbosa, Botafogo, Rio de Janeiro

The mid-town neighborhood of Botafogo is jammed with little restaurants and bars, many of which dedicate themselves to preserving the Brazilian-ness of Rio. For a good introduction to home-style cooking try the daily special offered by the charming Botiquim (Rua Visconde de Caravelas, 184 in Botafogo). A restored 19th century home, the specials, served on rustic, heavy clay plates, feature such treats as carne de sol, sun dried beef served with black-eyed peas and greens, and cozido, a hearty stew chocked with every imaginable vegetable as well as meat and sausage.

Acarajé, Yoruba, Rio de Janeiro

    Also in Botafogo is the very handsome Chale Brasileiro (Rua da Matriz, 54) where one can sample a variety of very well-prepared Brazilian dishes. The Chale specializes in the unique food of Bahia, Brazil’s original capital, which emphasizes seafood and the African ingredients found in the region. Try muqueca, a pungent stew featuring fish, shrimp, lobster or other seafood in a sauce of coconut milk, tomatoes, cilantro, peppers and palm oil; its rich flavor will never be forgotten. Carurú is shrimp, okra and tomatoes: gumbo with a Bahian flair. [This place is gone, but search out a place called Yoruba, also in Botafogo...it is great!]

    For churrasco (barbecue), there are two methods: a la carte or more-than-you-can-eat. Very high quality meat can be had from the menu at the Churrascaria Leblon (Rua Adalberto Ferreira, 32 in Leblon) while the adventurous might want to try the rodizio (translate as “never ending parade of every grilled meat imaginable) at Máriu’s (Avenida Atlântica, 290 in Copacabana) or the Porcão (Rua Barao da Torre, 218 in Ipanema). Brisket will never taste the same.

    On the exotic side, experiment with the Amazonian food at Arataca (Rua Figueiredo Magalhaes, 28 in Copacabana). Pato No Tucupí (duck simmered in a unique broth) is the regional specialty, but also try the great variety of fresh water fish from the Amazon. Arataca also serves a variety of very exotic fruit juices from the region and uses them as a base for the famous batida, a drink fired by cachaça, Brazilian rum.

Cafe Lamas

A better feel for the Rio Thing can be had at Café Lamas (Rua Márques de Abarantes, 18 in Flamengo) or Amarelinho (on the Cinelandia plaza, Centro). Lamas is a hangout for bohemians and journalists and features the best filets in town; the Filet á Oswaldo Aranha is covered with crisp bits of garlic and thinly sliced fried potatoes. The Amarelinho (Little Yellow Joint) is a sidewalk cafe where the passing parade of life is utterly fascinating and the food is very good. Snack on the Frango a Passarinho, chicken cut into bite-sized pieces and fried crisp with, that’s right, bits of garlic.

Amarelinho, Cinelândia, Rio de Janeiro

    For a mix of food and (usually) Brazilian music try a late dinner at one of Botafogo’s new bars: Barbas (Rua Alvaro Ramos, 408), Beco da Pimenta (Rua Real Grandeza, 176) or Bambino D’Oro (Rua Real Grandeza, 238).

    Brazilian music can best be located by combing through the “Show” pages of the daily papers, Jornal do Brasil and O Globo. But a few places that usually have quality acts are Canecão, and the Circo Voador whose Sunday night program with the Orquestra Tabajára should not be missed. (Sadly, the wonderful Tabajára no longer does the Sunday thing, but the Circo continues!)

    It is worth planning a day’s activities around the remarkable programming of the two “Six-Thirty Projects.” Referred to as the “Seis e Meia,” these are government or corporate sponsored shows downtown, Monday through Friday, at the Teatro Carlos Gomes and the Sala Sidney Miller which feature the best of Brazilian music at 6:30 p.m. for the very reasonable price of a buck. (These are few and far between these days, but still exist at times.)

Forró in Catete, Rio de Janeiro

Several working-class nightspots have recently become fashionable and are worth investigating for their down to earth ambience and dance-provoking music. The Gafiera Elite (Rua Frei Caneca, 4) and the Gafiera Estudantina (Praça Tiradentes, 79) are downtown dance clubs dating back at least fifty years. They are both legendary and national treasures. Forró Forrado (Rua do Catete, 235) offers regional music from Brazil’s Northeast which will sound very familiar to Cajuns traveling in Brazil. These three places tend to operate weekends only, though Forró Forrado gets started on Thursday nights. (FF is gone, but there is forró in Catete on Sunday nights at a local dance studio...check the newspapers.)

Samba at Beco do Rato, Lapa, Rio de Janeiro

For samba, the only sure thing is the Clube do Samba (Estrada da Barra, 65 in Barra da Tijuca). It is a long cab ride and the headliner will not take the stage until 1:30 or 2 a.m., but it is well worth the trouble for a real taste of Rio’s most famous musical form. If possible, stick it out to the end at 4:30 a.m.; the rhythms and excitement will be an unforgettable remembrance of Rio to take back home and savor for years to come. (Clube do Samba is a thing of the distant past. However, there is samba galore in the revitalized Lapa neighborhood...check the papers, or ask around, or just wander after 10...you will hear the music pouring out of every other window for many blocks around...)

Now For Something Completely Different

2010-11-30T11:35:00.000-08:00

Ok, enough ranting about food and wet towels.

Here is some fantastic samba I videoed in Rio in October. There is more like it on my YouTube channel.

This is Nei Lopes, a fantastically talented man who started out as a lawyer and is now Rio's principal advocate and chronicler of Afro Brazilian culture: music, language and other aspects. He is also a talented writer of creative fiction. And one of the best sambistas of the last 40 years, having written a string of hits that have mostly been popularized by other perfomers.

This is one of those:

What Is A Foodie? Not Me!!!! Puhleeeze!

2010-11-30T11:01:00.000-08:00

If you've read some of my older posts, well, with the rather exaggerated focus on food matters, one might surmise that, to use the colloquial term, I am a foodie.

Let me assure you that I am not.

I would never, ever refer to myself in that way, and cringe with others choose to do so.

"But you seem to love food so much, how could you NOT be one of those?"

Hmmmm. Here it's gonna get sticky, and I'm gonna end up sounding even more screwy and snobbish than any foodie could possibly be. So what's the difference?

Well, in my humble opinion, a foodie is someone who wants people to think they know a lot about food, that they care about food, that food plays a big role in their lives. However, it's been my experience that folks who accept this label usually don't really know all that much about food, their true passion is making themselves appear puffed up and knowledgeable among their friends, and anyone within audible conversation distance at restaurants, markets and so on. Gag me with a spoon.

The website chowhound.com which I frequent, or used to, when looking for what is going on in cities I am about to visit, or even those in which I have lived, has an interesting way of delineating true chowhounds. (Portland, Oregon has about the worst local chowhound.com forum I have seen, which is amusing to me since the city is constantly lauded as being the new mecca for food and dining in the USA. If chowhound is any sort of indicator, I'd have to say that Portland is more like a food cesspool. But I digress...)

Chowhound, as defined by the website, is one who lives to eat, as opposed to those who eat to live. A chowhound will travel hundreds of miles to sample some esoteric food, or the best fried chicken. You see, even lowly fried chicken can be 'hound-worthy. But will a foodie get a virtual hard-on over some amazing yardbird? Not likely. For the foodie, the chicken must be prepared in a far more sophisticated manner. You pick. But fried? Not a chance. No balsamic involved, no kiwi, no exotic peppers.

Here is a great example of a foodie in action.

My House in Providence

About ten years ago I moved to Providence, Rhode Island where I bought a nice old home built in 1890. First thing I did was re-do the kitchen to make it functional—in 110 years, no previous owner bothered installing kitchen cabinets or counters. After the work was done, and it didn't take long because the kitchen was so small, the neighbor from across the street came over to introduce herself. When she saw the kitchen, she said, "Oh, you need to meet my husband, he loves to cook and has remodeled our kitchen like this, only bigger!"

So she dragged me immediately across the street to meet her man.

My Providence Kitchen

When I saw his kitchen—decked out with an eight-burner commercial range and a ten-foot long stainless steel dish washing "station" that had no business being in this smallish kitchen. I mentally slapped my forehead, and then again when he finally started on his tour around the place. This guy was totally full of himself and his own shit. The kitchen also featured a rather useless "commercial" refrigerator, meaning it had no freezer and, being only about twelve inches deep, was incapable of hold anything of any size. His freezer was a couple of rooms away. The dog and pony show ended with a glass of iced tea, sweetened with, not sugar, but with his specially prepared simple syrup...which is what? Sugar dissolved in water. Gimmie a break.

As we talked about HIS cooking, at some point he said, "Why don't you come over sometime when I'm cooking. You can be my sous chef." WTF?!?!?!?!?!!?!? Are you kidding, you pretentious motherfucker? But I let that slide. Then he said, "What do you cook? Like a bunch of one-dish meals?" WTF Number Two!!!?!?!?!?!?????? I let that slide too, but I was mentally honing my knives for future use in his kitchen....

During my time in Providence, I routinely hosted dinner parties for the handful of great friends I had there, and often included Mr Chef and his poor, sad, suffering wife (can you imagine living with an asshole like this???).

One evening, I made some of my well-regarded fresh tortelli (ravioli in Tuscan lingo) which I served with my equally well-regarded tomato sauce. After everyone had nibbled a bit on the tortelli, Brandon the Food God said, "Mike, this sauce is great. What's in it?" I quickly and deftly responded with this: "Brandon, YOU are the food expert, why don't you tell us what you think is in it?"

So this foodie asshole took another bite and began his proposed ingredient litany: "Let's see. Onion. Garlic. Oregano. Basil. Olive oil. Rosemary....How'm I doing?"

With a giant smile, I said, "Wrong. Wrong. Wrong." Oh God, that felt good.

"It is simply tomato, with fresh, uncooked butter and a few basil leaves. Salt, pepper. Done."

(The recipe comes from my Italian food guru, Giuliano Bugiali's book, The Art of Italian Cooking, perhaps the best single book on Italian cooking. See it here. Sorry, Marcella.)

His need to over-complicate everything he, or anyone else, cooks is part of his foodie creed. American "chefs" suffer from this same syndrome, and it is why most Italian restaurants in this country are awful. They just can't leave stuff alone. Italian food is all about a few prime ingredients combined in an artful way to create an amazing dish. American chefs don't understand this, and have to, like a dog pissing on a fire hydrant, mark the dish as their own.

Never mind the fact that, for example, so many classic Italian dishes are the result of centuries of honing technique and recipe. But that isn't good enough for the American foodie and macho chef. Oh no. "I'm gonna make it better, you just watch." Bobby The Asshole Flay is a great example of this on his Food Network "Throwdown" show...throw up is more like it. He is so cocky, he knows he can make any time-tested recipe better by adding all sorts of needless, but oh so trendy, ingredients that really have no business going into the dishes at hand. What self-indulgent, ignorant arrogance.

And that, my friends, is what makes self-proclaimed "foodies" tick. Self-indulgent, ignorant arrogance.

I may be stupid, and I may be ignorant, but I will admit to all of these delightful qualities. I usually admit to what I don't know. But, in the long run, I truly respect food and tradition. Foodies do not. They want to wear balsamic vinegar on their sleeves and on their ultra trendy salads, even though they have probably never actually had REAL balsamic vinegar, and don't know that it exists. Foodie-ism is a badge, like driving a Lexus.

My 2003 Honda

I'll stick with my rather modest Honda, thank you very much. It will get me the 500 miles cheaper in that quest for great BBQ than any Lexus...

If The Shoe Fits...

2010-11-24T21:13:00.000-08:00

I am a true numbskull.

I have been wearing New Balance shoes for several years, and always more or less the same style, now called the "409" if I am not mistaken. Size eleven and a half.

New Balance 409s

Right before I left for Italy three weeks ago today, I bought a brand new pair of these to give my feet more support and comfort than the six-month-old pair I've been wearing lately. Great, easy purchase. Even wore them for a day or two before leaving to help start the break-in process.

After a day or two in Italy, I noticed my feet were in slight pain, and that the shoes were feeling a bit tight. Ok, a few more days of break-in and all will be fine.

Well, after those days, the pain didn't go away. And the shoes continued to feel too tight, as if they were about a half size too small. And instead of getting better, my feet just hurt more and more with each passing day.

I know that there is not always total size continuity from batch to batch of shoes like this, so I figured this eleven and a half was not true to the last few pairs I've had.

Walking around Florence, Bologna, Montlacino, Alba, New York never got easier, and in fact, was often very painful. Buying a new pair of shoes once I got home was tops on my list of things to do once back in Portland.

So, today, after getting home and unpacking a bit, I got ready to go out to get a nice hot bowl of Chinese soup. As I poked around for my shoes, I saw my new pair of New Balance resting in the hallway. But I wanted to wear my old pair since the shoes I wore on my trip were headed to the Goodwill pile.

But wait, these new New Balance shoes looked strange. They were darker, with more blue stripes all of a sudden.

And then it hit me. They were NOT the shoes I took to Italy! I was in such a hurry to get out the door on time when I left three weeks ago, I didn't notice I put on an old pair of shoes I bought last year, Adidas, that were, in fact, about half a size too small.

What an idiot! My feet suffered for three weeks of walking eight hours a day or more because I wore shoes that were too fucking small to begin with!

So, my New Balance are absolutely brand new, unworn, and un-Italianated. I really screwed up big time on this one.

And I've been apologizing to my feet profusely for the last few hours. Please forgive me, feets!

If the shoe fits...but if it doesn't, well, get rid of them as soon as possible so you don't do what I just did!

What a lame mo'fo!!!

Montalcino Redux (What does 'redux' mean?)

2010-11-22T07:07:00.000-08:00

Click on the photos to make ’em larger...

I'm gonna cheat here. I wanted to write more about Montalcino, but can't do better than this piece I wrote in about 1997 or so for the Austin American-Statesman (which now as a rather useless travel section, unfortunately...). It pretty well sums up my feelings about the place, or at least, if you read between the lines (or some of them), you should get a decent feel for my love of this town.

I may sneak a few more recent thoughts into my previous post about the food, but not sure what they might be that could better the following, of which, I am very proud....

******

Please don’t read this.

Montalcino from below

If you insist on continuing, please don't tell anyone about our little secret. When word gets out, the peaceful tranquillity of one of Tuscany's finest hilltop jewels will certainly be shattered. And Montalcino will never be the same. Please let me discourage you from visiting.

Montalcino is located, geographically speaking, in the Italian province of Siena, an hour south of Florence and three hours north of Rome. But in every other sense it is truly in another world.

The world's most photographed cypresses, near Montalcino

In Montalcino the concept of time disappears. The crowding, noise and bustle of other Italian cities vanish. Sorry, no Campari neon, no flashing Odeon theaters, no Benetton billboards. Not even a single taxi: the 10-minute walk across town makes them superfluous, and besides, there is only one street that runs Montalcino's full length. Sounds horrible, right?

Streets of Montalcino

In Montalcino you'll have to make do with a well-preserved example of a sixteenth century Italian città (city) where life adapts a different pose, not unlike a visit to the past.
Beyond the fact that the architecture has changed little in four hundred years – massive rough hewn stone walls of every building in this town of five thousand citizens, the classic Tuscan bell tower of the city hall, the imposing castle-like ramparts of La Fortezza (the Fortress)–the basic rhythm of daily living is not a particularly modern one.

When the day begins, the ancient bakery does its best to pollute.

The hot, sweet smell of bread and cookies baking wafts through the otherwise crisp, clean mountain air. And the chop chop chopping clatter of the biscotti-cutting machine echoes relentlessly along the cobblestones as another wicker basket fills with Tuscany’s unwitting contribution to the trendy accouterment of the caffè latte-obsessed in the United States.

Sant'Antimo Abbey, Montalcino

The morning also offers one of the best ways to melt into the timelessness of Montalcino. Five minutes down the road is the abbey church of Sant'Antimo where, at nine o’clock sharp, the six or seven Cistercian monks celebrate Mass sung in Gregorian chant. The building itself is sufficient for time transport, constructed of travertine in classic Romanesque style and adorned with whimsical animals carved from local alabaster.

But add the element of ancient music and ceremony and the atmosphere changes sufficiently to move even the most skeptical.

Interior, Sant'Antimo

This church was founded in 781 by Charlemagne as thanks for his troops being spared that year's raging plague. It was enlarged to its present state in the twelfth century when it was the center of one of Italy's richest and most influential monasteries.

Interior, Sant'Antimo, Montalcino

Stick around after Mass and, for a small tip, the caretaker will show you some of the church's highlights. If you increase the pay a bit, and you just come out and ask, he might let you go into the otherwise forbidden upstairs level that, on one side, was the Sienese bishop's home-away-from-home and, on the other, was the women's gallery; of course they were not allowed in the church proper.

From the sacristy fresco, Sant'Antimo

On the way up, pause to admire the original Carolingian chapel that now serves as the sacristy, and notice the fresco depicting the bucolic farm life of the old abbey, including a pair of copulating pigs.

From the sacristy fresco, Sant'Antimo

By all means, buy yourself the hypnotic recording of chants recorded in this awesome structure.

In the early afternoon, forget about making any stock market trades. The entire town shuts down for a three-hour lunch break.Walk through the twisting, cobbled lanes. They're deserted, almost spooky. Quiet is everywhere. Even the few cars allowed within the town walls are still. Maybe the silence makes you uneasy. Maybe you really miss the honking, belching traffic of the city.

Trattoria il Pozzo, San Angelo in Colle (Montalcino)

The best way to escape such quiet is to avoid it. Find a family-run trattoria and do as the Montalcinesi do. Linger a couple of hours over some of the area’s rustic cuisine and world-famous wines (more on which later). Chances are, you'll stumble into conversation with a fellow traveler, or with one of the friendly locals. And, in no time, you've wasted an entire afternoon, wasted it savoring good food and good company, the way mealtime used to be in the United States, a long, long time ago, before advanced technology gave us so much extra leisure time.

By the time lunch is over, the city will have sprung back to life.

But be careful back on the street. In Montalcino, strangers sometimes approach visitors on the street. They approach, and then—and then—they say hello! Buona sera, indeed. The nerve! So,go forewarned: This will happen to you in Montalcino.

On the afternoon stroll, forget the local museum. It's closed for renovation. But do admire some of the backyard gardens full of grapes, olive trees and artichokes. Compared to Florence or Siena, Montalcino offers little in the way of grand displays of Renaissance art anyway (actually, all of Montalcino is a living monument to the Renaissance).

Sputnik image, San Pietro Church, Montalcino

But there are some gems if you look. For something completely different, visit the church of San Pietro, just a short walk from the main drag. Inside this charming edifice is one of the most amazing paintings in all of Italy. It features the usual iconography of the period with one exception. At the feet of Christ is what appears to be a metal sphere, and the metal sphere appears to have several antennae sprouting from it. This is not an object we normally associate with the Italy of the year 1600, when this work was painted. No wonder some refer to this place as the Church of the Holy Sputnik.

Town Hall, Montalcino

The late afternoon sun, except during summer, casts long shadows down Montalcino's steep, narrow streets. (Referring to the web of medieval alleys and stairways that connect the various sections and levels of this mountain-perched town as "streets" might be stretching the truth; but their meandering design keeps the auto population under control.) Anyway, those shadows signal a time to sit down at a caffè on the main square, the Piazza del Popolo, and have an espresso, a bottle of mineral water, or another glass of the area's world-famous wines (more on which later).

The sun's last rays always paint the Tuscan sky as majestically as the finest fresco in nearby Florence, and that purple-pink cloak sweeps an even greater calm over the city. A quick walk through town offers a glimpse of the last few market transactions of the day: a wedge of local sheep's cheese, some brilliantly colored long-stemmed artichokes, a basket full of wild mushrooms. Then the night takes over.

Sundown, Montalcino

Dinner mirrors lunch, and by ten the city buttons up tight once more, tucking you in for the best night's sleep you've ever had. If you like that sort of thing.

*****

Like the valley below on many early mornings, the origins of Montalcino are obscured by a fog. Though Etruscan and Roman artifacts have been found in the area, the site of the current city was probably not established until the ninth or tenth century. But once underway, the growth was fast and furious, so much so that Montalcino has grown little since the 1300s.

Montalcino as seen from La Fortezza

Its strategic position on a hilltop overlooking the all-important route between Rome and Paris, the Via Francigena, placed Montalcino in the middle of much intrigue and warfare involving at one time or another Siena, Florence, several popes, the Medici, Spain and others. Finally, in the 1550s, the town surrendered to the powerful Medici of Florence and disappeared into that ubiquitous fog of time once again.

But the soil and climate of this fortuitous spot have provided another renaissance for Montalcino, a rebirth brought about by the international discovery of Montalcino's legendary ruby gold: the wine known as Brunello di Montalcino.

Brunello vines in Fall, Montalcino

Hailed as one of the world's best reds and quickly becoming one of the most expensive, Brunello is bringing new wealth to this formerly sleepy hamlet. By law, Brunello can only be produced within a very small region surrounding the town, thus controlling the quality and the price. In Montalcino the price for a bottle is roughly half that in the U.S.A., so if you enjoy wine, stock up. It will last. Brunello from 1888 is still being consumed, though not often!

Brunello on display, Montalcino

Also try the "baby Brunello, Rosso di Montalcino, made from the same grapes, but without the four years of aging required for its big brother. For a wine redolent of flowers and honeysuckle, try the other wine exclusive to Montalcino, Moscadello. It comes in two varieties: a slightly frizzy young treat enjoyed before dinner, and a slightly more "tangy" dessert-style wine (termed licoroso).

