How Not to Achieve the Elusive “Local Status” While Traveling

by David Farley on
The food at Luzzi, a restaurant located between the barn-like basilica San Giovanni in Laterano and the Coliseum in Rome, is not particularly memorable. The menu consists of affordable Italian and Roman fare. The owner, a balding, jovial fellow (and avid AS Roma supporter) is always darting about from the table-crammed interior to the boisterous outside dining area, sometimes barking orders at the attractive Greek waitress.

When I lived in Rome for a few months in 2002 my wife and I made it our regular spot. Why? For what happened on one unseasonably warm November night. After paying our bill, the server walked by and plunked the bottle of limoncello down on our table. And with that we became locals. At least at this restaurant. Which had benefits: a shorter wait time for a table, the allowance to linger longer, and, of course, all the lemony liqueur we could drink after dinner.

It was the holy grail of travel: getting local status. Many of us have yen to fit in, to look like we belong while on the road. We’d don brash muumuus to go native, trading one bad fashion plague for another in an attempt to avoiding looking like that guy in the khaki shorts and Tiva sandals carrying the Lonely Planet guidebook (a travelers vs. tourists argument, anyone?).

When I moved away from Rome, so went my limoncello status at Luzzi. But five years later, I came back to Rome for four months to finish working on a book. And I had a taste for limoncello again. My wife and I went to Luzzi the first night we arrived. I had visions of the bald owner or the Greek waitress giving us an open-arm greeting and seating us right away.

That didn’t happen. In fact, despite my long looks, they never even recognized us. And at the end of the night, the only thing that appeared on our table was the check. So I made vow: I was going to find a new place that would give me “limoncello status.” There were conditions though: it had to be largely patronized by locals and it had to be good.


So we tried a new restaurant every night until a friend recommended we check out Da Enzo, a salt-of-the-earth joint in the backstreets of the Trastevere neighborhood. As we turned the corner, a bevy of hungry Romans lingered in the cobbled alleyway in front of the restaurant. We were the only non-Italians from what I could see (and hear). A good sign. A better sign was the huge-portioned pasta dishes: creamy carbonara bolstered by pancetta; a spicy arabbiata sauce laced with whole cloves of garlic; and a meaty norcina sauce.

We began going at least three times per week. We were far from getting the limoncello treatment–Da Enzo, it turned out, didn’t actually follow this tradition–but the main waiter, a portly middle-aged mustached man, began giving me a familiar nod when we’d walk in. And, after month of regular appearances, when I’d call to make a reservation, the staff would recognize my voice, perhaps because of my halting Italian: “Ah, ciao Davide. Si, ci Vediamo stasera,” they’d say: see you tonight.

I’d made some serious inroads. One night I walked into Da Enzo expecting my usual nod and a swan-like sweep of the arm to my table, but instead I got an incredulous look from a new waiter. Perhaps the mustached waiter had a deserved night off. We were eventually seated and the food was as good as always. As we nursed the last dregs of our carafe of wine, the new waiter approached. He said they need the table and then set the check down. This almost never happens in Italy. I was baffled. I looked around, noticing that the other regulars–all Italian and also nearly finished with dinner–hadn’t been asked to leave. I protested, saying in Italian that we come here all the time and that no one else had been asked to leave. “I’ve never seen you before,” the waiter said.

And with that, our limoncello status–my craving to be accepted as a local–was swiped away from us as quickly as our table was cleared for the next costumers.

[Photo courtesy of Jason McArthur via Flickr]

Gadling’s rankings of hotel breakfast buffet foods

by Mike Barish on

One of the magical things about staying at a hotel is enjoying the breakfast buffet. At home, you might just have a bowl of cereal, a banana or a cup of coffee for breakfast. Heck, many people just skip breakfast. Does it mean nothing to you that it’s the most important meal of the day? At hotels, however, you can indulge in all of your breakfast fantasies. Rather than studying a diner menu while agonizing over whether you’re craving the sweetness of french toast or the savory goodness of eggs, you can have it all at the breakfast buffet. How you attack the buffet is critical to maximizing your enjoyment. That’s why we’re here with our official rankings of all of the hotel breakfast buffet foods.

