A Culinary Pilgrimage From Paris To The San Francisco Bay

by David Downie on

No, the dinner on our Air France flight from Paris was not remarkable. The good news started in Washington, DC. Friends took us to a reconverted firehouse in a formerly edgy neighborhood on Massachusetts Avenue where by magic succulent fresh scallops the size of saucers appeared. The venue: Sixth Engine. Very cool.

Too cool for the sidewalk tables, we colonized a booth inside, where the firemen once chowed. Or was it where the engines parked? The wait staff didn’t know. They did know how to bring water and wine and micro-brewery beer and food swiftly-and how to smile. We were dazed. After Paris, smiles take the breath away.

But my breath was snatched foremost by the monster scallops, perfectly sautéed with white wine: simplicity. The roasted pork belly, giant burgers, hand-cut fries and fried catfish sounded wonderful. No. We had to have the scallops.

Why? Scallops are the symbol of Saint James and the pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela. Here we were on tour in America to promote my new adventure travel book, the one about trekking 750 miles across France over the Pyrenees into Spain. I’d carried a secular scallop shell with me en route, a skeptic pilgrim open to serendipitous encounters and adventures while traveling in time and place-and on dinner plates.

Clearly the DC scallops were a sign sent by Saint James.So began a month-long gastronomic troll that took a toll on my formerly trim waistline. On the surface our US book tour was about telling the tale of a physical pilgrimage across France: walking, meditating, slimming down, seeking illumination or spirituality or noting the lack of it. Yet our coast-to-coast jaunt morphed into an illuminating culinary rediscovery.

Dare I say it? Everywhere we went the food was great, even fabulous. Though overpriced the coffee and wine were outstanding; the service seemed humane and efficient, and the prices? About one third lower than in my adopted home, the City of Light.

In Manhattan: Gramercy Tavern. Some publishers have excellent taste. We celebrated astonishing news: “Paris to the Pyrenees” had sold through its first print run in two weeks. Stunned, we couldn’t resist the tasting menu-matched by a fine Burgundy red. This was real deal Franco-American cooperation. Lush, supple but mineral-rich the Givry from Michel Sarrazin reminded me why I love French wine.

It seemed to have been squeezed and fermented and aged especially to exalt the exquisite roasted duck breast with quinoa, celery root, hazelnuts and earthy morel mushrooms. Smooth service, without obsequiousness; an accommodating attitude to special needs; and a price tag that would’ve been astronomical for a similar feast in my beloved Paris-but wasn’t.

I was beginning to feel jittery. Between the lunches and dinners, delicious treats and coffee tempted us, coffee that made the burning, acidic tar of Paris seem criminally bad. Give me a Paris café any day for atmosphere and sit-down service (subtract the smoke blowing in from the terrace, please). But France needs friends to hammer coffee suppliers until they bring back the quality brews of old.

Before winging west we had a bang-up literary lunch at a “French” restaurant, La Boite en Bois. The quotation marks are because, though the fab food is traditional French-salade niçoise, boeuf bourguignon, etc…-the chef-owner of this cozy grotto near Lincoln Center is Italian. Irrepressible enthusiasm! Some on staff claimed authentic French citizenship but I had to wonder. They were disarmingly friendly. Maybe they’d gone native.

Seattle might boast nearly as many cafés as Paris. Luckily the beans they roast are better than French: premium Arabica. The result: more than felicitous. The best local brew we tried came from hip Café Fonté, which had waiters and proper service. Strong, rich, silky, it recalled Roman coffee, or the best Paris coffee those many decades ago, before Cafés Richard took over the supply chain.
Salmon and halibut and black cod and other flipping-fresh fish waved fins at us from the fabulous Pike Street Market. Over a century old, it was new to me and boy, do I wish we had it (sans the souvenir stands) in Paris. The farm-grown produce was real, the bulk goods and farmstead cheese too, and the fish! Smoked salmon, lox, fresh, wild salmon: we went salmon wild, buying pounds of near-live, salmon-pink flesh and cooking it up in our short-term rental apartment.

Seattle’s most memorable meal: fish, naturally, at Seatown, the casual bar & rotisserie run by the ubiquitous Tom Douglas, a Seattle hero. His bigger, more expensive restaurant Etta’s, next door, was packed to the gills. Happily, the oysters on the half shell, local crab, smoked black cod, Alaskan halibut and wild salmon were perfectly perfect. Gone the days of sauce-smothered, overcooked fish! A sprightly white from Washington State washed it all down like nobody’s business. Again: flawless service with spontaneous laughter, jokes, smiles and a lightweight bill.