La Fortezza, Montalcino

Honey on display, Montalcino

A good place to sample these is in the enoteca of the Fortezza. This incredible structure was built to protect the populace during times of siege, and the walls make for a great morning of sightseeing.On a clear day you can see much of Tuscany. Siena, thirty miles to the north, is that reddish smudge on the horizon. The friendly staff will allow you to sample the wines they have open, and will be happy to answer questions about the wine, pecorino cheese, olive oil and other local products they sell.

With these samples as an appetizer, head straight to one of the fine local restaurants for some delicious country cooking. This area is well known for its cured meats, its sheep's milk pecorino, the hand-rolled rustic spaghetti known as pinci, and dishes made from wild boar and other game, as well as a heavenly, hearty soup made from beans and local produce and drizzled with some of Italy's best olive oil.

Some other goodies to look out for are local specialties from the bakery including biscotti (called cantucci) and the crisp meringue almond cookie, ossi di morto (dead man's bones!). Dip either in a glass of Moscadello after dinner for a traditional and delightful dessert.

Honey is another of the area's principal products, and every store in town features at least 10 varieties, each flavored by a specific type of blossom; the beekeepers move their hives from place to place to capture the essence of particular flowers for these honeys. Don't forget to grab some ceramics, olive oil and dried porcini mushrooms before you pack your bags!

Clearly, the problem with a visit to Montalcino is the tendency to eat too much, sleep too much, relax too much, walk too much,breathe too much clean air. Obviously, this is not a vacation.Vacations are supposed to provide a difficult and tense week or two so that returning to work will be a relief. Why on earth would anyone want to spend any time in such a place as Montalcino?

If you go:

Tourist Information: Montalcino Tourist Office: 011-39 (577) 849 331

Arriving: Because Montalcino is not well served by public transportation, the best way to see the area is to rent a car in any major city: Rome (three hours), Florence (one hour) or Siena (30 minutes) are some logical choices. There is much to see within a short driving distance of the city, and a car allows for such side trips. Otherwise, there are regular buses from Siena, an hour's bus ride away.

Lodging: Reservations are a good idea, especially in the summer. Lodging in Montalcino is wonderfully comfortable and homey. The Tourist Office can send a complete list.

Here are a few choices:

Hotel Il Giglio [011 39 (577) 848 167] is run by members of a friendly family who restored this 13-room gem; they also rent rooms in a private residence which are immaculate, replete with fresh flowers and a complementary bottle of local wine.

Food: In town there are many options. These are just a few: Osteria di Porta al Cassero (Via Libertà, 9) offers great home-style cooking and stays open late.

Taverna dei Barbi (Part of the Barbi Winery, four kilometers south of Montalcino on the road to Sant’ Antimo) features some of the most traditional food around, including hand-rolled pinci; the manager, Giovanni is a hoot.

Trattoria il Pozzo, San Angelo in Colle

Trattoria Il Pozzo (10 minutes away in the small town of San Angelo in Colle) offers a changing menu of unusual but traditional dishes, and the respected winery Il Poggione is next door, so try their wines at bargain prices.

When to go:

Any time is a good time because the weather is always nice. Winter offers few tourists, cool temperatures and clear skies, lots of mushrooms, truffles, new olive oil and other fall/winter delights. Summer temperatures are mild, the sky is hazy and the tourist load is heavy, but the hills are straight out of the Mona Lisa. The Festival of the Thrush featuring Renaissance costumes, music, spectacle and an archery contest is celebrated during the last weekend of October.

Home Sweet Home—500 Years Later

2010-11-21T19:37:00.000-08:00

Click on the photos to make ’em larger...

Montalcino, Southern Tuscany

Montacino

Friday after class, my pal Cosimo and the wet towel picked me up for the two hour or so drive to Montalcino which is located about an hour south of Florence. That little bit of distance changes the cuisine completely. It changes from Florence to Montalcino, but not as drastically as from, say, Bologna to Florence. Cows in the former, sheep and olive trees in the later. So the cooking fat changes. And the emphasis on slightly richer dishes moves to a cuisine created by a more austere existence.

I've glummed onto Tuscan cooking precisely because it is so spare, simple and still fantastically delicious. With a carrot, an onion, a stalk of celery ( called a gamba, or leg, in Italy!), a bit of tomato paste, a couple ounces of pancetta and a pound of beans, I can make an amazing Tuscan bean soup. Add some kale, some stale bread and smash it all together and you get a totally different thing. But remember to top each with a very generous thread of great olive oil. Yum.

Got to Montalcino after dark because of terrible traffic between Bologna and Florence. But it felt so good to be home; the folks at the hotel popped open a bottle of nice bubbly from northern Italy (I've known these folks for about 15 years) and just let the highway tensions fall away.

Montalcino is a funny place. It is a small town, about 5,000 folks, which sits on a very high hill, ok, a short mountain (the name means hill of the oaks) and is surrounded by very productive agricultural land, mostly olives and grapes, the grapes being mostly grown for the town's namesake wine, and one of Italy's top two or three reds, Brunello di Montalcino, which is a very solid red with lots and lots of body. So the region's food has evolved to match the wines. In the past thirty years or so, Brunello making has matured such that now, many formerly poor farmers and now fabulously wealthy. Buy a bottle of Brunello in the USA, a decent one, and the price for a newish bottle will be at least fifty or sixty bucks, and since this wine gets much better with age, a more desirable twenty-year-old bottle with run in the hundreds. It's good stuff.

Pancetta al Forno, Il Giglio, Montalcino

For my last several visits, I've managed to have Anna, the brains behind the hotel, and an amazing cook, prepare a special local dish which is hard to find anymore in restaurants (though I was lucky enough to have it many years back in a little place you'll read about below) called pancetta al forno. It is a large slab of pork belly seasoned with salt, pepper, a bit of garlic, a hint of rosemary and maybe a tad of lemon zest, then the slab is rolled up like a jelly roll and slow roasted in the oven until much of the fat renders out and the outside becomes golden brown. Holy moly, this is one of the best things I have ever eaten, and Anna is gracious enough to cook it up for me whenever I show up. I think the pancetta she did this time was the best ever, it was perfectly juicy, tender inside and wonderfully crispy brown on the outside. And, yep, it goes great with Brunello, and Mario, Anna's husband, picked out a great one.

There is very little auto traffic within Montalcino, the central historic portion is off limits except for residents, and so, it is easy to allow yourself to float back to another time—most of the towns buildings date to 1500 or earlier, some a bit later. After dinner and a walk around town, I sat on a bench in front of the hotel on the street that is barely ten feet wide, if that, and answered email, took in the smell of burning pine from a few hundred chimneys and just sort of zoned out until after midnight. Though sitting on the side of a street, it is incredibly peaceful, even a bit awe inspiring. I was in heaven.

The first time I visited here in early December of 1995, I fell in love with it. No, actually, something clicked inside me which said, "I've been here before." Nor sure that that is about, though I have some ideas, but the magnetic attraction was immediate and everlasting. I still feel that way. Guess I always will. It just feels like home. Comfortable. Easy. Mostly. I made a vain attempt after that visit to buy a restaurant in town so I would have a reason to move over there with my son. Obviously not meant to be, as they say, but I've returned many times, written about Montalcino for the Austin paper, back when they had a real travel section, and preach about it to anyone who will listen. Guess that now includes you!

Next morning it was off to the fairy tale restored abbey of Sant'Antimo, about six or seven miles south of town. It has been brought back to life by a group of French monks who are nurturing it back to health.

Abbey of Sant'Antimo, near Montalcino

They celebrate mass every morning in Gregorian Chant, they grow olives, grapes and other staples, they pray, what?, eight times a day, they even record gorgeous CDs of their chant in the church which they package in elaborate books complete with wonderful photos of the place, and all produced on the abbey's Macintosh desktop system! On one of my first trips, I befriended the Chilean custodian who showed me some of the normal off-limits parts of the church like the former bishop's quarters, the women's gallery (it is a sort of second story to the church around one edge…women were not allowed on the main floor!), and the sacristy which was built in the late 700s and was at some point adorned with a bucolic fresco which has a hilarious depiction of two pigs screwing in the barnyard. I love it.

Lunch was at my favorite place to eat in the area, the very homey Trattoria il Pozzo in the little town of Sant'Angelo in Colle, a few miles from the church. It is sort of like a miniature version of Montalcino, also built on a hill—providing it with gorgeous vistas of classic Tuscan landscapes, remember all those old paintings? These are the backgrounds—and no traffic, just narrow lanes, 500-year old houses and only about four or five active business left, three of which are food-oriented.

Pinci al olio, aglio e peperoncino, Il Pozzo, Sant'Angelo in Colle

The dish I crave at il Pozzo. Wait, il Pozzo was the first place I had the above-touted pancetta al forno when it was run by Laura, a great cook I had a great crush on whenever I was in the area.

Ok, the dish I love at il Pozzo is called pinci al olio, aglio e peperoncini. Pinci are the local version of "spaghetti", but they are hand rolled in the way we used to roll out snakes with clay in kindergarten. So the sign of a true handmade version is the irregularity of the rolling. One four or five inch snake will be thick, thin, thicker again, then thin. And they are a bit chewy, but no hard like al dente, just chewy. They are a foil for a wonderful olive oil dressing which is spiked with lots of garlic and a little hot pepper. Absolutely perfect dish, and il Pozzo's version of the pasta is the best I've had. Anna's is good, but still comes in second!

Well, because il Pozzo also does other kinds of pinci, I had to go back for dinner.

Cingiale on polenta, Il Pazzo, Sant'Angelo in Colle

This time it was pinci al ragù, a heartier version of meat sauce than Bologna's, but just as delicious. Also tried another local dish which was a wild boar (cinghiale) stew on top of some soft polenta. It was wonderful, but I just couldn't eat much of it. Recommended nonetheless.

Landscape from Sant'Angelo in Colle

Espresso closed the meal, and it was served in some nice cups which were decorated with images of Siena, another place I love. Since I knew the cups were provided by the coffee company whose logo adorned them, I didn't feel bad about asking the genial owner if I could have one to take home. She immediately wrapped one up and handed it to me. Wonderfully generous. Now, just get free WiFi, and you'll have the perfect restaurant!

Bologna Chow, Part Two

2010-11-19T14:04:00.000-08:00

CLICK ON PHOTOS TO ENLARGE....

Ok, back to food. We're gonna skate fast through this so as not to be even more boring than usual. I had written most of the Bologna food report yesterday, then, in one brilliant keystroke, I lost it all...I am certain it was Pulitzer-winning stuff, and had to start over.

So here is more, maybe all, of what I have to say about food in Bologna.

After my first pasta class, I headed directly to one of the only two places I'd eaten at in Bologna before this trip, a place simply called Serghei where I'd had a nice lunch back in 1997 or '98 when I jumped off the train to Florence just to have that one lunch in Bologna.

Trattoria Serghei, Bologna

Serghei is the consummate family run trattoria with sister in the kitchen, brother running the front and someone's mother in the kitchen to help from time to time. They don't do fru fru, but stick with the standards of Bolognese cuisine. The sister is skinny and cute, Silvanio, the brother, is a frustrated electric guitarist whose replica of a Fender amp from the early '60s resides in the hall to the bathroom.

I had a pleasant lunch that Monday, so much that I reserved a spot for that very night for a return visit...he told me they were having one of my favorite dishes, maiale al latte—pork roasted in milk—which is something you don't see often in restaurants and I wanted to see how theirs compared to mine.

Gramigna al Sugo di Salsiccia, Serghei, Bologna

So here is the rundown of the dishes I sampled on those two visits. First, I had a yummy pasta, gramigna al sugo di salsiccia (gramigna=bermuda grass, salsciccia=sausage)—the pasta is slightly thick and chewy, but not too much, and the sugo, or sauce was the perfect condiment, somewhat hearty on both counts. And as such, a bit counter to the idea of Bologna's food that I had in my head, but this is why I wanted to spend more than a couple of hours eating in the foodie (whatever that is) paradise.

That night I opted for two pastas (!) and a meat course. I had to try their tortellini in brodo so that, by the end of the trip, I would have at least three or four versions of this classic under by belt—oh, so literally that!

Tortellini In Brodo, Serghei, Bologna

The tortellini—which are typically stuffed with a finely ground mixture of pork, mortadella, maybe some prosciutto, eggs, cheese and nutmeg—were tasty and the broth, or brodo, was great, though it didn't quite match that depth achieved by Trattoria Anna Maria the night before. Still, a solid "A" rating.

My next choice—again, this is all for science you understand—was Serghei's version of tagliatelli al ragù, that anchor of Bolognese cooking. I enjoyed this dish very much, but, again, compared to Anna Maria's incredibly thin and light pasta, this one paled just a tad. The pasta was only slightly heavier, and if I had never had the other, this would be a standard by which to judge. So, if in Bologna, definitely put Serghei on your short list.

Tagliatelle al Ragù, Serghei, Bologna

I enjoyed Serghei especially for its family-run feeling, lack of pretense and honesty of the cooking and the presentation. No frills, just like me!

To top off these light starters!!!! I ordered the coveted maiale al latte. Coveted? No, greatly desired...is that the same. Anyway, Yum! it was delicious. The idea is to slow-roast the loin, shoulder, or whatever in about a liter of milk to keep the meat moist, and to add some flavor. As the milk cooks and reduces, what is left is an absolute treat. The solids, very full of sugar, caramelize into clumpy curds which are imbued with porky goodness.

I've made this dish many times, but have always wondered how mine compared to the home office's version. Well, I think I do pretty well. The pork in the USA is leaner, more flavorless and just more blah, so it's hard to exactly reach the same heights, but lately I've been using shoulder or butt, both of which have more fat than loin, and thus more flavor, and more moisture in the meat.

Maiale al Latte, Pork Roasted in Milk, Serghei, Bologna

I wish we had better pork more readily available. I will say that lately I've been using a nice pork in Portland from a small producer who finishes off the pigs with a diet of hazelnuts—NO, they don't choke them with nuts—which gives the meat more flavor, and, the breed they use is much fattier than supermarket pork. I'm sold even though it considerably more expensive. Once in a while, it is worth it. I know there are similar producers near Austin, just don't know who they are.

The next day I was on a hunt for a good version of the classic Bologna veal chop called cotoletta bolognese, and a couple of books directed me to the All'Osteria Bottega. So I trucked over after class and plunked my tired ass down in a chair in this comfy, but a tad "stuffy", place not far from my hotel. But I could tell they did things correctly and my mouth began watering as soon as I licked some stains on the menu. Wait, I didn't actually do that, except in my head!

One of the disappearing treasures of the Emilia (Bologna, Parma, Modena, etc) kitchen is called culatello, which literally translates as "little ass". What it actually is, well, it's the prime ass cheek of these wonderful, whey-fed piggies. It's the "filet" of the prosciutto, the very best part, and it's expensive as hell because to "harvest" one, you destroy a whole prosciutto, or ham. Plus, to make it the traditional way, you have to cure it in a moldy, earthy room full of the right bacteria which provide the taste of a true culatello. Well, the assholes who are trying to make Europe a perfect ONE, have decided that all meats must be cured in rooms with white tiles which can be washed down periodically with a hose and water. Screw the culatello, they say! (Well, someone should screw THEM in their little asses, in my opinion.) Well, somehow these diamonds of porkiness are still being produced, and they are still quite good if you search out the artisanal producers.

Tagliatelle al Culatello, All'Osteria Bottega, Bologna

All this is leading up to the pasta choice I made at Bottega: talgliatelle al culatello, basically delicate fettuccine (tagliatelle) topped with a healthy portion of lightly sauteed, perfect pig's ass, culatello. No secret blend of herbs or spices, just culatello, some butter or olive oil, and nothing else to get in the way of the pure taste of the perfectly cured pork...an absolute delight, for sure. Can't get this at home!

And I will want more soon! What to do???

Well, the focus of this day's meal was the cotoletta, veal chop, and I was in for a celebration of animal fats without really knowing it. The thin chop, bone attached, was lightly sauteed in butter, then topped with a few thin slices of prosciutto, then "broiled" with a generous amount of Parmigiano on top, and then left to swim in butter. Crapola! It was great, but so, so, so, so, so rich.

Cotoletta Bolognese, All'Osteria Bottega, Bologn

You can see the pool of butter in this photo. Click to enlarge it for a better look at what will surely add greatly to my risk of death by heart failure.

Somehow, that same day, I was able to eat again. This time at the other place I'd been to for one of those "express" lunches, this one was in 2007. Trattoria Giginia is another of the stalwarts of true Cucina Bolognese, and I was very impressed on my first visit. So, along with my friend Cosimo and his always-attached wet towel, I went back to sample even more goodies from their menu.

Trattoria Giginia, Bologna

I had to have passatelli again, and was interested to see if Giginia's brodo could meet the standard set by Anna Maria. Well, the answer is no. But it was close, and, again, if you never had the very, very best, then this one would have possibly earned that title. But not now. I've been spoiled.

Passatelli In Brodo, Trattoria Giginia, Bologna

Spuma di Mortadella, Baloney Mousse, Trat. Giginia, Bologna

Oh, wait, we had some appetizers too, including spuma di mortadella which I call "baloney mousse" which is more or less what it is. Puree some mortadella, add some finely minced sauteed onion, a bit of reduced broth since mortadella, about 40% fat, isn't already rich enough, then a sizable amount of whipped cream, again, because forty percent just isn't rich enough, then chill in a mold, and serve with bread or toast points. Really good, this stuff, and Giginia's version is quite luxurious, but then, anything with this high a fat content could only be so.

Well, the next day after my pasta class I decided to try out a place I'd heard prepared a good tortelloni alla zucca—pasta stuffed with winter squash—and that the best way to have it was not with the more common butter and sage, but with ragù. So I headed toward the stangely named Trattoria dal Biassonot which was about two doors down from Serghei. Apparently Biassonot is some symbol of night spirits in Bologna and takes the form of a black cat.

Trattoria dal Biassonot, Bologna

I walked in just before lunch was over and grabbed a table. Since I was by then on a quest to try every version of tortellini in brodo, guess what I ordered? I knew that the chef/owner was a master pasta maker, having won a Matterello d'Oro a few years ago, I was certain that Biassonot's offering would be among the best. And it certainly was. Flavorful stuffing with hints of the individual components, yet still blending into a unique, unified entity into itself. And, of course, the pasta wrapping on these tiny packages was properly transparent and light. I was impressed. As usual, the broth was excellent, but still didn't reach the heights of Anna Maria's. But didn't I say it was excellent on its own?

Tortellini In Brodo, Trattoria dal Biassonot, Bologna

So, for my next course, I sampled the recommended tortelloni alla zucca with the standard ragù bolognese. They were fine, but I like my version a tad better. I grind amaretti cookies into the filling, and overall, the flavor of the stuffing of mine is more pronounced. But my version comes from a different place, a few miles up the road, and the folks in Bologna would snicker at mine. Oh well.

Tortelloni alla Zucca, Trattoria dal Biassonot, Bologna

After the meal was finished, the owner came out and spoke with me. She knew about my pasta course because I had mentioned it in an emailed reservation request I'd sent the night before. She knew it was me when she saw me. Guess it's the brother/sisterhood of sfoglini (bolognese pasta makers) that allowed her to recognize me???!!! We spoke for a while about my classes, her pastas, and food in Bologna in general. She even pulled out her great, great grandmother's mattarello which she held carefully and proudly while mentioning that she almost never uses it because she doesn't want to damage it!

After we traded food secrets, I asked if she knew where I could get some great parmigiano reggiano, and of course she did, right around the corner. (I bought two kilos of 3-year old cheese there!) And then one more request, this time for a source for one of my favorite after dinner drinks, and a specialty of Emilia Romagna, nocino, which is an infusion in alcohol of green walnuts picked in late June on St. John's day, the 24th. After a few months, probably in October, the walnuts are removed and a simple sugar syrup is added and then the stuff is left to age until about Christmas. The taste is strong and an acquired on for sure...most people don't like it, but for some reason I find it delicious.

Nocino, Green Walnut Liqueur, Trattoria dal Biassonot, Bologna

Well, she replied that she could sell me a bottle of artisanally produced nocino, and she offered me a generous sample. Needless to say, I bought a bottle.

I guess it was that night, or the night after, I tried another joint that came highly recommended. Trattoria Gianni. It was fine, the food good, but somehow the vibe bothered me. I had a nice tagliattele, but this time with a lamb ragù instead of the beef/pork version. Good.

Stinco di Maiale, Pig Shank, Trattoria Gianni, Bologna

For my second course, I had something I'd been looking for since Florence, an oven roasted pork shank, the stinco di maiale. It was very well done, nicely browned outside, and very moist inside. But it was so rich, I could not finish it. Maybe because I had an appetizer, Gianni's nice version of spuma di mortadella. Well done.

Spuma di Mortadella, Trattoria Gianni, Bologna

Lasagne Bolognese, Trattoria dal Biassonot, Bologna

And at that point, I was about to pop!

Let's see, I tried to go back to Serghei for my last lunch in Bologna, but somehow got there too late. So, instead, I went next door to Biassonot for another hit of pasta. Duh.

Since I had already had her past in broth, and I had yet to try the quintessential Bolognese baked pasta, the famous lasagne. Ok, time to break another stereotype, this time of lasagne being a heavy dish laden with lots of cheese and meat and al dente pasta. Well, the primary source of Italian-American recipes is southern Italy (and we will mistakenly include Sicily in this geographic chunk) where the food does tend to be a bit heavier than in the north. Lasagne there is often, maybe normally made with a semolina-based dried pasta, the same you can buy at any American supermarket. The result, combined with the more southern fillings of ricotta, mozzarella, etcetera is a globby, heavy mess, and the kind I grew up with.