The Unquestionable Top Five

1. Bacon

Because it’s bacon. When I was a kid, my mother limited how often we could have bacon. It was a treat. At the hotel breakfast buffet, however, you can have an entire plate dedicated to just those salty, succulent strips. And that plate can be refilled.

2. Fruit

Bet you didn’t see that coming! Fruit, when purchased individually from a menu, can be expensive. Restaurants will rip you off if you just want a bowl of fruit and yogurt. At the buffet, however, you can go to town on some fruit like some sort of crazed monkey. Adding fruit to your plate helps you justify the amount of bacon you plan to consume. If you’ve traveled a great distance, fruit is also an excellent way to prevent scurvy.

3. Omelet Station

Omelets are tricky to make at home because we often don’t have all of the ingredients to truly do them justice. How many times have you found yourself with eggs but no cheese? Or eggs and cheese but no vegetables? Or eggs, cheese and vegetables but no frying pan? Plus, flipping omelets is tricky. That’s why it’s best to just let someone else do it for you while you hover over them and realize that watching someone make an omelet is pretty boring. Maybe just use that time to get yourself some juice.

4. Waffles

This refers only to waffles that you can freshly make on a waffle maker. Firstly, you feel satisfied knowing that you prepared part of your own breakfast. You can survive anywhere! Secondly, you’ll be able to top your waffle with syrup, powdered sugar, butter, fresh fruit and nuts. Sure beats those Eggos that you normally toast up!

5. Assorted Breads

At home, you might have some bread that you can toast up. It’s OK but nothing special. At the hotel breakfast buffet, your cup runneth over with bread options (tip: don’t put your toast in a cup). Muffins, sliced breads with multiple grains, croissants (both mini and standard sizes), bagels, rolls and the holy grail of buffet breads, biscuits. Grab as many butter packets as you can fit in your pockets and carbo load like you’re running a marathon. But, remember what your mother used to warn you: Don’t fill up on bread.

The Questionable Remainders

6. Eggs

Here’s where things get tricky. Buffet scrambled eggs suck more often than they don’t. They’re always bland, often overcooked and occasionally just loose disasters. Our advice: skip the scrambled eggs. If you really want scrambled eggs, however, and there’s an omelet station, we recommend that you ask the omelet sommelier to prepare you some freshly scrambled eggs. Plus, you can ask for omelet items in your scramble. Win-win!

Hard boiled eggs are a nice treat because preparing them at home is just not that enjoyable. They make your kitchen smell, you get shells everywhere and there are more exciting things to do with your eggs. But when ready-to-eat hard boiled eggs are just presented to you, you best take advantage. All other eggs dishes such as frittatas and quiches should be judged on a case by case basis.

7. Sausage

Like eggs, sausage at hotel breakfast buffets can be a mixed bag (tip: decline all offers of mixed bags of sausage). Avoid sausage patties. You’re not at the hotel breakfast buffet so that you can replicate the experience of eating at McDonald’s. As for links, always take a close look to see how shriveled they are. If they look dehydrated, walk away. You want the casing to pop in your mouth, but you want that to lead to a juicy explosion. Dry sausage is not your friend. Besides, your bacon serving should eliminate the need for sausage.

8. Cereal

You can eat this at home!

9. Oatmeal

Unless the buffet is free, don’t get oatmeal. If you’re paying for the buffet, you already threw health out the window. Put down the raisins and start enjoying life.

10. Potatoes

Like the scrambled eggs, breakfast potatoes at a hotel buffet tend to be underwhelming. Often, they’re just a big batch of mushy, bland starch disappointment. If you’ve handled your bread decision properly, you don’t even need potatoes.

11. Pre-cooked Pancakes

Bland hockey pucks served with packets of “pancake syrup.” I know that you think that you love Aunt Jemima, but she’s a cruel mistress and you deserve better.