Portland? Give me a lifetime to describe the delights (and delightful people). A local whisked us to trendy Bluehour in the Pearl District. The designers had worked overtime: we might’ve been at one of the Coste Brothers’ postmodern cafés in Paris. Except that, how to put it, there was no attitude, the food was exquisite, and again, the prices reasonable. Oysters! Cod! Saint James’ scallops reappeared right in time for our event at Powell’s Books! As I devoured a second mound of fresh hand-cut fries I wept. They were as exquisite as those from my cult Marais bistro, Café des Musées.
What paradisiacal tortures lay ahead? Postmodern Vietnamese at The Slanted Door in the Ferry Building in San Francisco (after an event at Book Passage). Okay, everyone knows the Slanted Door is fabulous. Not news. If only they could cut the noise. The food? Astonishing! Barbecued Willis Ranch pork spareribs, some of the best ribs ever, anywhere. And fish-whole sea bass braised in a banana leaf with cilantro and lime-to die for. The view: the Bay Bridge sparkling like-like the Eiffel Tower lying on a long, wavy couch.

After the best traditional Indian food I have ever eaten-at Ajanta, in Berkeley-I fell into a funk. How had this happened? What would I eat in Paris? Why was I going home?

I stuffed my suitcase with beans from Peet’s Coffee and flew to the City of Light full of dread. We arrived in time to lunch at Le Gorille Blanc, my number-one favorite, friendly family-run micro bistro. Micro is the key word. Settling into our tiny table, the one novelist Georges Simenon liked; admiring the hewn stone walls from the 1500s; and savoring the startlingly sumptuous puddle of sorrel soup with sweet potatoes and coconut milk, I knew all would be well. The miniscule fresh roasted cod with mustard sauce was outstanding, the wine not bad, perhaps excellent, and the tablespoon of coffee Italian-thank god. Feeling like I’d already started to lose weight, I shook hands with the slender, amiable owners. Franco-American friendship was alive and well.

Author and private tour guide David Downie’s latest critically acclaimed books are “Paris to the Pyrenees: A Skeptic Pilgrim Walks the Way of Saint James” and “Paris, Paris: Journey into the City of Light,” soon to be an audiobook. His Paris Time Line app will be published in April: www.davidddownie.com and www.parisparistours.com.
Photo: courtesy Bluehour

Gorizia: Italy’s Overlooked Historic Border City

by Sean McLachlan on

Visitors to Italy tend to skip Gorizia. Tucked away at the northeast edge of the country on the border with Slovenia, this small city tends to get bypassed on the way to Trieste or Slovenia.

I would have never gone there myself except that I was a guest author at the city’s annual history and book fair, the èStoria Festival. Now in its ninth year, the festival is drawing visitors from all over Italy. International visitors are few because the talks are mostly in Italian; mine was translated by a shockingly intelligent fellow who grew up speaking four languages and went on to learn a dozen more.

When I wasn’t needed at the fair I took some time to slip away and check out what the city has to offer international visitors. I found that this overlooked destination is definitely worth adding to your itinerary.

The city is situated in the verdant Isonzo river valley. Slovenia is just to the east, marked by steep green hills. Heading upriver towards the Julian Alps, mountains rise precipitously from both banks. It was here that the Italian and Austro-Hungarian armies fought the dozen Battles of Isonzo in World War I. Several tour operators offer visits to the battlefield and we’ll be looking at it in the next post.

The most obvious attraction within Gorizia can be seen from all across the city. Gorizia Castle sits atop of hill in the center of town and was the residence of the Counts of Gorizia and Tyrol, a powerful dynasty that owned much of the territory hereabouts. The first castle was built in the 11th century and was constantly expanded and updated, most recently to accommodate artillery. The castle got badly knocked about in World War I and was lovingly restored in the 1930s.

%Slideshow-86%From the battlements you get a fine view of the surrounding countryside and the distant snowcapped Alpine peaks. Inside the castle you’ll find the usual arms and armor as well as an excellent little museum on medieval music. Some of the rooms are adorned with faded frescoes showing religious themes. In the hamlet adjoining the castle you’ll find an excellent First World War Museum, the Museum of Fashion and Applied Arts, a picture gallery and the Archaeological Museum.