In Bologna, things are different. The dish is made with fresh egg pasta, never dried semolina pasta. And the pasta most often employed is made with spinach, thus the lasagne (lasagne is plural, lasagna is singular…one rarely eats ONE lasagna; just trying to keep things straight here!)—thus, the sfoglia used to make the lasagna is green, verde. And instead of ricotta as a filler, a very light schmear of white sauce (béchamel) is utilized to help bind the casserole (god, i hate to use that word here, but it fits, I suppose) together. A tiny among of ragù is used for substance between the layers, and a dusting of parmagiano reggiano completes each stratum. The first time I made lasagne in this way, I was shocked at how light and delicious it was. So different from my mother's, or any I had ever had at any American Italian place. It almost seemed like meeting an old friend, and I can't say why that is, but it immediately became my lasagne standard, though I still gobbled plenty of the other style when I visited the folks.

Trattoria dal Biassonot, Bologna

Biassonot's lasagne was exemplary (damn, this is confusing...the actual dish is plural, but talking about A dish in the plural seems odd, so sorry for any inconsistencies. Almost airy in its lightness, a few nuggets of ground meat showed up here and there, and the sum total of all the parts made me a very happy, ballooning gastronome (not sure I really qualify for that, I might want to stick with chowhound).

Zucchini Ripieni, Stuffed Zucchini, Trattoria dal Biassonot, Bologna

For my "main" course, as if anything could take the spotlight off that serving of lasagna, I opted for another traditional dish, stuffed (ripieni) zucchini. The squash is hollowed out and filled with a meat mixture that is basically used for meatballs as well. In fact, the plate was dotted with a few tiny meatballs, a nice little touch, and the whole thing was bathed in tasty, light tomato sauce. I was very pleased with this home-style dish which I understand is now rarely served in restaurants. Lucky me to find a place that still does. (Actually, so does Serghei, and I wanted to try theirs during this lunch, but that was not to be, so it was cool Biassonot served it as well.)

[As I write this, I am on a train heading from Alba to Milan, the first stage of my journey back home. I'll overnight in Milan, then up early for the flight Sunday morning to JFK. I'll hang out in NYC for a few days visiting pals and eating lots of great Chinese food. Stay tuned for that!]

Tortellini In Brodo, Trattoria Anna Maria, Bologna

Ok, before we all explode, let's return to where we started, to Trattoria Anna Maria. Like I said, I'd been jonesin' for that broth all week and just had to get back for one more hit. This time, I went with the tortellini, my, what, fourth of the week? Third? I've lost count. As expected, the brodo was exceptional and managed to easily maintain its place as number one in my book. The tortellini themselves, at this point, were almost secondary, but were sensational as well. I'm so glad I decided to return.

For a change of pace, my other pasta on this visit was still her hand-rolled stuff, but this time cut a bit thicker into what are called pappardelle, not as wide as in Tuscany, but definitely wider than the tagliatelle. I was chided in my pasta class, when I was learning to cut tagliatelle with a knife, for cutting them about an eighth of an inch too wide. "Those are papparedelle! Not tagliatelle!" Ok, so now I know. The condiment consisted of sauteed mushrooms, but I am not sure what kind. Porcini were out of season by this time, but whatever they were, they were perfect.

Pappardelle ai Funghi, Noodles with Mushrooms, Trattoria Anna Maria, Bologna

Try it at home: get a variety of mushrooms—crimini, white, shitake, whatever you can find—chop them very coarsely, then, heat a bit of oil in a pan, not too hot, and had a tiny bit of chopped garlic, then the mushrooms…low heat, please…maybe splash in a half cup or so of dry white wine and let it evaporate. Then maybe a tiny bit of chicken stock or broth and let the pan cook on very low heat until the mushrooms are very soft and tender. Check for salt and pepper, add a bit of freshly chopped Italian parsley (with 3-4 mint leaves if you have them). You will add this to your cooked pasta. If the sauce seems too dry, add at least one-quarter cup of olive oil…more if you can deal with it. Serve with generous sprinklings of parmagiano reggiano…freshly grated, please!!!!

Ok, with that little "regalo", I'm gonna close out this hot-winded account of my eating adventures in Bologna.

Hungry yet?

Next stop, Montalcino in southern Tuscany. My personal paradise and where my will stipulates that my ashes are to be scattered when that becomes necessary. Yes, I love the place.

Inedible Bologna—Mostly

2010-11-19T03:10:00.000-08:00

Someone asked why I didn't connect with Bologna when I first arrived. Well, I think it is because, unlike Florence, Siena, Montalcino, Alba, even the part of Rome I normally inhabit, Bologna does not qualify immediately as a sort of fairy tale town where one can instantly forget time and feel as though it is 1500 again. Oh, I DO remember the 1500s in Montalcino...my favorite year of time! Ha! No kidding, I do! Ask my hypnotherapist...

As I stayed in Bologna, I began to unravel its secrets and uncover more of its charm. I am still not putting it my list of favorite places, but I guess I need to go back when I have time to actually visit the city and not stay glued to a rolling pin for half the day. I think I entered a total of two churches, zero museums and zero nada nada nada. Of course I made time for restaurants, but those will remain for other posts.

In the meantime, here are some photos and thoughts.

Coffee machines. I have an obsession with an old espresso machine made in the early '60s by Faema. The E-61 is now considered a classic because of its styling, but more so because of its very functional, efficient and delicious "group head", now referred to as the E61, and used on many "pro-sumer" espresso machines made in Italy and gobbled up by foreigners like me. I've owned two such machines and have loved them greatly. Number one machine is with the Son-of-Rammack-Lady in Oakland and performs flawlessly.

Well, on my first day in Bologna, no, second, I encountered two of these machines, very rare I must say, within an hour. One in the breakfast room of my hotel, the other in a coffee shop near my pasta school, though this one was a reproduction. The next day, I encountered another at the All'Osteria Botegga where I had some great food.

Here they are...whoops, I can't find the photos of my hotel's machine, strange. I'll keep looking. But the last in this series is one of Faema's new machines. It just doesn't have the class of the old E-61s!

CLICK ON PHOTOS TO ENLARGE....

Faema E-61 Reproduction, Bologna

Close up of Faema E-61 Group Head, Montalcino

Faema E-61, Bologna


Faema's Recent Design, Alba

Now, some random shots of Bologna:

Old porticos, Bologna

One of the original porticos, Bologna

Artichokes, Bologna

Part of Piazza Maggiore, Bologna

John Lennon Memorial Mont Blanc, Bologna

Amazing cheese shop, Bologna

Loggia, Bologna

The famous towers, Bologna

San Domenico, Bologna

More soon...and back to food. What else is there???

Bologna La Grassa: Bologna the Fat!

2010-11-18T15:04:00.000-08:00

CLICK ON PHOTOS TO ENLARGE....

Bologna has several nicknames in Italian: Bologna La Grassa, Bologna La Rossa and a couple of others.

Bologna's Typical Red-colored Buildings: La Rossa

La Rossa comes from the overall reddish orange color of many of the city's buildings, and, from the fact that the area around Bologna has long been a stronghold of the Italian Communist Party, the region of Emilia Romagna (regions are the Italian equivalent of our states, more or less) has had more than one Communist governor, and Bologna has had many Communist mayors and politicians.

La Grassa derives from the city's amazing cuisine which relies on many rather fatty ingredients like butter, rich, fat-focused pork products like mortadella (the original baloney), pancetta, prosciutto and...lard called strutto! The food is incredibly rich, unctuous and delicious because of the fat.

Spuma di Mortadella

Mortadella, The Original Baloney

Some also say that the inhabitants themselves lean toward the corpulent, but I didn't notice this much, but then, I am accustomed to American body types.

Because there is an abundance of milk in the area, butter is the cooking fat of choice, unlike Tuscany which is all of one hour away, where the cooking fat is typically olive oil. What a difference an hour makes.

Of course the other major feature of the cuisine is the hand-rolled pasta, called sfoglia in Bologna, because it is so thin, like sheets of paper, foglia. See this earlier post: Pasta School in Bologna

Sfoglia from Bologna, prepped for ravioli

This pasta is used to make Bologna's famous tortellini, tortelloni, lasagne, tagliatelle (like fettucine), mezzalune, and so on. The results are typically a light, not al dente, pasta that is not like the chewy factory past of the south we are more familiar with. In fact, if you have never had fresh pasta, you are in for a treat. Call me, I'll take care of that! (By the way, most of the junk sold in grocery stores and even in Portland's famous Pastaworks, does not come close to the real thing, regardless of hype.)

The essential philosophy is to combine a few choice ingredients in proper proportions to create fantastic pasta dishes, deeply flavored broths for soups, tremendously tasty roasted meats, and even wonderfully satisfying, yet amazingly light fried foods. Simple is everything. American chefs: stop screwing with tradition, leave it alone...use the best ingredients and you won't need to add kiwi fruit, phony balsamic vinegar, or other unnecessary trendy ingredients to the pasta sauce, the grilled or sauteed meats, and vegetables.

Meat and Cheese Shop, Bologna

Focus is on simplicity. For example, make an amazing broth—the famous brodo of Bologna—, cook some tortellini or other small pasta in it, and there you have one of the most elegant, most pure, most simple and delicious dishes you can imagine. Broth redolent of flavor of chicken, capon, a bit of beef, some subtle onion in the background and leave it alone. Magic in a bowl...a true wet dream!

36-Month-Old Parmigiano Reggiano, Bologna

Just to bring you up to speed a bit. The area around Bologna produces some of the products we count as staples, or at least quite desirable, in cooking "real" Italian food. Here is a short list: Parmigiano Reggiano (many consider it to be the best, most noble cheese on the planet, at least of Italian origin...it doesn't come in a green can);
Prosciutto di Parma, that perfectly cured pig's ass cheek/rear leg which is typically eaten raw and it just darn difficult to approach its perfection, by the way the pigs used for these precious hams are feed a diet which is largely composed of the leftover whey resulting from the Parmigiano making process; balsamic vinegar—ok, this isn't really vinegar, and the junk you find in just about every dealer in the USA is NOT true balsamic which costs at least 75 bucks for about three ounces, is thick and sweet, and so unlike that water acidic imitator you get at 99.99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999 percent of restaurants in this country—it's made from cooked grape syrup and aged at least ten years before it gets even close to being ready;

I'd never spent any time in Bologna before, other than a couple of quick lunches (literally hopping off and on the train to Florence), and so I was looking forward to discovering more about the cuisine even most Italians (or some) agree is one of the best in the very, very culturally diverse and divided country.

Trattoria Anna Maria, Bologna

So my first stop had to be at a place renowned for its hand-rolled pasta, in this case, Trattoria Anna Maria, one of the last stalwarts, and still legendary in this style of pasta making. In fact, they have won many pasta making competitions, including the much coveted Mattarello d'Oro (Gold Rolling Pin). Many of these very awards were won by one of my teachers at the pasta school, Alessandro, brother of the school's owner, Alessandra. And his photos on the wall back up his well-deserved finesse. I was getting hungry just looking at those photos!

Passatelli in Brodo, Trattoria Anna Maria, Bologna

I started out the meal with, guess what, a bowl of that broth, but instead of the standard tortellini, I opted for passatelli which are sort of exuded dumplings, about pencil width, made of cheese, breadcrumbs and a bit of nutmeg...they are squeezed out of a potato ricer or similar implement directly into the broth where they form little worm-like strands. I've made these many times in the Tuscan style which includes spinach and sometimes a bit of meat. The Bolognese variety strips all the excess down to just a few minimal, but fantastic essential parts and rockets the result into some sort of culinary heaven.

One bite, then BLAM! That broth knocks me on my ass.

It was almost viscous, its flavor was so profound, so pronounced. Anna Maria set the bar so high for this broth that I was not to find its equal in any of the six or seven other places I tried it over the week. I was sure it was made with capon which is a far richer bird than chicken, but Alessandro, who spent thirteen years in the kitchen, assured me it was chicken. They must have an amazing source for these divine creatures. By the way, if you have never had roasted capon, please do yourself a favor and try it. They are usually in the frozen section of the meat counter and they are not cheap, maybe three bucks a pound. But, if you are feeding a small group for Thanksgiving or Christmas, you just can't beat it. Brine the sucker, roast it with a cut lemon in the cavity, baste it a bit with some wine or Marsala, and you will be rewarded with a fantastic feast.

Tagliatelle al Ragù

Next I had another pasta dish, a classic tagliatelle al ragù, one of the absolute standards and anchors of Bolognese cuisine. Ok, let's get this straight right now, Bolognese ragù is NOT a tomato sauce, in fact, nowhere in Italy is ragù mostly tomato. Rather, it is a very meaty sauce, usually with a hint of tomato for added richness. The Bologna version varies from house to house and may or may not contain some prosciutto, a bit of pancetta, maybe some pork, but mostly beef or veal, cooked in a sofritto base of onion, carrot and celery...NO GARLIC...some wine perhaps, maybe a bit of cream or milk. But no oregano, no rosemary, no basil. This ain't a spicy meatball, but it will kick the ass of about any version of sauce you find in ANY restaurant in the USA. It doesn't come in a jar, it doesn't cook for six hours. But it will delight and surprise you with it's deep flavor. (Notice a common thread here?)

So, this ragù is mixed in a small amount in a skillet with some freshly cooked hand-rolled and cut tagliatelle (like fettuccine) and served in a nice, ample pasta bowl, maybe topped with freshly grated parmigiano reggiano, the king of cheeses made right up the road from Bologna. The pasta is rolled quite thin, and cut into strips about a quarter-inch wide. They should be light, tender and NEVER al dente or chewy. Oh gawd, this was drilled in for five days in my pasta course. And Anna Maria's tagliatelle were just about perfect in every way. I was in heaven.

This place was so good, I knew I had to go back at some point later in the week. For days after, I found myself jonesin' for that brodo! And as good as other versions were, they just couldn't equal this true marvel of kitchen wizardry.

Ok, next entry: more delights from Bologna...soon!!!! I'm over a week behind on this and am now three cities ahead of this blog!

Cardi (Cardoons), Fruit and Vegetable Shop, Bologna

Pleasure And Pain In Italy

2010-11-16T01:37:00.000-08:00

Writing from the backseat of a German Audi on the superhighway going from Tuscany to Alba in the Northwestern Italian region of Piemonte/Piedmont and the wonderful town of Alba which is world famous for its white truffles.

Cosimo Lucchese

The car belongs to my longtime friend Cosimo Lucchese who currently lives in Germany working for NATO. We decided to meet up in Italy for a little touring and to participate in another series of cooking classes in a very prestigious school in a small town between Alba and Asti (yes, that Asti). So we met up in Bologna on Friday afternoon, hopped into the car and headed toward my favorite place on Planet Earth, Montalcino in the south of Tuscany. A couple days of fairy-tale village quiet, and an amazing lunch on Sunday at the also world-famous butcher, Dario Cecchini's All-Beef-All-The-Time restaurant in the tiny speck of a town between Siena and Florence called Panzano deep in the heart of Chianti-landia.

But more on these later. This is another little "thought piece" on friendship.

Cosimo and I have known each other since late April of 1973 when we both worked at the small, freestanding record department of the University Coop, on the Drag, in Austin. The bond was nearly immediate, once again, as with my Brazilian brother Waldimas...see a few posts back for that. Cosimo's father was the final private owner and last Lucchese-family designer of the legendary Lucchese cowboy boot company founded by Cosimo's great-grandfather in San Antonio in the last years of the nineteenth century. In case you are not aware, these were the Rolls Royce of boots. Presidents wore them, several blocks worth of stars from Hollywood's glitterati-ed sidewalk wore them (Gary Cooper, John Wayne, the Andrews Sisters, James Garner, Bob Hope, Bing Crosby, Jimmy Dean, Gene Autry Abbot and Costello, and many more wore the status symbol Lucchese boots. And, at least until the '60s, they all had to travel to San Antonio for their custom fitting. Cosimo grew up in an amazing environment. He often tells the story of the day when a group of scruffy looking Limey's entered the store. One of the Mexican-American bootmakers whistled the signal of potential shoplifters on the premises. Mick Jagger and his fellow Stones left without buying anything...the boots were too expensive for this band making its first tour of the United States.

Cos and I share a deep love of music, food and stupid, very off-color, humor. These touchstones have help keep two people who might otherwise want to kill each other stay friends for nearly forty years.

Legendary Butcher Dario Cecchini and Cosimo Lucchese

Yes, we have heated arguments with great regularity because, as it turns out, we are polar opposites on certain planes. Either that, or we are so much alike that we despise what we see of ourselves in each other. Not sure. But the sparing occurs, and, always, within minutes, we are once again laughing as some totally tasteless comment springs forth from one or other off our totally filthy mouths. And then the belly laughs return and ripple forward until some other point of contention comes up, and we start over again.

Currently, Cosimo's behavior has become a bit paranoid, and bit "old lady-like". "I just won't drive after dark, I'll get lost," has been a frequent declaration on this trip. And I keep telling him to get serious, to chill out, and to foray fully seven or eight miles out of Montalcino, for example, in order to have a great dinner. We barely made it, and only after a very, very heated exchange.

Also, Cosimo is weighted down with a very heavy wet towel which makes traveling with him difficult. Not sure I can do it again. No, I can't. No way. Cos, throw the towel in the dryer and call me!

Maybe it is the ability to have these regular disagreements, that can sometimes get quite heated, that has allowed the pressure to escape with such frequency that nothing is allowed to remain an open, oozing wound, nor capable of swelling like a sad, black balloon waiting to burst with a fatal explosion, blowing apart the friendship which we've both enjoyed so long.

Having been through bits and pieces of psychotherapy myself, this ability to get stuff out and to let it go for good seems to be one of the keys to a successful relationship of any sort.

Toss the problems, avoid the fatal resentments.

Lesson learned.

Cos, you're a son of a bitch, but I love you, Dude...

P.S. A few things have gone down since I posted this this morning. I now want to send the wet towel through the shredder, and lament the influence this soggy bitch has on my friend. He now acts like a scared, paranoid old lady and it's becoming harder and harder to cope. I will spend as much time alone as I can, far more pleasant. Cos alone is fantastic. And by the way, this dynamic has existed since day one in 1973. I've been very patient, but am now at the end of the very wet rope. I moved out of the B+B we were sharing into my own room in a much nicer hotel. Murder was on the horizon. Towel-icide is still a crime in Italy.

“He wouldn't put the toilet seat up, so I divorced him.”

2010-11-14T00:12:00.000-08:00

Little tidbit.

In more than one place in Italy, including all the trains, the toilet seats are sprung in such a way that they always remain in the "up" position.

Why do you think this is?

Well, it's because many, too many, guys will not put the seat up when they pee, so the seat becomes sprinkled with a thorough layer of piss. Unpleasant for any who sit there after. Actually, it sucks. More than unpleasant.

So, ladies, think about that when you complain about the seat not being put down. Better is to leave it up so when you use it, it is guaranteed to be dry.

Cultural details vary from country to country.

Ok?

Bologna. It's Not Just For School Lunches Anymore!

2010-11-11T15:26:00.000-08:00

I've been in what many Italians consider to be the culinary center of the country for the last couple of days and am beginning to warm up to the city. We got off to a bad start.

I booked a very affordable B+B over the Internet, not far from the historic center of town. The reviews I read were positive enough and it sounded like a nice place to stay for my five nights here. I didn't read enough reviews.

Number One: The room was one of three rented out in a private apartment. Now I've been in many B+Bs in Italy and none have been quite like this. It is run by a married couple, and guess what, they both work out of the home...so the, as it turns out, not very nice owner, the guy, has a rule that no one is allowed in their rooms between nine and five, while they are away at work. Not a good arrangement for weary travelers who often need room access mid-day for naps, baths, reading, more naps, etc. Strike one.

Number Two: Though a large sign says that this place is a non-smoking facility, the guy, Roberto, is clearly a heavy smoker since the entire place smells like smoke. Hypocrite, almost an asshole. Strike two.

So I decided not to stay, and went out hunting for other digs...

I finally found one which was totally filled with Middle Easterners, all Skyping back home to where ever...it was an odd atmosphere, very odd. So I did find an interesting hotel, but it was going to cost twice as much as the Beatrice, Beavis and Butthead place, but I decided it would be worth every cent. So I called via Skype, and, after trying to make arrangements on the phone, just told the clerk I would show up in person...it was less than a 10-minute walk. Problem: Bologna is a convention and trade show town, and a very large show was opening on Wednesday, so the price of my room was goint to skyrocket to more than $300 per night as of Wednesday...total outlay for four nights: $1200!!!! But I'm still just happy to be away from that jerk. I went back to gather my stuff, and though I'd already paid, via a deposit, for the first night, I forfeited that happily to get the hell out of there.

My home in Bologna

So I am now in my $300+ suite at the Hotel Touring, the only thing they had open for my final two nights. It is way too big, as it is, my first room here was about 3x the size, no, 4x the size of the B+B from HELL!