The next time you’re staying at a hotel and wake up hungry, we hope that you’ll remember these handy rankings. Whether you’re on vacation, a business trip or anything in between, you need fuel when you’re on the road. Start your day right at the breakfast buffet. The decisions you make in front of those chafing dishes may just save your life.

Video of the Day: Yao Ming PSA about shark fin soup

by Mike Barish on

We recently covered the controversy over shark fin soup, so no need to rehash that. However, we were interested in this video staring Yao Ming, arguably the most famous – and popular – Chinese national in the world. In the ad, diners decline to eat shark fin soup after witnessing just how inhumane it is.

Yao, of course, is the dominant center on the NBA’s Houston Rockets. That’s when he’s not nursing the injuries that caused him to miss 77 of 82 games last season. In fact, he’s missed 168 games over the last five seasons. Perhaps he could have used some of the shark fin’s alleged medicinal and virility-enhancing properties. What? Too soon?

Pop-up restaurants: dining for a new decade

by Laurel Miller on

First, it was underground supper clubs. Now, everything’s coming up pop-ups. As with food trucks, this form of guerrilla cheffing borne of economic need has become a global phenomenon. Equal parts dinner party and dinner theater, a pop-up refers to a dining establishment that is open anywhere from one to several nights, usually in an existing restaurant or other commercial food establishment.

The impermanent nature of pop-ups means no real overhead or utilities, and little food cost and labor. They’re not enough to sustain chefs financially, but are instead a great way for them to make a name for themselves and draw some income in between (or during) gigs. Pop-ups also give chefs a chance to stretch themselves, stylistically or ethnically, although some prefer to let local ingredients shine. Most pop-ups give props to sustainability by sourcing product from local farms, which is part of what gives these fly-by-night operations such a wonderful sense of place.

I first heard about pop-ups while couch-surfing in San Francisco two years ago (my own pop-up form of survival after relocating back to the West Coast from Colorado). Chef Anthony Myint, the brainchild behind SF’s Mission Street Food pop-up, which started in 2008, was serving much-lauded, locally-sourced dinners Thursday nights, each time with the help of a guest chef. The food was unpredictable with regard to cuisine or style. The location? Lung Shan, a nondescript Chinese restaurant in the city’s vibrant Mission District (FYI, my favorite place for great, usually cheap, eats). I remember thinking at the time, “More, please.”Fast-forward 24 months, and while the pop-up is no more, the venture was so successful, Myint is now co-owner of San Francisco’s popular Commonwealth, as well as newly minted (har) chef at the forthcoming Mission Bowling Club. And Joshua Skenes of Saison, one of Food & Wine magazine’s newly crowned Best New Chefs, started the restaurant as a pop-up.

San Francisco has long been an incubator for innovative ideas involving food, so it’s no surprise pop-ups are, ah, popular there (click here for a recent round-up). Meanwhile, fellow 2011 Best New Chef Jason Franey, of Seattle’s Canlis, has also been getting in on the pop-up. In February, he cooked a one-night gig at “Hearth & Home,” held at one of the city’s Macrina Bakery locations (another tip: if you’re in town, visit Macrina in its own right. Four words: chocolate-orange pound cake).

The pop-up trend–which now applies to boutiques, galleries, clubs, coffee houses, and bars–has gone national. Los Angeles, San Diego, New Orleans, Chicago, New York, Boston, Portland (Oregon), Miami: all popular for restaurant pop-ups. Oakland has seen phenomenal response to its Pop-up General Store, which features a twice-monthly gathering of food vendors held at a catering kitchen. Founded by former Chez Panisse Chef Christopher Lee and his former sous chef Saimin Nosrat (of Berkeley’s defunct Eccolo), the venue features all the deliciousness you would expect when a group of mostly former Chez Panisse cooks and food artisans get together and prepare things to eat.