If the climb up the hill made you hungry, you’re in luck. Gorizia has several fine restaurants serving both Friulian regional cuisine as well as Slovenian dishes. Friuli is the northeastern region of Italy and as such was influenced by the cuisines of Hungary and Austria. Meals tend to be heavier, with more emphasis on meat. There’s plenty of pasta and pizza too, though. Slovenian cuisine has its own distinct style that I’ll get to in a later post as I explore that fascinating little country.

My favorite restaurant in Gorizia is Alla Luna at Via Oberdan 13 with its cozy interior crammed with local arts and crafts and its menu of regional dishes. Tre Soldi at Corso Italia 38 is a more formal affair that also serves regional cuisine. If you want pizza, try La Tarantella at Corso Italia 99/101 with its dozens of varieties. You can even order a “surprise pizza” and see what you get. For something more informal, try La Cicchetteria ai Giardini at Via Petrarca 1/A. It offers salads, paninis and other snacks. It’s a great place to go in good weather because they have outdoor seating right next to a park, where you can see the sun shine through the leaves and listen to the laughter of children at a nearby playground.

So if you’re looking for a quiet, undertouristed Italian destination with some good attractions, consider stopping off at Gorizia for a day or two.

El Paso’s Best Mexican Food: Of Car Washes And Cemeteries

by Laurel Miller on

Confession: With the exception of far too many layovers at DFW, I’d never been to Texas prior to two weeks ago. Despite having traveled all over the rest of the Southwest, as well as being possessed of a near-clinical addition to Mexican food, I just haven’t had a reason to make it to the Lone Star State.

That all changed when I was sent to El Paso by American Cowboy magazine to write about the city’s tradition of boot-making. And while my days were spent touring boot factories and learning the difference between a welt and a vamp, a girl’s gotta eat. Secondary only to my assignment at hand was unearthing the best local spots for Mexican or Tex-Mex food.

Fortunately, a friend of mine is from El Paso, and the kindly folks at the boot factories were also more than happy to aid in my research. It’s no secret that H & H Cafe and Car Wash and L & J Cafe serve some of the city’s best eats. After a disappointing experience at one of the nicer, much publicized Mexican restaurants downtown, I decided to focus on dives, exclusively.

Why? Because I’d much rather eat at a hole-in-the-wall imbued with local color, any day. They’re less expensive, and generally free of tourists. At least, the kind of tourists who frequent the type of restaurants I go to lengths to avoid (see aforementioned downtown eatery). There are no “2-for-1” margarita specials, gringoized menu items, or attempts to temper the innate fire of the chiles used in the recipes. You’re getting the real deal, and eating amongst the folks who make these businesses the longtime landmarks that they are.

Take H & H. For over 50 years, this Formica and aqua-and-orange-hued dive near downtown has been dishing up El Paso’s best chile rellenos. It’s a car wash, yes. But the “coffee shop” has a single counter, and just three small tables. There’s a token flat-top grill that’s clearly seen a lot of use. The waitresses are of a certain age, and sweet as pie. The food is heavenly. Three times in four days, I showed up to stuff myself on everything from earthy, potato-studded Chile Colorado to the aforementioned rellenos (a dish I normally dislike, since it too often resembles and tastes like oil-soaked socks) Even the salsa verde, a chunky, firey rendition, is amazing.

On my final visit, it was the cook’s birthday; so a regular pinned a sheaf of dollar bills to the shoulder of her smock for luck, and wished her “Feliz Cumpleanos.” To be a fly on the way at joints like this is to get a true taste of local color, no pun intended. Eavesdropping on the two guys next to me (a biker and a businessman in a peach button-down), I learned they both collect and restore vintage muscle cars.

Then there’s L & J, known as “the old place by the graveyard,” which, indeed, it is. Located off of Hwy 10 West, this historic spot with the random, quirky decor was founded in 1927 by Antonio D. Flores as “Tony’s Place (as popular for bootlegging as it was for its food, the story goes).” When Tony’s daughter, Lilia, and her husband, John, took over in 1968, they renamed it L & J.