Bologna is famous for many things, both absolutely indigenous, and even for things emanating from nearby: Parmigiano Reggiano, the king of cheeses, Prosciutto di Parma, both from just up the road, balsamic vinegar, and I mean the real deal from Modena, the pseudo junk you can buy in the States, or in Italy. Chances are, you have never had real Aceto Balsamico...it costs a minimum of about $75 for three ounces, and that is just a starting point....it's easy to spend a few hundred on the really good, old stuff. But the crowning glory of La Cucina Bolognese is the art of handmade, hand-rolled fresh egg pasta which in Bologna is referred to as sfoglia, a word which is related to the Italian word for leaf or a thin foil, foglia. So I'm here for five days, enrolled in a class to learn a small bit of this art from the best school teaching this in town, La Vecchia Scuola Bolognese. They offer courses for amateurs like me, but also, a 1,000 hour class for food professionals. They regularly train the shrinking group of restaurant folks who can still do this...it's time consuming, and therefore expensive...I don't know what these, mostly women, pasta makers get paid, but I'm sure it is a hefty sum. Otherwise, there would be far more than the handful of artisans who still do this the old way, even here in Bologna.

The Vecchia Scuola Bolognese Pasta Making School

I've been making pasta at home for nearly 20 years, and I was terrified of not being able to accomplish the feat of kneading the dough for at least 20 minutes, making it soft and pliable enough to roll, and to then roll it into a paper thin, enormous sheet of yellow pasta with a four-foot long rolling pin. Absolutely terrified. Part of it was language, though my comprehension of spoken Italian is ok, I don't use it enough to speak with any real fluidity. Oh, and then the dough: the style I have been making for two decades comes primarily from Tuscany via my hero, Guiliano Bugialli. Well, his dough is a bit drier, and thus, stiffer than the dough made here, and that is why I was terrified of trying to roll it. At least the way it turns out for me, I don't think I could ever accomplish the feat with the mattarello. No way.

But classes started yesterday, and guess what? I can do it! The dough incorporates more eggs than Tuscan pasta, and is therefore wetter, which makes the dough, at least after the long kneading, far more elastic, pliable, and best of all, soft! And very easy to roll with the rather long wooden pin.

Maestro Alessandro, Winner of Many Pasta Making Competitions

We've jumped right in, and the first day mixed and kneaded the dough, rolled out some dough, and made a few shapes: garganelli and strozzapretti the first day. On Tuesday (it's already Thursday as I finish this post), we made and rolled more dough, but this time we made several shapes of stuffed pasta like tortelloni, mezzlune, cestine and others, basically all variations on the them of pasta stuffed with a tasty filling comprised of amazingly good and smooth ricotta (the stuff we get in the USA is garbage, is flavorless and very grainy; also, ricotta is NOT actually cheese, but a coagulated product made from the whey left over from cheesmaking...), 3-year-old Parmigiano Reggiano, an egg, a bit of chopped parsley, lots of grated, fresh nutmeg. I must have made at least 50 or 60 of these, in all the available shapes. Then I was taken aside and asked to make ravioli which used the same filling, but a very different technique of stuffing.

Tortelloni (yes, BIG tortelli, tortellini are small tortelli) are made by cutting the dough into roughly two-inch squared, and then exuding the filling onto each square from a pastry bag.

Finished Tortelloni

Tortelloni ready for folding

The ravioli are made by folding a two-foot circle of pasta in two, folding over half onto itself so it won't dry, then exuding small dots of filling in very uniform rows and columns across the other half of the dough. When the filling dots are totally distributed, then the other, folded half of the sheet is carefully lifted over the filled side and used like a blanket to cover the dots. Then, starting at the fold, the dough is gently pressed around each dot of ripieno to seal the filling between the two sheets being careful to squeeze out as much air from around the filling. Why? Well, when air heats up, like in a pot of boiling water, it expands. Guess what happens when that happens when the air is sealed inside a balloon of pasta sheets? Yep...boom!

Ravioli about to be covered with the pasta

Ravioli ready to cut

Then a serrated cutting wheel is run between each row and column to produce the finished ravioli. By the way, the singular of ravioli is....raviolo. Panini, plural, panino, singular. I'll keep reminding you, don't worry!

I made many dozen ravioli with my one sheet, I lost count, but it must have been at least eight or nine dozen. They looked good to me! And I was complimented by the teacher. So I'm slowly making progress.

My Ravioli

(I am finishing this only on Thursday, after my fourth class. I've just been too exhausted each night to finish...the classes are 10-2 and that cuts right in the middle of the day, so no time in the morning, then after lunch, then some sort of rest, then dinner, well, no energy left for thinking and writing.)

I've now made more pasta types: today, gnocchi, tagliatelle, and caramelle. And I've gotten much better at rolling out nearly paper thin pasta with the rolling pin...and today I used my very own mattarello which I bought this morning along with some other impossible to find in the USA pasta making supplies. I hope I don't get stopped by airport security!!!

So if you are reading this, give me a day's notice and I'll crank up the mattarello! From just flour and eggs to rolled pasta in less than an hour now, and with more practice, I'll get it down to under 45 minutes...

The Scuola has a section for training professional pasta makers which is three months of 7-8 hour days. There are three women enrolled in the course right now, two from Bologna, and one from Tokyo. I've watched their greatly advanced skill with great envy. They are quite quick and sure in all their techniques and mostly, for this week, they have been making tortellini by the thousands, literally. The school sells these to restaurants and individuals and I think uses the students as unpaid slave labor! Yesterday, two of them mixed the filling for thousands more in a ten-gallon tub, churning and mixing the ground meats: mortadella, prosciutto, pork along with egg, grated Parmigiano, and plenty of nutmeg.

The Japanese Professional-level Student

Well, today, they finally acknowledged my presence in the room! None of them had said really a word to me all week, but I think they have recognized that my dedication to the class, and my level of skill (I'm not bragging here, and it still has a long way to go, believe me), but they were all in the same place once and I think they've noticed my progress. I was cutting tagliatelle today, which I had done horribly yesterday, and I heard them making comments like, "They are all completely even and precise," referring to the cutting of the folded sheets into thin ribbons, each, finally, uniform in width. They were even helping unwind the cut threads so they could dry a bit before being rolled around the hand into little nests which would soon dry to a brittle hardness. Thanks, raggaze!

Tomorrow, it's green pasta which is used for lasagne and I don't know what else...then I get my certificate as a sfoglia expert. I am truly thrilled, and so glad I found and stuck with this class. It has been and will be worth every bit of effort and money. I am graduating into a very small and select group of pasta makers, and I feel very honored, and very lucky.

My first sheet of sfoglia

If I weren't such an asshole, maybe this skill and a couple million dollars would snare me a cute, smart significant other! Ha ha ha. No, not even these would work! So I'll eat my hand-rolled sfoglia by myself, said the Little Red Hen!

Next, some reports on the restaurants of Bologna. I've had no time for sighseeing, so be prepared for lots of food porn!

A Second Helping of the Florintine Cucina

2010-11-08T16:44:00.000-08:00

Sitting in Bologna, but want to get a few more words in about the food, etc in Florence before I get behind...and I already have a small amount of personal verbal baloney about Bologna. Soon.

Osteria Vini e Vecchi Sapori

So, on my first day in Florence during which I arrived just in time for lunch, I felt like I had to expand the opportunities to taste new/different stuff in my two short days. So, after Cibreo, I headed to a place I'd never been to called Osteria (Vini e Vecchi Sapori) [which translates as Hole In the Wall: Wines and Old Flavors].

It really is just a hole in the wall, maybe 4 or 5 tables, 20 chairs, perhaps. I got there toward the end of their lunch period and shared a table with a couple of local dudes who shared not a single word with each other, and were very focused on their task of eating lunch and getting out. Ok, the menu was short, not many choices, but all interesting. So, Mr.-I-Can't-Get-Enough-Lunch ordered wide, fresh pasta typical of Tuscany called pappardelle which was dressed with a duck ragú. The pasta itself was a bit thicker and tougher than the pasta I make at home, and thicker than pasta here in Bologna, but more on that anon. The sauce was tasty, but it really could have been any meat since the meat itself was practically pulverized. Still, a good dish.

Pappardelle

Faraona: Roast Guinea Hen

For my second piatto (plate, but really, course), I had an oven-roasted guinea hen, in Italy very common and called faraona. Yummy, juicy and tender, far better than any typical American chicken. If you go to Italy, keep an eye out for it on menus, especially in Tuscany and Emilia Romagna. Worth the effort.

For dinner that evening, I ventured into another unknown, for me, place that has raves around the Italian Internet and trattoria guides called Del Fagioli on that street, Via de' Neri of which I wrote in the last post. Well, I made a reservation for 9.30, finally sat down sometime after 10pm and was totally bushed. Remember, I had only five hours sleep since 5am Wednesday morning in Portland and it was then about 2pm Portland time. Well, by that time, they were out of all the things on the menu I had been coveting, so I settled for a mediocre bowl of ravioli and tomato sauce, and a small veal chop which was adequate. I think I had some stewed artichokes as a side dish. I had to share a table with about 8 20-30 somethings and it was a bit rowdy. Some asshole New Jersey dude was sitting at the next table, and his constant yapping was even more disturbing than the ragazzi at my table. He would not, as they say there, shut the fuck up, and his yap was just tedious.

I was so glad to get out of there.

Caffe Rivoire's Ciocolato con Panna

Palazzo Vecchio, Florence

I closed the day with a deadly cup of deliciously decadent hot chocolate from my favorite dispenser of such, the Caffè Rivoire which sits in the prime spot in what is my favorite public space on the planet, the Piazza della Signoria, the site of some interesting Florence highlights: the monumental Palazzo Vecchio
was once home to the Medici family, before they built a couple of new palaces. It was and still is, the town hall of Florence and contains some fantastic art; in the middle of the piazza is a plaque indicating where the fanatic monk Savonarola was burnt at the stake, just where, a few years before, he conducted the actual Bonfire of the Vanities...he'd convinced many well to do Florentines to burn their evil books, paintings and so on so they could more easily get to heaven;

Savonarola's Burning Plaque!

the adjoining Loggia dei Lanza contains some absolutely top shelf sculpture:

Cellini's Perseus with the Head of Medusa

Giambologna's Rape of the Sabine Women

Cellini's Perseus with the Head of Medusa, and Giambologna's Rape of the Sabine Women among many others; next door to all of this is the Uffizi Gallery, one of the world's finest collection of significant art. Oh, and the space itself is just absolutely overpoweringly majestic. I'm sure this added to the people's respect of the Medici...fear more like it.

Tomatoes, Florence

Next morning—well, it was 11:30 when I finally hit the streets—I wandered off to the Mercato Centrale, the Central Market, for a quick sandwich for breakfast...just before I was determined to head back to Cibreo for my second lunch there. So I had another pappardelle dish and a boiled beef trademark sandwich. However, the wait in line for the sandwich was about 30 minutes and my pasta got cold, so I ain't a gonna mention the name. Let's just say it's a Mercato landmark.

Porcini at the Mercato Centrale

Then I wandered about the market looking at the amazing selection of cheeses, preserved/cured meats, fresh meats, spices, produce and mushrooms!!!! Porcini mushrooms are still in season since it's been warm here, I may have mentioned this already. But I'm in wild mushroom heaven. I've had them twice as a passato at Cibreo (see the previous post), two or three times as a pasta condiment, and I can't remember how else. Will seek out more here in Bologna. I've never had a mushroom as flavorful and texturally perfect as the porcino (singular of porcini, ok??? Panino is the singular of panini, please try to remember this!!!!). Hope they are still around this weekend when I hit the southern Tuscan town of Montalcino. Love 'em....

Tripe Wagon, Florence

For some reason, Tuscans just love tripe and other forms of cow stomach...remember the cow has several of these, and each has it's own flavor and taste. I've heard the taste of innards like this is a bit like shit, and I just can't figure out why people, mostly men in Florence, love the taste of shit.

Tripe Stand, Florence

Maybe they are doing some sort of penance? These days, tripe stands are all over Florence, though on my first trips twenty years ago I don't recall seeing these at all. I suppose they are copying Portland, Oregon where the provincial know it all food experts seem to think the food cart was invented. Wrong!!!! Anyway, guys, enjoy those shitty sandwiches...you can have my share!

La Vecchia Bettola, Florence

That night for supper I went to another mostly for the locals place called La Vecchia Bettola which features a very, very traditional Florentine menu including a great porterhouse steak, a wonderful fried rabbit with artichokes, yummy oven roasted pork loin and a fantastic boned then stuffed roasted chicken, one of the best things I've ever eaten; unfortunately it's been years since I've seen that on their menu. Once when I ate there, about 1994, an Elvis impersonator came in and sang a song. Hardly raised an eyebrow. Great little place. Oh, the now famous dish, penne with vodka sauce was supposedly invented here. They call it Penne alla Bettola...highly recommended.

Fresh Pasta with Porcini

La Vecchia Bettola

I wandered home through the Oltrano neighborhood and shot some photos of signs, 800-year-old bridges and so forth. Check 'em out:

Ponte Vecchio, Florence

Duomo, Cathedral, Florence

Spring

Autumn

These statues come from the next bridge down from the famous Ponte Vecchio. It is called the Ponte Trinità and was designed in part by Michelangelo. The four figures represent the seasons and were added in the early 1600s. When the Nazi's retreated from Florence in 1944, they blasted much of the city to smithereens, including all the bridges, including this one, except the Ponte Vecchio. Even these assholes were soft enough to leave an 800-year-old relic. Gee, guys, thanks at least for that one. By the way, these were REAL Nazi's, not the imaginary kind trumped up by equally assholy tea partiers. The bridge was reconstructed in the mid-50s, though the head of Spring was only found a few years later in the river mud when a generous reward was offered, so there it sits, right where the head should be.

Trattoria. This word is pronounced trat-oh-rEEah. Not trat-O-reeah as I've heard many Americans, including a certain Italian American pal of mine in NYC. Here's a sign:

Trattoria Sign, Florence

Da Ruggero, Florence

And my last meal in Florence was the Trattoria da Ruggero, another ultra-traditional place a bit south of the tourist mecca of the historic center.
No tourists make it here, for the most part. It was Sunday lunch, the Italians favorite meal for eating out with the family. (It ain't after church eating...Italians might be Catholic, but few actually attend mass regularly.)

Pasta with Porcini

So the place was hopping, almost electrified. I loved it. My choices included some house-marinated artichokes, a really good pasta with porcini, and a delicious slice of pork loin called àrista, an anchor of the Florentine kitchen (some say the name is Greek and means "the best" which was supposedly blurted out by a Greek bishop attending an Ecumenical Council in Florence. Apparently he liked his pork.).

Àrista, Da Ruggero

Just lick the screen here and see what you think of Ruggero's cibo!

Next stop, Bologna!

A Bit of Heaven-But Full of Emotional Stuff

2010-11-07T03:29:00.000-08:00

I'm back in Florence—Firenze—for the fourteenth or fifteenth visit since 1992. Clearly I can't keep away, can't resist the charm, the magnetic pull this place has for me. This is a very short visit, just two days, and so it seems a bit rushed, discomforting almost. But I've tried a bit this time to make it slightly different hoping to discover new streets, points of interest, maybe a new coffee bar. I've tried to force myself to walk down new streets and I've managed to find a few new-to-me sights.

Like this loggia I found walking own Via dei Neri, a major street in the heart of the city I think I've managed to avoid in all my previous stays. It was a very pleasant surprise! It is called the Loggia del Grano and was built in the early 1600s by Cosimo de Medici as the grain storage point when old one, closer to the center of town, was converted into a church.

Loggia del Grano, Via dei Neri, Florence

I also found a record store, a few interesting restaurants, one of which I dined in Saturday night, Del Fagioli.

I first visited Florence in mid-October, 1992; which was also my first trip to Italy. I remember arriving at my pensione after a long trip from Austin, as usual, with no sleep, at about 3pm. I should have slept a bit, but instead, ran out to the streets to start my explorations with an amazing burst of energy. I headed straight to the Duomo, the famous iconic cathedral, and went directly inside.

Interior, Duomo, Florence

I was shocked at how spare it was, there were no grandiose statues, or much other art on the towering stone walls. Instead, a few stingy frescos dotted the walls, and even the grand marble floor was nearly devoid of any seating for the church's still regular services. I later learned that, over the years the Duomo's at one time numerous works of art were removed to a museum across the piazza where they are guarded under better conditions. Since many of them are important and priceless works by Michelangelo, Donatello, Brunelleschi, Ghiberti, di Cambio, della Robbia and many others, they needed to be placed outside the reach of vandals, both human and environmental.

Dante with the Divne Comedy in Hand; Duomo, Florence


John Lockwood; Duomo, Florence

So, this enormous and cavernous church somehow brought forth a flood of emotions for me—I thought it might have been because I was exhausted—which touched on my years of Catholic upbringing, memories of my mother, my son and I can't recall how many others. I remember crying softly, but openly with these thoughts. I know it wasn't from exhaustion because I had the same reaction on Friday afternoon on my umpteenth walk through the Duomo. I remember wishing, on that first exposure to the church, I could have shown the place to my mother who was then still alive and kicking. But that was not meant to be, unfortunately. However, to this day, I still light a candle or two in the church in her memory...never fails. And yes, the place still makes me teary-eyed.

There are some interesting frescoes in the church: the one I love most it of Dante holding the Divine Comedy, standing a bit outside Florence (remember, he was in exile most of his adult life), showing the paths to heaven and hell as described in his monumental poetic opus.

The other I like has a wonderful story behind it. It was painted by Paolo Uccello to celebrate the contribution of the English mercenary John Lockwood to the victory of Florence over one of its many foes. The story goes that he was promised a bronze statue in his honor if he would help Florence in its warring. The stingy Florentines had no intention of an actual statue, but rather, their joke was to create the work in painting. I have a feeling that this is just a legend since Lockwood spent many years in Florence fighting many wars, and was even named by England's Richard II as an official representative to the Holy See. I still love the myth.

Palazzo Stozzi, Florence

It's impossible to walk down any street in the historic center of Florence without encountering fascinating art and architecture. The place is dotted with majestic towering palazzi, some possessing literal towers which were used in their day as protection, as lookout towers and as impressive symbols of status. It's hard to imagine that these structures, many commanding a full city block, were private homes to the rich and famous of the time. Many must possess acres of floorspace within their multi-storied structures.

And I often, when walking down this stone streets weighted down with beauty and loaded with history...now, if these walls could talk! I see a house built in, say 1400 and something and think about the generations of Fiorentini who have lived and died therein. It is really heavy! And these thoughts, like being in the Duomo, sometimes make me a bit weepy. Sorry, I'm a wuss. Sue me.

Palazzo portal, 20 feet tal

Typical palazzo stonework

One of the major draws of Florence for me is the food. Actually, it was the food that attracted me in the first place after my indoctrination in the early 1990s of the importance of Tuscan cooking by my guru, Giuliano Bugialli whose books have become my personal culinary bibles.

So, I've managed to cram in lots of eating in just two short days. My first day, I even had two lunches just to expand my exposure to more dishes!

And without hesitation, I can say that my favorite restaurant in Florence, one of favorites of all time any place, is Cibreo, opened in the 1980s by Fabio Picci. Picci is a Tuscan stalwart and his kitchen has managed to save and promote many of the otherwise forgotten treasures of the Tuscan table. In fact the name Cibreo is stolen from one of this dishes, in this case, a stew made from the stranger parts of the chicken, or rooster, including the liver, the cockscomb, and other internal, or external organs. It was a favorite dish of Catherine of the Medici.

Cibreo Trattoria, Florence

Cibreo is an interesting, as well as delicious restaurant. Fabio refuses to serve pasta because each serving of pasta must be cooked to order, to an exact point, and he cannot physically be in the kitchen with each order to ensure perfection, so he chooses to avoid it. Instead, his first courses explore a fascination world of soups and other porridges. Over the years I've eaten most of these and have been able to recreate them at home, largely because Italian, and especially Tuscan cooking is so frigging simple.

Passato di Porcini; Cibreo, Florence

A few well chosen ingredients comprise most dishes, and knowing this list, it is fairly easy, given high quality ingredients, to replicate the flavors. So his pumpkin, yellow bell pepper pumpkin and bean soups, actually purees called passato, have become staples. The newest passato which I had twice this trip is of porcini mushrooms. This will be difficult to reproduce in my kitchen because we just don't have fresh porcini in any quantity or regularity. But I will attempt it with dried porcini for their flavor, and fresh mushrooms such as portobellos for their texture. I'll come close.

Another unusual dish I have fallen in love with is called gelatina de pomodoro, literally, tomato gelatin.

Gelatina di Pomodoro; Cibreo, Florence

It is like eating a very small slice of heaven. It is the pure essence of tomato spiked with a bit of hot pepper, some flecks of basil and the appearance of red, tomatoey jello, at least in its bounce. I will give this one may all when I get home...I learned that there is, indeed a very small amount of gelatin added to a tomato puree, so, the trick will be adding just enough for the bounce, but not so much as to make it look like a children's, or a Texas cafeteria, dessert. I had both the passato de porcini and this gelatina twice in two days. I would have them again today, just hours before leaving Florence, but Cibreo is closed on Sundays!

Polpettine di Pollo; Cibreo, Florence

The other dishes I had over the last days were delicious chicken meatballs, a plate of seasoned raw pork sausage, and another long-time favorite, a sformato of sheep's milk ricotta and potato, the one dish I have yet to conquer in my own kitchen. But someday I will, someday I will. The problem is, the texture Fabio achieves if very silky, but American cows' milk ricotta is very grainy, whereas Tuscan sheeps' milk ricotta is very smooth. I may never get the exact texture, but I will get the flavors. By the way, a sformato is sort of a flan/souffle hybrid...sformare means to unmold, so these are typically made in some sort of mold, then unmolded for serving! Some of these Italian concepts are strange in English and there are not direct translations. Hell, even flan and souffle are not English words!

Sformato di Ricotta e Patate; Cibreo, Florence

Oh, another interesting thing about Cibreo is that there are actually two restaurants next to each other. One is a swank white tablecloth place with frills and high prices, the other offers the same food with smaller portions and a reduced selection for about one-third the price. You can't make a reservation in the piccolo Cibreo, and you have to share a table with strangers, but it is worth the effort. And with the savings, you can easily afford to eat there every day. Don't miss this place if you are ever in Florence.

Salsicce Crude (Raw); Cibreo, Florence

On my first day, after already having lunch at Cibreo, I decided to try yet another place, the Osteia Vini e Vecchi Sapore, a place I'd heard about but never tried. Ok, two lunches in two hours. Hey, I've done this before, like in New Orleans back in the days with Uglesich's was still open and I just had to have one of his shrimp dishes after eating a shrimp po'boy at Domilese's.

(to be continued, the next installment will be tomorrow, my current hotel has no internet service...now in Bologna, a city I have grown to hate in only an hour!!!!)

My Brazilian Soulmates: Two (more) Reasons I Hate Cancer

2010-11-03T17:45:00.000-07:00

As I write this, I'm cruising over Utah at 35,000 feet—amazing that we have Internet on airplanes finally—and am on my way to Italy, via Dallas and NYC.

So I thought I'd use the time on the plane to catch up on this blog thing...so many Brazil stories remain untold.

The topic which has been rumbling around in my mind since wandering around my old neighborhood in São Paulo revolves around my lost Brazilian friends. I suppose there are only two of major importance, two fellows who have had a major impact on my relationship with Brazil, and my ability to maneuver within one of the world's craziest cultures. And, I only met the second friend because I knew the first...some short number of degrees of separation, right?

Way back in what now seems the Dark Ages, about 1978, I was working my way through grad school, which I never finished, at Discount Records on "The Drag" in Austin. Record store work had been my career since high school and it was easy, pleasant, rewarding and it kept me impoverished. I had managed to amass a very substantial stock of Brazilian records at the store, and customers drove from as far as Dallas and Houston to shop those five or six bins grouped in the right rear corner of the store. I put that shop on the map, at least the map of places to buy Brazilian LPs in Texas!

One day, a striking looking fellow with jet black hair and a unique, face-dominating walrus-like moustache came into the store. He also wore an unique name: Waldimas. Waldimas Galvão. We struck up a long conversation. It was very nice, but I had no idea it would lead to a lifetime friendship. He returned to the store a few more times, often with his slightly peevish girlfriend, Lilian. A month or more went by when he came in with a question...Lilian was moving back to São Paulo and he needed a place to live while he pursued his Master's in the History Department at UT. I must have mentioned that I would be soon looking for a roommate, and so, as luck would have it, we each had a solution to our then pressing housing issues.

Waldimas moved in, I think it was around Christmas time of 1978, maybe right after New Year's. It was an instant bond for us. Our respective outlooks on politics, music, film, and so on were so nearly identical, it was uncanny. And we likewise shared a similar and deep sense of humor. Luckily, or, maybe not so luckily, Waldimas's English was very good, and my new Portuguese was shaky at best, so we started out, and for the balance of our relationship, spoke mostly in English...even when I moved in with him and his brother in São Paulo about 18 months later...

My Old 'hood in São Paulo

Ok, I realized as I was waiting for the john at the back of the plane that, if I continued this story at this rate of detail, I'd be writing a book. So, let's cut to the chase:

Waldimas died in February of 2002 after a long battle with cancer. He smoked constantly. It got his lungs. Then evolved into a brain tumor. I think it went on for about four years, and then he lost. And so did those of us who knew him. Though, after my 1980 stay in São Paulo, we only saw each other a few times, traded some letters, phone calls, Waldimas, right to the end, was perhaps the closest friend I've ever had. In some ways, he felt more like a brother, like family. Only one other person, perhaps, has ever understood me as well as Waldimas. I could say anything t him, about anything, and he knew exactly the right thing to say, somehow getting inside my head and my heart comprehending what I needed to hear, good, bad or ugly. He just friggin' knew. It was spooky. He never made light of my various travails, he never questioned my motives for making any right or wrong decisions. He just friggin' knew.

And I miss him terribly, like I miss my own brother Cris who was tragically (is there any other way?) murdered just four months after Waldimas died. Two brothers in one year. It was rough. And it still is.

Walmes 'Walminho' Galvão

Being in SP, in our old neighborhood, staying with his brother, Walminho, all this came rushing back. Some was great, some was very hard. But come back it did. I felt like I was back in our old environment...I WAS, and Walminho and I had some long, teary "bate papos" about our late brother, Diminha.

Early in my 1980 stay, Waldimas and I went from SP to Rio to liberate my confiscated luggage from the Brazilian customs office at the airport. At the time, he was employed by Editora Abril, the largest magazine publisher in Brazil, a bit like Time-Life in the USA. To aid in my apprehended baggage issue, he called on the services of a "fixer" at Abril's Rio office, who, after a few days, managed to free the bags. But while at the Abril office, Waldimas popped in on an old friend of his, Aristélio Andrade who, at the time was the Rio bureau chief for Placar, Abril's major sports magazine. On that first day, we—Waldimas, Aristélio and I—went to lunch at a nice restaurant—I even remember the name—Botequim—in Botafogo, not far from Abril's office.

Well, Waldimas introduced me to Aristélio because I was going to have to stay in Rio for quite a few days to solve my problem, and he knew Aristélio would be the right person to help me get oriented in Rio. Well, he was absolutely correct. That very night he took me to the now-defunct legendary Clube do Samba which was founded by the great, and also late, samba singer João Nogueira, Chico Buarque and other luminaries. It was a magical night of hard hitting samba, dancing and a few special appearances by the likes of Chico, João and others.

On subsequent visits to Rio, Aristélio introduced me to many other bohemian delights in Rio like the wonderful Cafe Lamas which was founded in 1874 or thereabouts, to the giant Maracanã soccer stadium for a couple of wild soccer games, to the other wonderful old traditional restaurant, the Cosmipolita where the famous steak dish, filet a Oswaldo Aranha was invented, and to so many other fantastic unforgettable places which I still remember in great detail to this day.

Aristélio was a true bohemian-intellectual-journalist-leftest-communist music fanatic. He knew all the great samba singers and composers, had all their records, was involved in the leftist resistance after the 1964 military coup—his stories of his friends' imprisonment and torture were absolutely blood curdling—and, he loved food, jazz and life. We shared hours of fascinating conversation over countless chopes, deep belly laughs, and a few tears. As with Waldimas, our bond was immediate, strong and profound. He would do anything for me. Anything. He was a bit like a father figure—I guess he was at least 10 years older than me (it was 20)—but I looked up to his wisdom, knowledge, and worldliness as I'm sure many do their fathers. Without his protective guidance and endless stream of recommendations for music, restaurants, book stores and other fascinating places, my comprehension and knowledge of Rio would have been greatly diminished. No, not diminished because that implies that it existed at one point. No, it would have been just simpler, much less to start with, and would be far poorer today, and far less meaningful to me.

Shall we cut to the chase...again?

Aristélio Andrade 1934-2010

I have no idea today if Aristélio is alive or dead. Sometime in the early 2000s, his phone number changed, and he retired, canceled his email address, and he moved to the small town in the mountains outside Rio call Novo Friburgo. Somehow, after emailing some folks, in 2009 I secured his new home number. On my trip to Rio in that year, I called him and discovered that he was very sick due to, guess what? Cancer. Again. He was in very bad shape, was on oxygen, and maybe bedridden. He invited me to come visit. I so much wanted to see him again, and he wanted to see me. But after thinking about seeing him in that condition, I, perhaps selfishly, decided not to make the trip. My memories of him were all so positive, so strong, and they were memories of a healthy Aristélio. I realized that if I went up to visit him, my final memories of him would be of an ailing, frail old man. And I choose to not let those images take over all the hundreds, thousands of little pictures in my mind of all wonderful things and conversations we had over nearly 30 years. Maybe I did the wrong thing. Perhaps I should have gone. But I didn't. And I can't really call him because I didn't inform him of my decision and felt strange about that, embarrassed. And if I call, and if he has since passed away, which could very well be the case, I would feel awkward and clumsy speaking with his widow, or his children or his grandchildren. As I type this, I realize that all this has been about me. I denied my friend Aristélio something he dearly wanted from me...a last visit, and I'll assume it would have been the last.

I've just decided I need to call him, regardless. Our friendship means to much to both of us to let my fears and inhibitions control the circumstances of our relationship.

I just hope it's not too late...
+++++++++++
Update: 6 Dec, 2010...I just noticed a comment to this post from a French journalist who knew Aristélio which informed me of Aristélio's passing in early March of this year. I am such an asshole for not having gone to visit him last year when I had the chance. Idiota. Idiota. Idiota.

There's An Awful Lot of (Awful) Coffee In Brazil

2010-10-20T12:49:00.000-07:00

The following song was a big hit more than once as sung by Frank Sinatra, Rosemary Clooney, Louis Prima and others. Read the lyrics and we'll discuss all the awful coffee in Brazil down below.

The Coffee Song
Written By: Bob Hilliard / Richard Miles

Way down among Brazilians
Coffee beans grow by the billions
So they’ve got to find those extra cups to fill
They’ve got an awful lot of coffee in Brazil

You can’t get cherry soda
Cause they’ve gotta sell their quota
And the way things are I guess they never will
They’ve got an awful lot of coffee in Brazil

No tea or tomato juice
You’ll see no potato juice
Cause the planters down in Santos
All say no, no, no

A politician’s daughter
Was accused of drinkin’ water
And was fined a great big fifty dollar bill
They’ve got an awful lot of coffee in Brazil

When Brazilian ham and eggs need savor
Coffee ketchup gives ‘em flavor
Coffee pickles way outsell the dill
Why they put coffee in their coffee in Brazil

You date a man and find out later
He smells like a percolator
His cologne was made right on the grill
Hey they could percolate the ocean in Brazil

Don’t ask for hot cocoa there
They’ll say you’ve gone loco there
But say caffeine or coffee bean and they’ll say ay ay ay

So you’ll add to the local color
Serve some coffee with a cruller
Dunkin’ doesn’t take a lot of skill
They’ve got an awful lot of coffee
A great big pot of coffee
They’ve got an awful lot of coffee
In Brazil, Brazil, Brazil
Cafe olé
Yeah

Yep, Brazil produces a lot of coffee—the most recent figures I looked at show Brazil produces four times more coffee than any other producing region, except Vietnam, which produces half as much, but ALL that coffee is of the Robusta variety, read: Folgers quality.

Coffee in different stages

But the fact is that, most of Brazil's coffee is also Robusta, though, increasingly, the producers of the higher quality Arabica varieties are quickly gaining ground. Unfortunately for Brazilians, most of the really good coffee seems to be exported. (Why? Brazilians themselves are not demanding better quality, so, the producers go the where the demand is.)

Ripe coffee "cherries"

Brazilians reading this are going to scream and disagree with me. So be it. Just realize that I think American coffee is still worse, in general, than Brazilian. That doesn't make Brazilian coffee good. In time, maybe the demand in Brazil for better coffee will grow. But, in my limited experience during my last two trips, I couldn't find even ONE coffee specialist that offered properly roasted and brewed coffee. Doesn't mean they don't exist, but I didn't find any.

Thirty years ago, when American coffee was 99% crap, Brazilian coffee appeared to me, and other visitors, to be mostly uniformly better. And, possibly, it was. Our coffee was mostly so awful, almost anything else would be an improvement.

However, in the following years, the state of coffee in the USA has improved greatly, at least for those who chose to choose better coffee. Boutique roasters offering amazingly good beans from all over the world seem to be located on every corner, and I'm not talking about Starbucks, though, I have to offer that company some of the credit for helping to raise the overall awareness of the availability of better coffee options.

My Behmor Coffee Roaster

Personally, I have been roasting my own green coffee beans to guarantee absolutely fresh coffee for my morning and afternoon vice. I also have invested in a beefy Italian espresso machine and a commercial style grinder. I am now convinced that, even it Portland where local think coffee was invented, I have a better cup of coffee than any of the very pricey hipster coffee joints. Yes, I'm very spoiled.

My Macap M4 coffee grinder

That my home-brewed coffee is better than anything I can get in Brazil is an understatement. I think that, over the last 30 years, coffee in Brazil has gotten worse. Much worse. Now, part of this is my personal standard has risen dramatically. And I still think that coffee in the average American restaurant or cafe is undrinkable. I don't even bother and can't understand how anyone can possibly drink such bad fluid—I can't even call it coffee really.

My Bricoletta Espresso Machine

But the average coffee served in Brazil is only slightly better, if at all. It, like most commercially served coffee in the USA, is old, brewed long before serving, is made with old—far from fresh—coffee beans, and is brewed with less-than-satisfactory methods.

I had coffee made in many different ways on this trip: home-style Melitta drip, espresso machines, commercial drip, cloth filter brewed. It was all pretty bad, sometimes really bad, sometimes actually approaching decent. One problem with the espresso machine coffee is that the vendors insist on filling the little cups to the very top because, if they don't, the exigente Brazilian customer will complain that the cup isn't full. Too bad, if they stopped the extraction at half or less of the cup's volume, they could actually produce a decent espresso in most cases. Over-extraction produces a very bitter brew, as does under-extraction. I finally started asking for a half-cup and was proven correct: the coffee was uniformly better. Not perfect, but far more flavorful and less biting. But no way the average Brazilian would accept this partial cup. "Você está me roubando, filho da mãe!," they would say. Their loss is their loss.

All I can say, that one of the best parts of getting home is the ability to drink good coffee again. I roasted a new batch within an hour of arriving from the airport, and I've been in coffee heaven ever since. Yum.

Here are some links to the some of the folks I like for consistently good coffee, machines, green beans, grinders, roasters, etc. Not cheap, but if you roast your own, you easily pay for the roaster in a year or so, depending on the volume of your habit. If you regularly consume a cappuccino or "latte", then your savings by NOT going to Starbucks or similar will likewise cover the cost of a good machine and grinder. And the coffee you drink at home will likely be better, certainly fresher, than about anything you can get commercially.

For green beans and roasting supplies: http://www.sweetmarias.com/index.php

For fair trade and organic Brazilian coffees imported into and roasted in Austin: http://www.casabrasilcoffees.com/

For family grown boutique coffees from Minas Gerais in Brazil, Cup of Excellence winners!!! http://www.familyroast.com/

For very good espresso machines, grinders, etc: http://www.1st-line.com/

For very good, actually, the best, variety of freshly roasted coffee in Austin: http://www.andersonscoffee.com/still_life.html

Coffee can be great! Try some of these places and you'll see what I mean.

In the meantime, Brazil, and the USA, continue to have an awful lot of awful coffee.

Great music in Rio: Bon Jovi, Rush and Dave Matthews Band....

2010-10-14T16:11:00.000-07:00

Last Sunday, I saw a large number of young dudes wearing new, clearly pirated Rush t-shirts...I guess in preparation for the concert which, I suppose, was that night.

Each of these bands listed above received a full page of coverage in Rio's main paper, O Globo, last week. I was in awe!

But this is normal.

Crappy American music gets full coverage....Brazilian music gets far less. What gives in a country with so much great local music, that total crap from the USA (and other countries) gets royal treatment in the press?

This is not new, it has been like this since I first started visiting Brazil in 1980. Record stores also reflect this strange bias against Brazil's extremely fertile music scenes. Most stores carry and feature far more American music than their own product.

And this makes me very sad. It's bad enough that at home I am bombarded by this junk, but to arrive in such a rich, musically speaking, place such as Rio and find so much attention to this "lixo" (trash), well, it just doesn't make sense. To me.

If the press here devoted as much attention to their local musicians as they do to musicians from afar, well, Brazilians themselves might learn more about their own, and might actually spend more money supporting samba, choro, MPB and other forms of Brazilian musical expression. As it is, the support is not great, record companies maintain very little in their back catalogs, so, a record that, say, came out a year ago might never be seen again. Very sad.

I'll bet I can go into any record store in Rio and find ALL of Madonna's records in stock.

This makes me sad. Very sad....

A Vignette of Ipanema— Just Filler Till the Next Entry!

2010-10-12T21:55:00.000-07:00

I can't believe I have not had the energy or motivation to keep this more up to date. Let's just say that I seem to never stop, and when I do, I'm worn out from running all over this city; not an easy task as anyone who has been here can tell you. Lots of music, too much food, and many laughs since the last entry. And I'm editing videos for up load, so the next entry or two will be quite meaty. Good thing...Brazilians like meat probably more than Americans!

What that has to do with anything, I don't know.

Sunday, I went by subway to the weekly Feira Hippie, or Hippie Market, where there is lots of crap for sale to tourists, but, please, include Brazilian tourists in that category.

Ipanema Subway Station

There are two or three artists worth considering who display among about 40 painters. The painters are surrounded by a perimeter of booths selling lots of cheaply made junk, some really awful t-shirts, and a few, but very few, worthwhile trinkets.

Artists Display at Ipanema Hippie Market

Last year I reencountered an artist whose work I had discovered in 1999 and fell in love with, Vitorino, and worked out a deal to use a painting I bought of his for my 2010 Carnaval poster. His wife was there, as usual, but the selection of work was down to only a small handful, five or six, mostly small works. I couldn't resist picking up a couple of them, his work, for some reason, appeals to me very much.

New Work by Vitorino

His wife, Julia, insisted I call her this week to meet up with her so she can escort me to their house just up the hill from Ipanema...in the favela, or slum, of Cantagalo. Not sure I'll take up her offer, but it could be interesting. She took me up in the brand new elevator which now connects Cantagalo with Ipanema to make coming and going easier for the favela's inhabitants. The halfway point features a great vista of the beach and the neighborhood which I enjoyed very much. Take a look:

Atlantic Ocean at Ipanema from 200 feet up

After exhausting everything the market had to offer, I headed to the beach of Ipanema just to take in the view of the sea for a few minutes. The sky was grey, the wind strong, the surf pounding. But it was stupendous just the same. If you know me at all, you know I prefer the beach on days like this. I used to say something like, "The beach is fine...except for the sand, the sun and the salt water." But the power of the ocean waves is, nonetheless, intoxicating.

Here's a little taste of said intoxicant:

See you soon with more music and food junk....
.

You MUST Eat Your Ice Cream Cone With A Spoon

2010-10-08T10:12:00.001-07:00

Last year's blog entries from Rio were full of juicy observations about Rio, life in Rio, food, manners, and so on.

This year, I'm not feeling so philosophical, and, since I was just here a year ago, things are not as "newish" for me, the level of excitement of being here again is not as elevated (it had been about eight years last time), and so on. And, I'm getting old.

Last year, I posted lots of food pictures, so far this trip, exactly NONE. But we get requests, so, here are some food shots from the last two or three days. To come, photos of people and architecture since last year someone said I ONLY post food and music photos.

Well, what else is there?

Feijoada very Completa!

I've been looking for great feijoada and truthfully, have not found it yet. But, I had an okay one two days ago in a "boteco" in Ipanema called Brasileirinho. It is owned by the folks around the corner, the Casa de Feijoada, so you would expect it to be exemplary. Well, it was just okay. I think the torresmos, which should be nice, hot chunks of crisply fried pork belly with skin attached were more like Bakonettes, light, false-seeming, and not satisfying because they were not fatty enough! The flavor of the beans was lacking meatiness, the couve, or collard greens, contained some burnt, acrid garlic. The meats, which were served separately, were ok, but they included a sausage called XXX, which is basically a hot dog. Never seen this before, but I know it exists. Yuk. The experience was pleasant enough, but the cost for one person was R$ 42 (about 25 bucks), so it was no bargain as was the generous helping I had last Saturday at the Cordão da Bola Preta which was only R$15, about eight bucks, and the flavors of Saturday's plate were far more satisfying.

Torresmo, crispy pork parts

Feijoada meats...

Anyway, here are some photos and a short video of the bubbling clay cauldron of meats and bean broth.

Ok, yesterday I was in downtown Rio doing some book and record shopping and stopped at a well-respected botequim called the Casual which has a Portuguese slant to it. It is located in a building which must be at least 150 years old, probably older. Charming alley location, great sidewalk tables good for people watching.

Each day they feature a couple of blue plate lunch specials, mostly with that Portuguese accent, so I opted for the costellinhas ao forno, pork ribs braised in the oven. The serving was generous with about four meaty ribs with falling-off-the-bone tenderness. They had been braised with a well-seasoned tomato-based broth, and were very tasty. A few potatoes, also cooked in that same broth, were included, along with a small mountain of tomatoey rice. The whole thing was quite good...I'd been needing a break from the black beans, meat and fried thingys Carioca-oriented meals I've been having. It did the trick. Only R$22 (about 12 bucks).

A shot of my ribs from Botequim Casual:

Botequim Casual, Downtown Rio

Costellinhas ao forno

Brasil was once the capital of the Portuguese Empire, then it evolved into the Empire of Brasil for a time. An Empire needs an Emperor, and an Emperor needs a Court and a Court needs to present the most formal of manners, the most rigid of bureaucracies, the most rigid of class systems. All these must be present for the Emperor, his court, and his subjects to function properly.