The restaurant has continued to draw crowds for its righteous combo platters, soft and fried tacos (here, “fried” means lightly crisped, not “giant tortilla chip tasting like sawdust”), queso (all creamy, stringy cheese and green chiles), and enchiladas with red or green sauce. Despite the caloric content, this is food that tastes fresh, and the love with which its prepared is evident. The place is almost always hopping, so get there early if you want to avoid the local lunch or happy hour crowds.

I tried a few other highly-touted places in and around El Paso, but found them wanting. So I kept returning to my favorite initialized eateries for a fix. Now, back in Colorado, I’m jonesing again, and wishing that my local car wash would consider installing a flat-top and some Formica. A girl can dream, can’t she?

Mesilla, New Mexico: Discovering A Different Side Of The Southwest

by Laurel Miller on

A couple of weeks ago, I traveled to El Paso on short notice for a magazine assignment. I found it enjoyable, but on my final day, I was itching to get out of the city limits and explore before my evening flight. Every local I talked to gave me the same response: go for a scenic drive out to Mesilla.

Located just 44 miles northwest of El Paso on the fringes of Las Cruces, Mesilla is a historic village established in 1848. Perhaps best known as the location for Billy the Kid’s trial, Mesilla has also played an integral role in the development of the Southwest, in part because it was along the Butterfield Stagecoach Line. I’m obsessed with all things New Mexico, but despite numerous visits to the northern part of the state, I’d never been south of Albuquerque. I was an easy sell.

The drive to Mesilla presents a dramatic contrast in topography. About 30 miles past the arid plains and stark Franklin Mountain range of El Paso, the Rio Grande grows from a trickle to substantial enough to support lush vegetation. I’d never seen a pecan tree before, and suddenly I was passing thousands of acres of them, in all their towering, leafy glory (after Texas, this region – Dona Ana County – is the nation’s largest producer). There were fields of onions and chiles (Mesilla is just 42 miles away from Hatch), and vast dairy farms. As a former ranch kid, I instantly felt at home.

As you enter Mesilla off of Highway 10 West, there are indications you’re approaching someplace special. Walk a couple of blocks down to the historic Plaza, and it’s impossible not to be charmed. Despite the inevitable souvenir shops, of which there are only a few, a number of buildings are on the historic register. The vibe isn’t one of touristy kitsch, but rather, small-town Southwest. There are coffee houses, cafes, boutiques, antique stores, galleries, wine tasting rooms and museums. A chocolate shop sells small bags of dipped pecans, while Solamente!, a specialty food boutique, offers tastes of the region in the form of green chile-spiked pecan brittle and salsas.

I whiled away a few hours by strolling the Plaza and talking to the handful of vendors who sell their wares from tables around its perimeter. This is the place to buy a bag of pecans and homemade bizcochos (buttery little cookies), or a pair of earrings. The Basilica of San Albino dominates the north end of the Plaza, and is open to visitors from 1 to 3 p.m. daily, except on Sundays. Afterward, I sipped an icy horchata and read on the shady patio of a coffee house. It’s unthinkable (to me, at least) to be in New Mexico and not eat. The region’s most famous restaurant, La Posta, is around the corner from the Plaza. This stunning 19th-century compound was once part of the Butterfield Stagecoach Line, but today it’s better known for its green chile enchiladas and signature Tostada Compuesta.

Before heading to the airport, I drove the few miles down a back road to Mesilla Valley Bosque State Park. Unfortunately, it was still closed for the season, but the drive meanders past pecan orchards, crumbling adobe homesteads and tranquil farmhouses. Horses graze in verdant pasture, and fields of onion with their flowering lavender heads intersperse the orchards. It’s lovely, and a side of New Mexico I’ve never seen, used as I am to the dramatic ochre landscape, canyons and severe mesas of the north.

At the end of a business trip, I’m often content to just get to the airport early, and spend the time people watching and reading. My jaunt to Mesilla was a reminder that sometimes it’s worth the extra effort to hit the road instead.

Photo Of The Day: Chennai, India

by Elizabeth Seward on

Dried ginger, like other dried goods, requires careful preparation. The ginger root must be washed, peeled, sliced and left out in the sun to dry over time. This photo by photographer Keith Pennington captures three Indian women taking on the task of drying ginger in Chennai, India. I love this shot not only for its candid nature, but also because it somehow depicts the heat of the sun and the meditation behind the practice. If you have a photo you’d like to submit for Photo Of The Day, just upload it to the Gadling Flickr Pool.