It is my theory that this Imperial Mentality and all its trappings are what trickled down to the people, all the way down to the lowest classes, and is still alive today in many ways. Thus the need to be extremely formal with strangers, or with those of a higher class. It is common for people to be a addressed as “Seu” or "O Senhor" ("sir", but literally, "Your Lord" or something similar), or "A Senhora"("madam", but literally "Your Lady"), in many circumstances... Today I was on the phone ordering a set of CDs to be delivered to me next week. The phone attendant regularly addressed me as "Seu Michael" which I found amusing. Sir Michael, indeed!!!! Yeah, we still use "sir" in certain cases, but nothing like it's used here.

Needless to say, there is an endless list of necessary formalities: Enter an office, or other place of business and silver try with coffee served in small cups will appear. At my hotel, the lobby is full of doormen, at least three at any one time. They fall over each other trying to accommodate the guests. In restaurants, when the food arrives, the waiter very subserviently and ceremoniously dishes a portion of food onto your plate...you will never be allowed to do it yourself!

Don't forget, always use a napkin to pick up ANY sort of finger food, the stuff we would normally eat with our fingers in the United States. ANYTHING, ANYTIME. I think this mania has evolved into a fear of having filth on one's hands, and god forbid you would want to transfer that shit onto your piece of fried bacalhão! Yes, pizza is eaten with a knife and fork. And, yes, ice cream cones are eaten with a spoon....then you toss the cone!

For last year's observations on this, check here: Reflections on Rio

The funny thing is, when I mull over all this formality and ceremony, then compare it with our fronteirsman-based social behavior, I realize how crude we must seem to visitors from other countries where these customs appear...which would be about every country but ours!

Americans! You are a rugged bunch of socially inept slobs!

Delicious Poison, Delicious Samba

2010-10-06T15:54:00.000-07:00

Brasil, and Rio especially, have a tradition of very inexpensive, interestingly produced music presentations, often sponsored by a bank, the power company, the local government body, and so on.

Brasil's largest bank, the Banco do Brasil, has a great facility dedicated to promoting and preserving Brasilian culture, especially the music. Their Centro Cultural Banco do Brasil, situated in the old center of the city, an area simply dripping in history and amazing stories. A grand old bank building houses this cultural jewel.

The programs often feature lunchtime shows, as well as evening presentations, in order to service the downtown workforce...a great idea.

A few days ago, I was lucky enough to attend one of these programs, part of a series dedicated to exploring various aspects of samba, a different topic each month for about six months...an amazingly competent project. (Which we don't have in the USA, sadly. No, not exploring samba, but some of our own music at least...but, no! Nada!) Named No Princípio Era Uma Roda (At The Beginning It Was a Ring [Dance]), the series explores samba, which had its origins in ring or circle dances which came from Africa, in various parts of Brasil, and various time periods in Rio.

João Martins, X, Nei Lopes and Eduardo Gallotti at CCBB

The show I attended focused on the samba of Lapa, a classic, fairly well preserved neighborhood of Rio where, in the early twentieth century, the focus was on a more or less "red light" industry with lots of gambling, prostitution and transvestite shows. These days, Lapa is the center of a contemporary renaissance of samba and other traditional Brasilian musics.

The show featured performances by a capable samba group, Galocantô, who backed up the special guests João Martins, Eduardo Gallotti and Nei Lopes. I'll be posting some other selections from this show later down the line, but for now, I want to share the best of the lot, Nei Lopes.

Nei Lopes at the CCBB in Rio

Nei is an amazing character, a composer, singer, historian, lawyer!!!, and writer who has written some great sambas in the last 40 years; I consider him to be one of the best composers of the last 40 years, in fact. Along with his former songwriting partner, Wilson Moreira, he's written a long series of very successful "hit" sambas including Coisa da Antiga, Goiabada Cascão, Morrendo de Saudade, and this very wonderful tune which was a big hit as sung by the late, great Clara Nunes, often regarded as the best woman samba singer of all time...the tune? Gostoso Veneno (Delicious Poison).

Here is Nei:

Hope you liked it as much as I do, and I've heard him sing in numerous times, played it on the radio a million times, and every time I hear it, I like it even more! Wonderful melody, great lyrics.

Will be posting more of his performance later, as well as something from the guy who is largely responsible for the current samba revival in Lapa, Eduardo Gallotti. Let's see what you think...

Samba on Saturday Afternoon With the Black Ball Carnaval Group (Cordão da Bola Preta)!

2010-10-04T21:53:00.000-07:00

Saturday in Rio.

Around noon, I gave my friend Jorge Filho a lesson on the MacBook Pro I brought down for him as contraband...Macs here are very, very expensive. After about ninety minutes of crash training, we called it quits since we were both feeling a bit hungry.

Lesson finished, I had to have my first feijoada of the trip; hopefully the first of four or five. Feijoada is a traditional Brazilian dish of black beans (ususally), a variety of smoked and or salted meats from cow and pig, served with rice, collard greens, orange slices (for digestion...ha, as if...), crisply fried pork skin or belly and a kind of toasted meal made from the manioc root, cooked with butter and sometimes scrambled egg. It is delicious, habit forming and very filling...especially after eating about three or four pounds worth in one sitting! I'm sure I've done that! It can be debilitating if not careful!!!!

So I'd planned to have my feijoada at a corner bar in the Lapa neighborhood, then head over to another feijoada party (feijoada optional) which principally featured live samba bands which was located at the headquarters of Rio's oldest street carnaval group (called a cordão), the Cordão da Bola Preta. They organize a big street parade which rambles through a certain neighborhood of Rio during Carnaval time....thousands participate, and these groups tend to be more democratic, in some ways, than the larger samba schools which comprise the enormous, showy parades which make it on TV during the two days before Fat Tuesday. My kind of party group!!!

Alas, when I arrived at choice number one, it was closed unexpectedly, so I had to quickly think on my feet. Ok, clearly the choice was to partake of the feijoada at the samba joint—the Cordão da Bola Preta—which was close by. It was nearly 2:30 pm when I finally found it, and I was starving.

I paid my six buck cover (10 Brazilian reais...the REAL [pronounced "hay-ALL"] is made plural by dropping the L and replacing it with an I, then adding the S...linguistic craziness of Portuguese), and entered the CBP's headquarters. I got in line for the feijoada buffet and suffered through the 20 or so minutes it took—though it seemed like hours—to get to the food. I received a plate full of food, and headed into the main hall where the music was to sit and eat. Only one problem. There were no empty tables. So I went to one end of the place and headed back, when, about halfway back to the starting point, a guy grabbed me and said to his friends at his table (where there was an empty chair), "This guy has already been all the way through the room and hasn't found a seat. Let's let him sit with us!?!"

Carnaval mural at the CBP HQ

And so I was invited to share their table, and was I ever glad. It would have been very difficult to have eaten this chow while standing up. Not impossible, but not pleasant.

Well, it turns out the guy who extended this kindness turned out to be one of the directors of the Cordão da Bola Preta! Lucky me! I seem to always be able to stumble onto things like this...see last year's blog for my meetings with Martin Sheen and Henry Winkler in Spain and Italy, respectively. Eduardo was very friendly and I mentioned that I produced the largest Brazilian Carnaval ball in the USA and his eyes lit up. In a few minutes I was introduced to the President of the CBP and handed his card. I was a VIP in minutes!

VP of Velha Guarda do Estácio

Then I struck up a conversation with the old black gent sitting to my left...especially after he started offering my generous pours from the communal beer bottles (Antarctica, my Brazilian beer of choice). I didn't catch his name—I'm really bad at that—but we had a nice chat. Well, it turns out this guy is the vice-president of the Velha Guarda of the escola de samba (samba school) Estácio de Sá, the oldest Carnaval samba school (these are like the krewes of New Orleans Mardi Gras) in Rio. The Velha Guarda is the Old Guard, guys who have been at the samba and carnaval game since dinosaurs roamed the earth. He was, in his day, a passista, or dancer, and was, at some point, the lead male dance figure of the escola. Very cool. He told me he started participating in Carnaval in 1946, but I forgot to ask him what age he was then. I think he is now about 70-something; he told me that, at least.

When I told him of my Brazilian party in Austin, HIS eyes lit up and he went over and grabbed the leader of the samba band which was now on break. He introduced me to him because he thought I might be interested in hiring them to play in the States.

Kid playing tamborim

Now, this band which played most of the afternoon, was composed of members of HIS escola, Estácio de Sá, so of course he was interested in hooking me, an important music producer from the US of A, up with these guys from his school.

We talked for a bit, he took my business card, and then dragged over a few more important members of the band. (I have already received an email from them...they want to set up a meeting so we can talk about some sort of tour of the US!!!!) Then they went back to business and played another couple of hours. More or less.

So I shot some video and some still photos and had a great time watching this amazing gathering.

What was interesting was the total lack of any sort of demographic pigeon-holing. The ages ran from four or so to eighty something. Black. White. Brown. Tan. And Very White, that would be me! Brazil is like that. Music and such events attract people from all ages and races, and they all get involved with equal enthusiasm in the party. Everyone knows the words to all the songs, and certain songs induce some sort of mass euphoria which I have NEVER seen in the USA. Never. People grin from ear to ear, sing along with the band, dance, either on the dance floor, or at their tables. And people start hugging each other expressing their happiness with the atmosphere, the music and the camaraderie. It is really amazing and inspiring. Why don't we have this in the US? (Other than football fans singing The Eyes of Texas, or some other such hollow sorts of community spirit....)

Here is a little video of my new friends, the samba band Turma do Estácio (the gang from Estácio)—

When the Estácio guys finished, some awards were handed out to significant contributors to the Cordão.

And then they brought out the heavy artillery.

This was in the form of part of the drum group—the batería—of the samba school Acadêmcos do Salgueiro, one of Rio's most popular escolas de samba. These ostentatious, yet exciting, groups participate in the big, showy parades, competitions, really, in the days leading up to Ash Wednesday. This is BIG business, and very serious. The escolas parade in groups of several thousand, and the drum section alone can surpass 400 members!!! On this day, Salgueiro only sent a couple dozen players, and a handful of their passistas—dancers, remember?

Austin's own samba school, the Acadêmicos da Ópera, who perform with about 100 members at my little shindig, are greatly influenced by this escola. I could even hear it in the drumming.

So, the Salgueiro folks did their thing. I was exhausted just watching them. But it was very satisfying, and a great way to enjoy a Saturday afternoon in the midst of truly fun-loving people, some fantastic food, some spellbinding music, and to meet some new pals.

If anyone needs to hire a great samba group from Rio, and is willing to pay their airfare to Austin, and to run the gauntlet through US Immigration to get them their travel visas, give me a shout. I have a great contact and will be meeting them soon!

Here are the passistas and batería from GRES Acadêmicos do Salgueiro!!!!

Pizza Hut in Rio...A (Bad) Sign of the Times :(

2010-10-04T08:47:00.000-07:00

There was a time when I would have done anything to have a lunch in Rio de Janeiro. Or a dinner. The food was so honest, rich and flavorful. And very inexpensive. Rio had its own style of food, yeah, lots of beans and rice, but great seafood, wonderful meats, understated desserts, plenty of cheap, cold beer, and, almost always, a very home-grown ambience in just about every restaurant and cafe.

Well, those days are fading fast. No question the old-style eats are still around, but they don't seem to be of the same level of quality as they used to be, the portions smaller, the prices higher. Yeah, they still exist.

However, what frightens me is that more and more foreign, mostly from the good ol' USA, chains are opening up. Within a few minutes of my hotel, which is located in a very un-touristy part of town, are a Domino's Pizza, a Subway, a KFC and a McDonalds, among others I can't recall.

And last night I read a review in Brazil's largest news magazine, Veja, of a Pizza Hut in Rio. And it wasn't just a review, it featured a "call out" with a giant photo of a nasty, grotesque Pizza Hut pizza, which seems identical to the billion pizzas they serve every year in the US. Gross, some of the worst pizza I've ever had (long story as to why I ever tried it...). The review praised PH's wonderful pizzas, the crusts, the toppings, everything. Not once did they even mention the ridiculous prices for such imported tastelessness: how about THIRTY DOLLARS for a large supreme????!!!!! You have to be kidding???!!! Now, I don't know if PH coupons Rio like they do at home where anyone paying "rack rates" for PH pizza is an idiot, when, with a coupon you can get a pizza for about half or even one-third the MSRP. Nope, I doubt they offer such enticements here. Sadly, Cariocas have been duped again by American crap. They happily pay astronomical prices for some of the world's worst pizza, just because it is branded with a "famous" name from Gringolandia. On an online food forum, I saw a reader's comment about this very PH in Rio which proclaimed that the PH pie was "the most spectacular pizza I've ever eaten."

Pelo amor de deus!!!!

Are you kidding? The most spectacular pizza? Now, what makes this idolization of America's contribution to the growing heap of the world's worst food is that Brazil actually has some fantastic pizza. Admittedly, the pizza in São Paulo is far better than in Rio, but still, Rio has some pretty decent pizza, and it's found all over the city. To simply discard this native pizza for something clearly inferior just because it comes from the USA is sad, ignorant and doesn't bode well for the traditional cuisine, including pizza, of this great city.

On that same web-based food forum, I read a discussion of another import, Outback Steakhouse, which is taking Brazil by storm. What is funny is that they think the food is Australian! Ignoring the fact that Outback is an American fantasyland theme restaurant chain based in Tampa, Florida!!!! Is their proximity to DisneyWorld just a coincidence? I think not! Again, the absurdity is that Rio is generously peppered with home-grown restaurants which feature damn good steaks and other cuts of beef, pork, etc. I guess their weakness is not having a "bloomin' onion" on their traditional menus. Ahh, Australian food at it's peak!!!!

This obsession with things Gringo extends to just about every aspect of life here. And it ain't good. I saw a t-shirt worn by a twenty-something female last Saturday night which said on the front, something like:

"My project of Friday

is finished.

Now I'm ready for the good

fuck."

On the back was printed a gigantic ladybug, outlined in glitter! Very girly. Totally ridiculous. I couldn't figure out who this shirt was marketed to. The ladybug eliminated the grunge crowd. The language on the front threw out the kids' market. So, do buyers just not know what the front says? Do they think it's funny? What is this????

The inventory of other such silly-gismic shirts is seemingly infinite. As I see others, I'll report back. Yeah, I know we have incorrectly used Italian, French, etc printed on t-shirts in the USA. I've seen a few. And if I see the Italian plural of sandwich, "panini", used in the singular on a menu again, instead of the correct form for ONE sandwich, "panino", I may go postal. But I am pretty certain that, on the whole, Americans are not obsessed with Italy, France, or even Brazil, the way Brazilians pine over, and adopt the very worst of American cultural expression. Though we do a pretty good job of screwing up things when we do borrow....

Now, just to make my perspective clear: Americans are far more advanced in discarding the authentic expressions of their culture in favor of the paper-cutout versions of cuisine, music, film, clothing—for example—and being led by the nose by multinational corporations’ propaganda and brain washing. So most restaurants get prepackaged everything from the likes of Sysco instead of buying potatoes and peeling them in-house for mashed, fries or whatever. Even guacamole comes in a can for restaurants! This is true even in many, perhaps MOST mom+pop cafes and restaurants. One day at the legendary, but very basic, small town BBQ joint Mueller's in Taylor, Texas, where they still make the sausage themselves, I saw a delivery guy drop off bags of precut coleslaw mix. That certainly burst a bubble or two. America, you should be proud of your advancement to a world of totally processed and prepackaged cuisine! Congratulations. You are now exporting your great evolutionary wisdom to the rest of the world.

Now that I've pissed off all the Brazilians (and many Americans too), I'm gonna close. Will have another post soon lauding one of Brazil's best forms of cultural expression: SAMBA!!!

Deja Vu In Rio de Janeiro

2010-10-03T08:30:00.000-07:00

Weird how things work sometimes. I swear this was not intentional, but I am back in Rio exactly one year to the day after my last visit. Even more weird: I am experiencing some of the exact same things, more or less, that I experienced last year on this trip. Or that trip. THIS is this trip. But it is already seeming like THAT trip. What a trip! More on this soon. (For a peek at why I am in Brazil, and what it means to me, see my first post from THAT other trip: http://sambamaster.blogspot.com/2009/10/portland-to-rio.html )

I left Portland on Thursday morning, and, until I reached Miami, everything went surprisingly well. All my flights were on time, even a few minutes early. Even the Portland mass transit trip to the airport was on time for a change. But when I reached Miami and saw that my 11:30pm flight to Rio would leave at 12:30am, I was a bit disheartened. But an hour late isn't terrible, so I went to the john, did my thing, then rechecked the airport monitor to see if, perhaps, my flight had been rescheduled to be a bit earlier than midnight and a half.

Fuck. No! I can't believe this.

The monitor thumbed its nose at me: 2 AM!!!!!!

Two in the morning! The flight was now going to be two and a half hours late. Fuck! again.

So I decided to get some beer to calm my shattering nerves, and to find something decent to eat...it was almost 11pm.

(At this point in writing this entry, my internet connection went down. Actually, I had already written several more paragraphs...and now, I can't remember what they said, and you are already bored reading this so far...so.... I'm picking this up the next day to finish it and post it.)

Let's say I found a lousy burger....and two Sam Adams Lagers. And, then????!!!! What? Again? Now the flight was scheduled to leave at 2:30. Hey what's another 30 minutes at 3am, when you are already nearly three hours late? At least they didn't cancel the flight!

We actually left the ground at 3:30AM!!! An hour sitting in the plane after pushing back from the gate. Waiting for clearance to leave an absolutely dead airport. What was that about?

Escaped the Rio airport, which is named after Antonio Carlos Jobim, one of the "founders" of bossa nova, and composer of many of your favorite elevator tunes. My pal Celso, aka Celsinho do Pandeiro, had been waiting there since 10:30...I'd tried to warn him with several emails from the Miami airport, but he didn't really pay attention to them.

Since it was so late, we skipped my traditional "arrival in Rio" lunch at Cafe Lamas because Celso (and I) were due at the broadcast studios of Rio's Radio Nacional for a live broadcast of which, he is the assistant producer.

The weekly live broadcast features the BEST choro group on the planet, Conjunto Época de Ouro, and Celso's pop and brother are in the group. For lovers of virtuoso guitar and other string instrument playing, these guys should be on your very short list.

Here is a quote from my posting in early October of last year in this blog:

Oh, the group: the very hallowed Conjunto Epoca de Ouro, the absolute best choro group

Jacob do Bandolim
in Brazil, i.e., the universe. They are celebrating 45 years of performing, even though only one original member is still playing. The group was formed by the legendary Jacob do Bandolim, Brazil's greatest-ever mandolin player whose career covered the 1940s through the late '60s. His field, called choro, is a fantastic, complex music which began sort of parallel to ragtime in the USA and some of the early piano recording even sound a bit like ragtime if you squint your ears while listening. Though it nearly disappeared after Jacob's death, his group, Epoca de Ouro, reformed somewhere around 1973 or so and, thanks to some exposure via some concerts with samba great Paulinho da Viola (whose dad, Cesar Faria was a founding member of EDO, as well as guitarist with Paulinho...the family ties here are gonna get confusing because two other founding members were the brothers of the last surviving member, Jorginho do Pandeiro who joined later, and Jorginho's son Jorge Filho is also a member of the group...Celso is also Jorginho's son....it gets even more complex, but we'll save that for another day...)

(For that entire post, see here! )

Epoca de Ouro Rehearsal

Anyway, we arrived in time, about 3pm, to witness a last minute rehearsal and sound check. I just love hearing these guys, and I must tell you that being able to know these folks, and to be able to hang out with them as I do makes me one of the luckiest humans alive. This is no exaggeration. The guys discussed adding some tunes to the show, argued about who gets to suggest songs for their repertoire, and then, MAGIC! They took the stage in front of the small studio audience, and began to play. For two hours they displayed their art as listeners called in comments and requests. A live announcer stitched all this together, engaging each of the musicians between songs in banter about the music and their connections to it. Fascinating stuff.

Celso, Jorge Filho and Jorginho do Pandeiro

We don't have anything like this on radio in the USA these days, a weekly show with the same group playing through an endless list of fantastic tunes. I was impressed by the number of calls they received, and the largely well-informed nature of the calls. They even received one from a former member of the group, the mandolin player who first took over Jacob do Bandolim's place in the band, Deo Rian. Nice. Anyway, this program is a throwback to the way radio used to be: all totally live, no recordings. And this very studio at Radio Nacional is where some of Brasil's greatest musicians used to entertain and promote their careers, people like Pixinguinha, Carmen Miranda, Lupicinio Rodrigues, Jacob do Bandolim, Luiz Gonzaga and just about anyone worth hearing from the mid-1930s through the 1950s. Amazing history, and the walls here could really tell some interesting stories, and play some of the best music ever made anywhere in the world. Damn! I am so lucky!

Ronaldo do Bandolim (Mandolin)

Toni Sete Cordas (Seven String Guitar Toni)

Antonio Rocha

I video taped (tape? what's that? actually, video chipped in this case...on a tiny chip the size of a quarter) about an hour's worth of the two hour show. I will eventually edit these selections into a cohesive short film (film?), but for now, how about one song? This is Cochichando (Whispering, or, Buzzing), a classic choro composed by the greatest choro master of all time, Pixinguinha. By the way, this was a request phoned in by a listener, so they were not really prepared to play it, so watch how masterfully they handle this great piece of music! WATCH THIS THING!

Nice, huh? Did you watch the video???

So we packed up the gear and headed to a place that used to be a favorite in Rio, the historic Cafe Lamas which first opened for business in 1874 or thereabouts. I've been a fan since my first visit in 1980 when a bohemian journalist friend, Aristélio Andrade introduced me to it. Lamas was a hangout of artists, bohemians and journalists...like Aristélio for decades and I just loved the ambience...so what does that make me???

Unfortunately, Lamas hasn't maintained the quality of their food, while the prices have absolutely skyrocketed. Celso, Jorge Filho, Jorginho do Pandeiro and I all were shocked by the prices. But we stayed, had some great conversation, some okay food, and decided never to return....Lamas served me well for thirty years, but I will now have to find another temple to those golden years of bohemian life in Rio de Janeiro. Any suggestions?

Twelve Inches of Pure Pleasure!

2010-09-20T21:28:00.000-07:00

Originally I was writing in this blog only when I was traveling, assuming no one would care about any of my day-to-day thoughts. But since no one is reading it even when I'm on the road, what difference does it make? So I'll write for my own bemusement.

Here we go.

The other night I was listening to records, yes, the black vinyl ones, on my marvelous audio system. It was late, midnight, at least, and I was groovin' to Stravinsky's The Rite of Spring...several versions of that monumental work, in fact.

And as I put on what was the very first recording of that masterpiece that I had purchased, way back in early 1970, I had some fantastic flashbacks, well, vivid memories, surrounded by ponderings and deep (!) thoughts. I bought that record, a three-disc set in fact, in Houston at the very beginning of my 10-year career in retail record stores...while still in high school. The box was a collection of Stravinsky's three most famous ballets: The Firebird, Petrushka and The Rite of Spring, all conducted by Stravinsky himself. I remember that buying this set was a very big deal...THREE LPs! I think it retailed for about $14.99 and since I got the employee discount, it probably only set me back about ten bucks. But since I was making just $1.65 an hour, that constituted a full night of work—in those days I worked nights and Saturdays, twenty hours a week.

I remember listening to the records over and over, but with far more concentration on The Rite of Spring, because, honestly, it is a far better piece of music in my opinion—somehow I knew that even then. It is wild, crazy music that caused a small riot when it debuted in Paris in the early twentieth century. This fact, and of course, the music itself, really struck a chord with my young, rebellious soul. And, just like last week, I remember listening mostly late at night, after finishing my homework, an usually with the lights off. This was really moving stuff from the still-young Russian genius!

But I also recall listening with the lights on, reading over and over, the little booklet describing each of the works, largely in Stravinsky's own words. I did the exact same thing the other night. And as I did so, I was reminded again of a time long gone, when we all listened more seriously, or at least more intently, usually reading the album jacket repeatedly as the disc played for the third or fourth time, just home from the store, and fresh out of the shrink wrap. The twelve and a half-inch format of LP artwork just makes doing that more, well, doable, and so much more fun than squinting at the minuscule type on CD booklets. It just ain't the same. No way, no how.

I'm so happy that I was together enough as a kid to buy that Stravinsky box way back when, and that I played it only on good equipment...the discs are still in pretty much mint condition, more than forty years after the fact. Mint. Like minty.

And from that erupts a bit of musing about time.

I recall, when I was really getting into music and records, say about 1965, 1966, when my pop finally got his mom to let me explore the old Victrola in her house. In a little cubby behind one of its doors was a small collection of 78rpm discs, most of which belonged to my dad. I don't remember much about the titles, other than some bird call recordings, but they were pretty scratchy and a bit of a challenge to listen to on that machine. He explained that the records had been played with cactus needles during WWII because there was a shortage of steel to make the standard metal, but disposable needles. As a result, those discs had seem some wear and tear. My Grandmother promised that Victrola to me since my pop was its principal user and since she knew about my budding passion for music, but when she passed away, my aunt who lived with her and who was a bit confused about her mom's true wishes, granted it to one of my cousins. My mother told me to keep my mouth shut, which I have done since 1983........until NOW!!! The secret is out. That's my Victrola, Cousin Jimmy!

A Victrola Like My Grandmother's

But.

At that point—1966, let's say—these records and this Victrola were only about 30 years old! But to me, they seemed very much like pre-historic antiques! Delicate, kind of crappy sound, they seemed very, very old and out of date. But compared to today's memories of my Stravinsky box, not to mention my even older Beatles and Byrds records, they were still young! Now this strange perspective of time is very wild! Not only are my records older, in relative terms, but it seems like thanks to somewhat better technology over all, the music and the sound of these mid-60s classics hold up after all this time, yes, even the Beatles and Byrds and Spencer Davis Group LPs. Back in 1966, those Maurice Chevalier 78s, or whatever else my dad had around from the '30s, sounded extremely dated, not just to me, I'm sure, but they surely even sounded odd to my dad, as familiar as the recordings were to him.

So what is that all about? Is time stretching? Is music getting better? Wait, I know THAT ain't true! It only gets worse year by year. So I guess time stretches somehow. Is it as we get older? Is it tied to climate change? Is everyone experiencing this, or is it just me?

Help! Someone tell me!

Ok, here's the finale, or, at least, you will be grateful, the cessation of this babbling. The first thing I did after getting my first record store job in January of my senior year in high school, 1970, was to drag the old man down to the local stereo shop so I could finally get the really good system I'd dreamed about for years! Until then I had been using 99-buck cheapo boxes from Sears, Penny's, wherever. But we went to Home Entertainment, a shop on Kirby, not terribly far from our house and convinced him to co-sign on an installment note for a six-hundred dollar audio rig. By today's standards it would sound pretty bad, but to me, the Sansui receiver, the house-brand speakers and, above all, the classic AR turntable with its Shure M44 cartridge (fuck, how do I remember all that?) sounded like heaven in my bedroom.

The Original AR Turntable, A Classic!

Yes, somehow I knew that the manually operated AR turntable with nothing more than an on-and-off switch, was a far better choice than the snazzier automatic Duals and Garrards so popular back in the day--and, it cost much less to boot! It is still a classic design, so simple, yet so elegant. People are always looking for them on eBay, so those AR guys must have been doing something right. It was all of eighty-nine bucks, new, in 1970.

Today, I am listening to much better audio equipment. But is no more complicated than that AR 'table. Less so, at least for my turntable which doesn't even have an on-and-off switch! It is a boutique-made Nottingham turntable from England designed by Tom Fletcher, a dixieland jazz player in England, probably in Nottingham! Ok, the tonearm is more complicated than the AR's, but not by much, and mostly in its ability to be a bit more finely tuned. But, still nothing automatic about it. It's a motor, a platter that spins on a bearing ( a finely engineered bearing though) and a nicely adjustable tonearm. I like the idea that the designer has a name, that he owned the company when I got the table (Tom got sick soon after I got mine and then sold the company), and that Mr. Fletcher himself insisted that his USA importer send me a sample table for review in JazzTimes in 2006. He never did that for other reviewers, but he said to his US reps, "This guy gets it. He knows it's about music, and he understands music." Or something to that effect. I was flattered. So I eventually had to buy the damn turntable because it totally changed my listening habits. No more CDs, LPs only. I'm on my second Nottingham now, the first was fantastic, and more than adequat, but I decided to move up the line a tad to get even better sound.

Here's the Nottingham 294 Ace Space turntable I now own:

Nottingham 294 Ace Space Turnatable

The very first minute I cranked up that first Nottingham I was astonished with the realism of the sound, and I was instantly re-converted to the glories of LP sound. I rarely listen to CDs anymore. They don't sound so perfect after hearing the Nottingham. In fact, though I can still hear the music through the digital crud, they don't sound MUSICAL. Not like vinyl, and I have a $2500 CD player, not some circuit-city-sony-panasonic miracle box. LPs simply do sound better. Come over and I'll prove it. You WILL believe your ears! It's pretty cool!

Now, replacing that Sansui receiver and several other amps and preamps along the way, I now am the proud owner of a pair of handmade Shindo Corton-Charlamagne EL34 mono block amplifiers from Japan. As well, I have Mr. Shindo's Monbrison preamplifier which feeds the signal to the amps, which, in turn feed the music to my also handmade DeVore Fidelity Nine speakers which are made by my buddy John DeVore in his Brooklyn Navy Yard shop. Again, it's very satisfying knowing that my audio gear was thought up and made by individuals folks with whom I have some connection, and not some marketing committee in some tedious multinational electronics corporation. You know the ones, you own them, look at your television!

The Shindo Corton-Charlamagne EL34 Mono Block Amplifiers

My Shindo gear did not come off the rack in some warehouse, but instead, was built by Mr. Shindo and his son after I told the USA importer, Jonathan Halpern of Tone Imports, that I was craving some additional Shindo magic. A few weeks after I sent that monkey-on-my-back email, some boxes arrived on my front porch, directly from Mr. Shindo's enchanted cottage in Japan.

Did I mention that there are no transistors in Shindo's gear? No? Well, there is not a single one. Zip. Instead, he relies on the superior sound and musicality of old-fashioned vacuum tubes to cast his magical spells. Like the Nottingham, the designs are simple and time-proven. And they sound fucking amazing. Come over and I'll prove it to you! ( I really will!)

DeVore Fidelity Nines

John DeVore of DeVore Fidelity makes some of the very best loudspeakers in the USA, well, the world. No question. And they are not exorbitantly priced, but neither are they cheap. But for the money, they present such musical value that I can say that they possess few, if any, equals anywhere. No kidding. Again, simplicity. A box and three drivers...perfectly sized, positioned and implemented, all in a pretty little cherrywood box. John! I love you! Thanks for the endless hours of musical pleasure, you are a genius...just like Ken and Tom. How could I live without you three guys? You've made my life so much happier, so much better. It's just too bad not everyone gets to hear music the way I do.

But you could get close. Throw away the CDs. Get back to LPs. I promise you'll get so much closer to the performance of every disc you play.

(After I wrote this, I realized I forgot to mention that the record/music industry has, with each step forward in technology, made a giant stride away from the real, startling, hair-raising sound of the music, of the performance and of the performer. Thanks to Jonathan Halpern and John DeVore, I learned last year that those funky, old scratchy 78s, when played on decent equipment, trump the sound of even the best LPs. THAT was friggin' amazing.

And it's pretty well agreed that CDs do not capture the true essence of music the way LPs can. MP3s? Well, let's just say, sonically, they suck even more. Why are people satisfied with these decreases in quality of musical reproduction? Why do people like McDonald's? Ease and convenience, that's what I think.

For more on this idea of the sound of music getting worse with each "improvement" in technology, see this piece I penned for JazzTimes magazine a few years back: http://jazztimes.com/articles/17061-deep-listening.

Save your iPod for the gym, but leave it in your car when you get home. You won't be sorry if you have LPs spinning in YOUR livingroom...

Oh, here is my system in context. Pardon the mess!!!

The Audio System of Mike Quinn in Portland

Rio de Janeiro: Cuidado!!! I am coming back soon!

2010-09-16T23:58:00.000-07:00

Just bought my ticket to head back to Rio. Will again get chances to hear live shows by Epoca de Ouro and Paulinho da Viola. And will work hard to get the recording we produced in 2001 of Epoca de Ouro, the last to feature Dino Sete Cordas and César Faria, released independently in Brasil and/or the USA.

Looking forward to great food, great music and great amizade (friendships).

Funny thing: I was just talking about this yesterday. The worst coffee I've had in a very long time was on my trip to Rio last year! Brazil!!! What has happened to your coffee?????

Ok. More on this soon...

In the meantime, here is the Japanese cover of the CD in question. It has apparently sold pretty well, but we have gotten no figures...the music biz in Japan is a shady as in any other country.

Conjunto Epoca de Ouro, recorded Aug 2001, released, finally, April 2010!

The Fabled 4-Day Chinese Food Orgy in Richmond and Vancouver, British Columbia

2010-09-13T20:05:00.000-07:00

Just spent a long weekend in the Greater Vancouver area indulging in some of the great Chinese y'all have to offer. It was pretty overwhelming, and we could have used an extra week...just to skim the surface. There is just way to much to explore, and 4 days are just not enough.

My old high school bud Jim Scheppke was driving his son Daniel back to his third year at the University of British Columbia and invited me to go along for the ride...and for the food. I was not sure I wanted to invest the long drive for only a few days of eating, but finally said I would join in on the fun. So on a Wednesday afternoon, we all piled in to Jim's loaded-down-with-college-kid-supplies Honda Fit (not a very large car) and off we went. We spent the night in Seattle (actually Des Moines) at Jim's mother's house...I've known these folks since I was 15, and I always considered Dorothy to be about the best of my friends' moms, and she's still very spry, and very, very involved in Democratic politics.

Early on Thursday, we were off for Vancouver, Jim drove, I played DJ and Daniel slept and listened to his iPod in the backseat. As soon as we arrived, we started eating, and we didn't stop until Sunday afternoon with one quick dip into the lamb kebabs of the Xi'an Cuisine food stall of the Richmond Public Market. By then, I was ready to avoid Chinese food for a long time! Yeah, we had burgers in the other Vancouver, just north of Portland, Sunday night. Nice change of pace.

So, what did we eat? Won't get into deep details on any particular meals, but here are some highlights. We hit, among others, the following: Richmond Public Market (Xi'an Cuisine, Xin Jiang Delicious Food), Crystal Mall (Northern Meixi Fast Food, Wang's Shanghai Cuisine and Want Want Hot & Spicy House), Nine Dishes, Bushuair (Hunan) "O'Tray Noodles, Chuan Xiang Ge (Sichuan).

We agreed that the best overall meal was the mostly Hunan stuff we had at Bushuair Restaurant, though negotiating that weird menu is truly a challenge for those who do not speak or read Chinese. But we did ok and really enjoyed the smoked pork belly dish, some great pickled long beans with pork, the Mao's Favorite braised pork belly and a great rendition of the Sichuan chicken dish variously called ChongQing or 1000-chile Chicken. The prickly ash/sichuan peppercorns they used were the most pungent numbing examples I've ever had (and the next night, we had the same peppercorns at Nine Dishes...they are covered with little white spots, unlike any I've seen before...anyone have any idea where to get those? If at Nine Dishes sent us to Rice World, but I don't think we found those specific buds...though they were included in an impulse-buy bag of spicy peanuts, obviously from Sichuan, I picked up at the cash register...help!!!).

Had the Jian Bing at O'Tray Noodles, President Plaza, and that was nice, but actually, one of the highlights of the whole trip was the bowl of "tofu pudding" I got to fill out my breakfast menu. It was savory, deeply flavored, complex and just plain yummy. Not totally sure what was in it, but chile oil and sesame oil or paste seemed to be part of the mix. So simple, yet so complex! Get this!!!

Xi'an Cuisine was nice, but, honestly, and I can say this generally speaking about most of what we had on this trip, that there were few WOW!!! moments of transcendent food. In NYC/Flushing, I have many of these "Holy Crap! I want more of that" sort of experiences...the now famous Xi'an place in Flushing is a good example: his cold noodle dish is far more interesting, more flavorful, more satisfying to the palate, and he includes some house-made gluten cubes in the mix. And his lamb and pork burgers are better than any we had on this trip, except maybe the lamb version at Want Want Hot & Spicy House at the Crystal Mall...those were superb, the bread was absolutely fresh, the lamb perfectly cooked and seasoned. The Sichuan stalls and restaurants in Flushing (NY) seem to offer more vibrant flavors and renditions of all the stuff sampled on this pig-out. These are just my opinions and I don't want to imply that the food in Vancouver was not amazing...it was. And the variety is astonishing. Just not enough wow-factor to my tastebuds.

Nine Dishes was a great experience. The food is ok, but it was fun just soaking up the scene there, and the charisma of the Big Boss Man, Mr. If. Very cool. the Sichuan sausage was fantastic, the water boiled fish was good, but was lacking any broth (water) and seemed to be 99% oil in which the fish and chiles were floating...still good though! And you can't beat his $2 beers!

I would like to go back to Chuan Xiang Ge and sample more of their menu, the food was very good, but 3-4 dishes are not enough to get the total picture. Would also like to try other Sichuan-centric restaurants since that cuisine appeals to me, a displaced Texan, the most. The cold chicken with chile garlic sauce appetizer was my personal favorite here.

Went to several markets and grocery stores: Rice World, T&T, Big Crazy and an Indian place somewhere in east Richmond....all yielded some great finds. Vancouver folks are lucky to have such wonderful places to shop nearby. In Portland, Oregon where I currently reside, most markets are owned by SE Asians, and the selections are light on hard-core Chinese, especially Sichuan, ingredients. I now need more of those peanuts, so will have to drive back up just to get those!

I'm including a link to a little video tribute I shot during the trip. For the best resolution, change the 360p setting on the progress bar to 480p....

I'd like to thank my online Vancouver food gurus for their great tips, reviews and comments: Dylan, fmed and Ben (and his ChowTimes site); they lead us to all of these great places. Can't imagine covering so much ground without their guidance....how did we do this in pre-Internet days???

Vancouver, I'll be back soon! Save some food for me!

A rather amusing, but XXX-rated Chinese menu

2010-09-12T22:30:00.000-07:00

I found this a few years ago and have decided to share after a 4-day orgy of Chinese food in Vancouver and Richmond, British Columbia where I saw a fair version of hilarious mis-translations....one of which follows this jewel! (Click to see a readable version of these.)

A bit more from Couso Autumn fest in Galicia

2009-12-17T22:46:00.000-08:00

Yeah, I know I said I'd post more about food in Italy, maybe Spain, I still owe some stuff from Brazil!

But this is easy.

Another video from the amazing Festa Outono--Autumn Fest--in Couso, south of Santiago in Galicia, Spain.

This is another of the pandeiretera groups, this time mostly male, which is interesting since I had thought this genre of music was mostly performed by women. This was filmed at 4am, and I'd been holding the camera sideways to get a better angle on this group sitting down. Oh, and after 15 beers, maybe I didn't know the difference???

So, enjoy this music. The more I've heard this stuff, the more I love it....

There is more to come, in the meantime...

2009-12-09T16:33:00.000-08:00

I've got more to say about food in Florence, Rome and NYC. Since I've been home for two weeks, I've just not had the steam to get back to this. But I'm inspired (by what I have no idea) and will get these things on paper in the next day or two.

In the meantime, I've got a couple of videos of city life. Make that three videos.

First is from the Campo de' Fiori in Rome. I was wandering around late one afternoon when I saw a woman pull out a concertina and a couple of marionettes. Soon, some tasty folk dance music was coming from her corner and I pulled out the camera...I was 50 feet away, didn't want to seem too obvious in my filming, so there are lots of Roman butts interfering with the image of this fascinating street musician. Enjoy the music and figure out how she made the puppets dance!

The very next day after shooting the puppet lady I was in NYC. The day after I was in the new Chinatown in NYC which is in Flushing, out in Queens. The food is amazing, the energy contagious. It feels like China, though I don't know that from first-hand experience. I have been before, and the Picasa photo pages have lots more photos of food, and a future post will outline this in detail. Here's a short clip with a couple of funny images I stumbled upon. I missed most of the peanut vendor's singing, but he was one of the more popular figures on the street....

Watch:

And one more. This is still in Queens, under the 7 Train at the Woodside stop. We (Michael Irwin, Scott Isler, Laura Picone) had just eaten at an amazing Thai restaurant a few blocks away. More on that soon. Yummmm. Just thinking about their food makes me hungry, and I just finished dinner!!!! This is just a bit more NYC atmosphere.

Galicia: Stay Away From Last Week's Pulpo

2009-11-25T10:17:00.000-08:00

(Don't forget, there are lots more photos posted here: http://picasaweb.google.com/miguelquinn )

On the final leg of this journey, in a plane heading to Dallas (!), on the return to Portland. Not sure why American routes NY-PDX trips this way, I know they could go through Chicago, but, it is what it is.

I had hoped to do more regular posts, if not every day, then every other. But that was not meant to be. Seemed like there were very few free moments--exploring Santiago, Florence, Rome, visiting with Carlos, Cosimo, Rebecca (and Lidia and Allen in Rome for a couple of lunches) and just being in these wonderful places, there just wasn't enough time. In Santiago, Carlos and I rarely got to sleep before 1 or 2am--it was 5 or later after the Festa in Couso--and I have been literally exhausted most of this trip. Then I came down with an awful cold in Florence which hung out for at least a week or more and that stole whatever extra energy I might have had for writing. I'll try to fill in some gaps over the next few days. Crap, I still have some things from Rio to scribble down.

Ok, the food in Galicia was pretty awful which is pretty funny considering it was food that was one of the primary reasons Carlos and I decided to go there (see the first post on Galicia in the archive). Galcia is Spain's seafood horn of plenty.

When you look at the coastline in the satellite photos on Google Maps, you see row after row of something in every cove and inlet.

Zoom in and you'll see that they are clusters of shellfish "farms" where mussels and other such creatures are cultivated…there are thousands of these floating platforms up and down the coast.

Walk around Santiago's old town and you will see the product of them in every restaurant window, along with octopus, lobsters, crabs, barnacles (called percebes), and all sorts of fish.

Oh, there are also whole beef loins, and other hugh cuts of meat in these refrigerated window displays. Kinda makes you wonder how fresh your food is in any of these since most of the restaurants seemed to be largely empty most of the time. How long has that fish been in that window, señor?

We tried 10 or 15 different restaurants over our week in Santiago, and with the exception of two, all were disappointing and went on the "Don't Go Back" list. We did find a couple of more informal "tapas" places we wandered into more than a couple of times, partly for the food, for me, largely for the beer or wine, and especially, just to soak up some of the local customs and ambience.

Galicia was, and maybe still is, a very impoverished region of Spain. The food still reflects this rather spartan approach to nourishment: lots of boiled potatoes, cabbage, cauliflower, kale, turnip greens, called grelos, and so on. Salt must have been too expensive in the old days, and it doesn't occur much in comida galega. This is one of the reasons why so many dishes tasted so flat. One night I ordered a plate of steamed mussels, and that is exactly what I got: steamed mussels…no salt, no seasoning of any kind, no oil, no garlic….N-A-D-A. Had they been seasoned in the least, they would have been spectacular since I'm sure they were very fresh. But for me, they were blah. I managed to score a bit of salt and used that some, but even that didn't wake them up much. My steamed mussels at home, even made with bivalves bought at Safeway are a million times tastier….

One dish we had several times that is a typical Galician starter was caldo galego, or Galician soup which is a meat broth laced with chopped grelos, chunks of potato and sometimes a bit of sausage. Usually, this dish too benefited from a dash or three of salt. Can't remember which, but one version used a broth that must have been ham or bacon based, and it was quite tasty.

Another ubiquitous offering in Santiago is the empanada, but don't think of little turnovers as we are used to from Argentina, but rather, think of a very thin pie, filled with some type of savory filling, no more than a quarter of an inch thick with the entire pie perhaps an inch to an inch and a half, and sometimes delightfully golden brown.

One morning I saw these being delivered to restaurants from a pushcart loaded with trays of empanadas. Carlos ordered one of thesa at a favorite bar called the Gato Negro and he found it delicious; I think the filling was chicken. On our next visit to this humble place which seemed to only attract locals and was, interestingly, maybe the only non-smoking place we entered in all of Galicia, Carlos ordered another slice of empanada. But, surprise! This time the filling was not chicken, not tuna, but instead, the nasty, ever-present pulpo, or octopus! It was amusing to see him pick out the tiny tentacles, and then nibble on the pastry. Yuk, I would have never have eaten even just the pastry, contaminated as it was with tentacle juice and stray sucker molecules! Brave man.

Our first night in town we stopped into one of at least 30 restaurants along the main drag leading from the cathedral, Rua Franco. This place, Taberna do Bispo was mentioned in some of the reading I'd done on Santiago, so we wanted to sample some of their very appealing tapas displayed across the bar. We picked four or five items and drank a couple glasses of wine.

The food was decent, not amazing. But it was fun to choose from the great variety on offer. The routine seems to choose a few tapas, drink a glass of wine, then head to the next bar on the list. We did this a few nights during our week.

The Gato Negro was a regular stop, as was a more student-oriented place, off the tourist trail, called the Cabalo Branco, one of our other favorites run by an older guy and his son, who was in his late forties, at least. The cool thing about this place was that, anyone ordering a drink was presented with a plate of free munchies which varied from night to night. We had bread and cheese, croquettes, a bit of emapnada, and so on, all pretty good.

Draft beer was amazingly present throughout Santiago, and I'm not sure if that is because it's a university town, or just something common to the area, which, by the way, produces some decent wines, especially whites like Albariño and Ribeiro. I liked 'em both, but I ended up drinking more beer, at least on our bar hops.

The local beer is call Estrella Galicia and is pretty quaffable, a light pilsner-style beer. In the bars, one orders a caña, and I had plenty! The Estrela folks provided bars selling their products with a variety of tap styles. Here are a couple.

The one actual restaurant we returned to twice was Casa Manolo, and, unfortunately, we only found it toward the end of the trip. It is apparently a fairly new place with a very contemporary interior.

The other tradition they broke was providing food that actually had flavor! We had a great bowls of lentil soup, caldo galego, a nice plate of fried chicken, a pork milanesa (think chicken fried steak) and on the last visit, some delicious roasted pork ribs that we missed on our first visit. And the funny thing was, this was the cheapest place we ate at: only eight Euros (about twelve bucks) for a full lunch including soup, meat, dessert and a glass of wine.

Very nice. In Europe these days, that is a real bargain. Our mighty dollar ain't so mighty anymore, but rather, the US is more like a third-world country. Thanks to Bush and his insane war mongering. Idiot.

Santiago is a wonderful little town (about 130,000, with 35,000 students), very special, and, yes, magical. I can recommend a visit to anyone interested in exploring a quaint, well-preserved Spanish town with a fascinating history, and very special music. However, pack a lunch, or stick with tapas. Unless you consider pulpo and boiled potatoes gourmet dining, you won't be impressed with the chow.

More Couso Autumn Fest: Bring on the Pipers!

2009-11-22T16:24:00.000-08:00

This is more video from the amazing Couso Festa de Outono on 7 Nov, 2009. This video features three of the gaita (bagpipe) based groups we saw.

There were at least two others, maybe more. I spent most of the time inside the pig-smoky room watching the tambourine groups (pandeiretera groups) because1) I like that music a lot; and, 2) It was closer to the beer supply!

Carlos was outside most of the time. Considering how much he likes percussion, this was interesting. So there must have been some other motivation for that (other than, for many new to this music, the pandeiretera stuff can get monotonous)????? Oh, and the fact that Carlos doesn't like beer!!!!

The pipes, of course, came with the Celtic settlers who arrived a few hundred years BC and were a huge force there for hundreds of years.

Interestingly, in the past 15 years or so, even the Irish group the Chieftains have gone to Santiago to record with some of the major artists there including the leading gaita player, Carlos Nuñez.

Check it out:

Italians (Spaniards, etc) Are Afraid of the Draft

2009-11-22T10:06:00.000-08:00

One thing that truly mystifies me is why many cultures, Italian, Spanish, Brazilian, are so darn afraid of fresh air, at least in "winter". I put that word in quotes because, as I leave Italy--I'm writing this on my flight from Rome to NYC--it's mid-autumn, and the weather has been mostly fantastic. IT HAS NOT BEEN COLD. Highs have been in the upper 60s or low 70s in Rome the last few days, yet, most natives have been bundled up in heavy coats, gloves, hats and sweaters as if a major blizzard were approaching. Plus, I did not enter a single building, be it restaurant, shop, my hotel, cafe, in which the was not blasting hot air, creating tropical conditions more than suitable for raising prize orchids.

Seems like, even though it isn't cold, isn't winter, folks have an automatic "now it's winter" date, maybe November First, after which, even if it's in the sultry seventies, ya just gotta wear your winter duds, crank up the heat, and roast some chestnuts on an open fire. This chestnut thing is not poetic fantasy. Walk around Rome or Florence this time of year and you'll find guys roasting them in charcoal fired contraptions, and they sell these freshly roasted nasty nuggets on the street. I say nasty because, other than maybe eating liver, which I detest, a chestnut is the most vile thing I've ever put in my mouth.

I tried one one (honestly) chilly night in Florence many years ago. Once. One time. I bit into the nut, and PHEWWWWWW…spit it out immediately onto the pavement. It was really disgusting. I can't recall exactly what it was like, other than it was B-A-D. Never again.

I laughed plenty in the last few days in Italy watching Italians saunter around their wonderful cities, totally wrapped up and ready for Jack Frost to bite them on the ass, suck the blood from their necks, knock them down in the snow. Yeah, those 65 degree cold spells are dangerous!

Forget the concept of fresh air. Ain't gonna happen. Seems like a national law that every enclosed space used for just about any human behavior must be stuffy and warm. Don't want that nasty fresh air to hit you and the face and make you gravely ill.

In 1998, I was on a train from Genoa to Milan where I was gonna meet my brother Cris at the airport so we could spend a week bumming around Italy together--I think it was his only real vacation since he'd gotten married. It was chilly out--mid-November--and I had on a sweater and a jacket. But the train compartment was otherwise full of Italians, likewise bundled up. The window, I believe, was open slightly and I welcomed that bit of cooler, fresh air. No sooner had I registered the fact that the window was open, but some heat-starved, draft-hating Italian got up and closed the window, and, I think, also cranked up the heat! It must have already been 80 in there, but that wasn't good enough. Maybe he was trying to sprout some seeds, pop some corn, bake some lasagne, but he wanted any trace of comfort pushed out definitively. And that was that. I think I stripped off my jacket, pulled off my sweater, took off my shirt, and pulled down my pants to get comfortable. Well, some parts of that surely happened. But comfortable I was not to be. Not until the train pulled into Milano Centrale and I could breath fresh air again. And that blast of cold can be as delicious as a glass of cold coca-cola on a hot Texas afternoon.

Flash forward a bit:
Now, funny thing. I'm back in NYC. Got in yesterday afternoon, it was about 60 degrees out. Sunshine to spare. And everyone on the street was bundled up for winter. And the second I entered the hotel (hotel? I'm staying at a hostel for merchant marines run by the Lutheran church, the Seafarers & International House, by far the creepiest place I've stayed on this trip), ok, the moment I entered the hotel, I felt that now-familiar tropical heatwave slap me in the face! This hotel is hotter than any place I was at in Italy or Spain! The lobby could double as the inside of a bakery oven, and my room, which has no thermostat, is equally steamy. The only salvation is that the windows open in the room and I can moderate the temp in that way.

Maybe my observations of such things in foreign countries is heightened by the fact that I'm in foreign countries. We are not, apparently, so different here. I see the same thing in Portland when it gets down to 60 or 65…the NW weenies can't stand those frigid temps and immediately don their stocking caps, gloves, heavy coats and scarves. And they probably find me odd walking around in a t-shirt.

And they are probably correct....

Thank God There Seems to Be a Vital Folk Scene In Galicia

2009-11-22T09:06:00.000-08:00

Earlier on this current trip, I was invited to attend an astonishing demonstration of what appears to be a very healthy folk scene in Galicia. The Festa de Outono in Couso, a speck on the map a few miles south of Santiago. This was an Autumn Festival of music, food, mushrooms, and more music. Carlos and I hitched a ride with a music fanatic and practitioner, Suso, who is a friend of Montse, the woman from the group Leilía who I met early in the trip at Sala Nasa (see that post in early November).

We arrived about 9pm, and things were just getting underway. There was music already going under one of two tents, and people were beginning to fill the place. A stone building was where most were, getting their food and beer, while an iron stove outside, stoked with coals from a fire on the ground, was in use roasting chestnuts. I didn't want to go inside the building because it was full of smoke, and an attractive young woman approached us offering some of her chestnuts. (I know there is potential dirty humor here, but believe it or not, I'm not going to touch them, I mean, it.) We talked about "stuff" and she was astonished that two Americans were going to stay in Santiago for an entire week, and that we had somehow stumbled into the sort of "insider" event that was this Festa.

While I continued flirting, I mean, conversing with Yolanda, Carlos braved the smoke to get us beer. When he came out, he was pleased to report that the smoke was not from ciggies, but rather, from an open grill burning firewood in order to roast all manner of pig parts and rabbits. I drank the beer. Then I drank his.

Soon the music really cranked up.
And it went on, and was still in full form at 4.30am when we left. I lost count, but there must have been five different bagpipe groups and as many pandeiretera groups (the tambourine playing singing groups as illustrated in the following video). Most of the pandeiretera groups were inside, which is where I spent most of my time, but one, featuring our pal Soso, performed outside. I'll be posting more videos from this event as time goes on.

Carlos and I shared a plate of grilled pork ribs and sausage, no chestnuts, thanks.

And I consumed enough beer for myself, Carlos, and about three others...I lost count at 12 glasses. Hey, we stayed until 4.30, and the glasses were small. Once the bartender comp'ed me a beer...not sure if it was the free one after #10, or if he was just being friendly toward one of only two foreigners in the place.

All the music ignited dancing inside and out, on concrete, grass, parking lot and mud. It was fantastic and reminded us of Greek, Irish and middle-eastern dancing. The music is surely related to the second and third categories.

I'll post dancing as well, and this video includes some of that with the pandeiretera group.

I can't begin to tell you how much fun this festa was and how lucky Carlos and I were to be able to attend. It was the highlight of our visit to this otherwise sleepy part of Spain. Everyone was very welcoming, everyone was extremely animated. It was a very special, magical evening. Why is that these keep occurring for me in Santiago?

More on this festa in future video posts...for now, watch this:

Rub It, Baby, Rub It!!!!

2009-11-19T10:21:00.001-08:00

Right outside my hotel in Florence is the Mercato Nuovo, the new market, which was new about 500 or more years ago. It is now the site of about 30 stalls each day which sell Florentine stuff like leather goods, silks, junk and more leather. Right outside the market loggia is a bronze statue of a cinghiale, or boar made in 1612. But the name is Little Piggy, Il Porcellino. Tradition says if you rub the snout of the piggy and let a coin drop into the fountain below by letting the coin fall from the piglet's mouth, you will get your wish to return to Florence some day. So I've always rubbed the snout. And it's worked so far. This is my 13th or 14th trip to Florence...I've lost count. I'm so worldly! And the Porcellino has a very shiny nose to prove it's appeal to tourists from everywhere.

Oh, my hotel is called the Il Porcellino Guest House or something along those lines.

Anyway, I spent some time watching the action at the Porcellino, and it was constant, until early, early morning. One night I was awakened by some shrill female voices, drunk for sure, and they were out stroking that thang. It was after 4am.

Here is some of the action around midnight last Saturday. Oh, the great sax soundtrack was free that night, and adds great atmosphere:

(on my computer after you press play, you have to press the little sideways triangle in the progress bar as well)

Band On The Run: Gypsies In Florence With a Weevil In Their Meal!

2009-11-19T00:44:00.000-08:00

This is part of a group I've seen a few times in Florence playing in different places, different configurations. I am not sure where they are from, maybe Romania? Anyway, they are great and I wanted to share this. Sorry about the photography...I shot this with my little Canon PowerShot camera from over 100 feet away!!!! Didn't want to be conspicuous!! Overall, not bad, some shaky stuff with Dante at the end!

By the way, they are playing an old Brazilian standard from the 30s called Tico Tico No Fubá--Weevel in the Meal

Don't Touch Me With Your Filthy Lucre

2009-11-18T03:19:00.000-08:00

Can't seem to ever have time to write. I've been in Santiago and Florence accompanied by other folks and now, since yesterday, I'm on my own. So maybe I'll be able to update this more often. I still intend to do some things on Galician folk music (I have lots of fotos and videos), Galician attributes, whatever that means, oh, and a more complete rundown on the food. Then I have to catch up with the same stuff for Florence. So many meals, so little time.

Speaking of which, while in Santiago, I actually lost weight, the food was so mediocre and unappealing, though it seemed like we were eating all the time. Now, in less than a week in Florence, I know I've found all that I'd lost, and maybe a bit more.

Another thing, in my Santiago entries, I ranted on and on about the ubiquitous smoke in every restaurant and cafe we entered. Apparently, in most of Spain, such places are, in fact, smoke-free. But Galicia, declared an autonomous regions years ago, still strives to maintain their freedom and disregards what I was told is a national no-smoking rule, and allows folks there to light up at will. From what we saw, I think maybe the law in Galicia requires people to smoke as often as possible, and in as many places as possible!

No celebrity sitings the last few days, we'll see what happens in Rome! As I write this segment, I'm on a EuroStar train to Rome, the trip takes about and hour and forty-five minutes…fast, really. I'm in second class. On all my previous trips, I'd always gone first class, but the prices are so much higher, and for a two hour trip, this is fine. Don't know what I was thinking before.

While I was in Brazil, I noted that guys there have not adopted the shaved head look. Well, in Italy, that is not the case…lots of ugly shaved heads. What ever fashion god decided this was an appealing look certainly had some right strong powers of persuasion. While not as widespread as at home, there are still plenty of 'em here. I had to stare at one last night during dinner. Yuk.

As in Spain, everyone in Italy, especially the women, dress in black. Black shoes, black tights, black pants, black skirts, black sweaters, black coats, black hair. It's crazy. Carlos says it's more practical for city living, and maybe that's true, but come on! Oh, this has been the style in NYC too for many years, so?

Here's a funny observation on Italian bar/cafe habits, maybe anywhere money is given in payment. On the countertop next to the cash register is a little dish or try. Whenever you pay, you put the money in the tray. When the cashier returns the change, it, likewise, goes into the tray. You will NEVER, EVER have a cashier place the money directly into your hand, no matter how outstretched it may be, no matter how impressively large and close and obvious it may be as a receptacle for money coming your way. Forget it. Ain't gonna happen. Likewise, don't even think of trying to put the coins or bills directly into the hand of the cashier. To him or her, you might as well be handing them a fist full of pus, or anthrax powder. They will recoil, resisting any such attempt.

This very thing happened to me the other morning after drinking one of my two morning coffees. The cup was one Euro and ten cents. I didn't hear the amount in cents at first and, after having already placed the one Euro coin on the counter, was confirming the exact figure in cents. He said, "Dieci." Ten. So I pulled out the correct coin and was about to put it into his hand which was positioned over the cash drawer. He grimaced. He nodded downward, For a second, I thought he wanted me to just drop it into the drawer. And then I got it. He was motioning for me to put it on the counter. "NOT IN MY HAND YOU IDIOT," was I'm sure what was running through his mind. So I did the socially acceptable thing and put the damn coin on the counter. Only then was my ten fucking cents safe for him to handle. I guess the marble of the countertop sucks out the kryptonite or those anthrax pustules. Amazing. I wonder if, having been sanitized in this way, the money is safe to put into your mouth. If so, it's one less thing Italian mothers have to teach their kids.

So instead, they teach them about the importance of always wearing black. And that it's ok to eat raw pork in the form of prosciutto, pancetta, lardo, salsiccia cruda. And that, when you eat in a restaurant, you really should order a first course, like soup or pasta, then a second course of meat or fish. And, especially from grandmothers to young women, how to push to the front of the line as if you were the Queen of Italy, and doing so with such aggressiveness and authority--"Of course I have every right to go to the front! I'm a an old woman with power coming directly from god, the king, the queen, and Michael Jackson!!!"---that no one would possibly contest the action.

Yesterday I wasted an hour trying to save time by purchasing my train ticket over the Internets. It seems like an easy and efficient method and the official train website even has an English language version. But you have to register, and that itself is a pain. Then, once you've selected your train, your seat, etc,, it's time to pay. This is where the edge of the black hole begins. Dante, my man! Did you design, or did your Inferno inspire the designers of this website? I punched in my MasterCard number and all the correct data to back it up, a card I use day in and day out for online purchases from vendors all around the world. I had even just purchased an Italian train ticket a few days earlier from a ticket vending machine in Rome. But still, the card was refused. This in itself should not have been a problem, when it happens on other sites, you simply pull out another card, enter the data, and go forward. No biggie.

But this is Italy, and I think the trains are owned by the government. Big problem.

Not only was the card declined by the card processing firm, but because of this, the TrenItalia site told me, not so graciously, that my "account" with them was frozen, and unusable. They were nice enough to tell me how I could reinstate things back to "normal". Here's the helpful email they sent to me, about 24 hours before the train I wanted to catch:

"You can request authorization to re-enable the credit card for making purchases on the Trenitalia website by sending the documentation indicated below, by either fax (06/44104036) or e-mail (areaclienti@trenitalia.it):
- the content of this email,
- your User ID,
- a contact telephone number including the country code (for example 0039 for italy),
- the photocopy/scan of a valid identity document of the person associated to the User ID,
Within 48 hours you will receive the outcome of your request on your e-mail address."

Yeah, I'll get right on that. Then I remembered this had happened before. What I did then was to create a new account with a new user name, a new email address, and so on. So that's what I did. I went through the entire tedious process again, entering a different credit card number as well. Push "Enter" and then see what happens.

Then, with the tension and expectation one must feel when playing the slots in Vegas, I waited.

Declined. And yet another TrenItalia customer account frozen.

(The ad with the trains: Alta Velocitá means High Speed. This does not apply to their website. The other ad with the mom and kid needs no explanation!)

To get this far, I'd probably spent at least 45 minutes. Slow Internets in the hotel, combined with one of the most frustrating websites I have ever encountered. So I went downstairs to see if my buddy "Irma", the daughter of Annamaria, the owner of the little Hotel Porcellino where I was staying, could help. She was so gracious and agreed that sometimes things in Italy could be very frustrating. "That's why I want to live in the US," she declared. We used her account on the train's website and went through the process. And we went through the process again. And then again. And then again. I tried FOUR different credit cards, all perfectly good. But to no avail. And I felt sorry because this had then frozen her "member's account on the website.

So, after all that, I arrived at the station about 9am this morning, went straight to a ticket vending machine (run by TrenItalia, I'll have ypu know) and bought a ticket--for an earlier train--in about 3 minutes. With one of the offending credit cards, of course. Wacky.

I'll get in a bit earlier than expected and hope the woman will be at the B+B to check me in. Who knows!???? Many of these places in Italy are almost self-serve, with no regular hours for the reception desk. I told her I'd be in about noon, and now it will be about 20 minutes earlier. We'll see what happens. I really don't want to hang out on the street, but it won't be for long if that is the case.

A bit later:

Train arrived early, had a nice taxi ride to the hotel, chatting with the driver about restaurants in Rome. I think he was impressed with my knowledge (who wouldn't be?) and called me an expert! I laughed and said, "Maybe in the future."

Got to the hotel, or almost. I had to walk a bit to find it, and the numbers are not obvious. Oh, and 99 on the street is across from 34, so go figure. Lugged the heavy (with books now) suitcase up 4 flights of stairs, checked in and am getting ready to go out, to start soaking up this great city. Lunch is in a bit over an hour at a tiny hole called Sora Margherita. Will be meeting Lidia Agraz and her pal Allan who are staying in Rome for a while.

The room is cramped. Clean, nice bathroom, but the room is cramped. Very cramped. But it's close to everything and that is all that really matters for me.

Rome is a giant city, dirty, noisy, busy, crowded. But I love it.