Pop-ups are even crossing the pond. The New York Times reports that, starting today, Singapore is sending some of its top chefs and a pop-up kitchen on a yearlong trip around the world, with nine stops planned in Moscow, Paris, London, Tokyo, Shanghai, Hong Kong, Delhi, Sydney, and Dubai. Dubbed Singapore Takeout, the goal is to showcase the city’s eclectic, multi-ethnic cuisine. The kitchen is a converted 20-by-eight-foot shipping container. Also hitting the road is chef Thomas Keller of The French Laundry, Ad Hoc, Bouchon, and Per Se. He’ll be featured in a ten-day pop-up at Harrods, London later this summer.

Tip: Due to the nature of pop-ups, the best way to find them is to Google the words, “pop-up restaurant, ____ (city).” You can also go to Pop up Restaurants for news. Get popping!

Chocolate capital of the world: now Paris wears the world’s sweet crown

by David Downie on

How many more heavy gold medals can Paris drape around its neck?

Acolytes claim the City of Light is the fashion and cultural capital of Europe, the West’s greatest restaurant and food megapolis, a paradise for flaneurs, the mecca of hedonists and shop-till-you-drop materialists, the world’s favorite city, period. Now, while the Swiss and Belgians weren’t looking, Paris stole their milk cows and became the swaggering global capital of chic chocolate too.

Pundits quip that French president Nicolas Sarkozy set the stage. Elected in 2007, Sarkozy does not drink alcohol. He gobbles chocolat, the very best. His 24/7 excitability – some call it dynamism – are attributed in part to the capital’s current choco-manie.

But everyone knows Theobroma cacao – especially the unadulterated dark variety containing at least 60 percent cocoa – is good for the health, the libido, the mind, the morale. It makes people happy, fills them with energy, lifts them out of depression, and cures everything from rabies and rashes to the common cold, without weight gain. Or so some boosters claim, with impressive if unproven scientific “evidence.”

What better fuel for France‘s hyperactive, tea-tottling head of state, a man bent on seducing his rock star wife Carla Bruni and the famously difficult French masses?Nice story. But the rise of chocolate in Paris predates and goes beyond Sarkozy’s habit.

Chocoholics have followed the capital’s gradual rise since the 1990s, from bitter darkness – Paris lived in the long shadow of Lyon – into the limelight. The annual Salon du Chocolat has done much to raise Paris’s profile. Other factors have contributed equally, including the nationwide decrease in wine and liquor consumption symbolized by Sarkozy. Chocolate is the ideal, socially acceptable substitute.

But the main reason for the rise is simple: French chocolate has become exquisite in its simplest incarnations, and excitingly wild in its extreme expressions.

Ever since France’s great pastry chefs began breaking away from the starred restaurants where they were employed, chocolate-making has slipped out of the grip of the industrial candy-makers, local bakeries-cum-pastry-and-chocolate-shops, and fuddy-duddy neighborhood chocolatiers.

New-wave Paris chocolate masters the likes of Jean-Paul Hevin, Pierre Hermé, Christian Constant, Patrick Roger, and Michel Chaudun are as dynamic as Sarkozy, have global reach, and get at least as much press as the predictable French foodie idols, the three-star brigade led by Alain Ducasse, Guy Savoy, et al. Many chocolate stars have shops in Japan; Chaudun’s website is in Japanese.

Cult status for chocolatiers also derives from the fact that they’re not mere artisans. They’re artistes. Take Roger and Chaudun. Both sculpt chocolate. Roger is irreverent and fanciful – a master of kitsch Pop Art. Chaudun excels with Eiffel Towers, among his most popular creations.

Actually, “popular” is not quite right, given the price. Chaudun’s and his peers’ prices ensure their wares are for elites in a city slavish to exclusivity. A pound of their precious Theobroma easily tops hundreds of dollars.

There’s nothing ordinary about chic Paris chocolates, from the cacao bean up. Some top practitioners import their highest-quality beans, roasting and transforming them. Most buy prepared chocolate “bases” from France’s exclusive, persnickety, and expensive chocolate supplier, Valrhona. Typically, beans or bases are many times more expensive than those used by fine artisanal chocolate makers elsewhere.

Like it or not, for the most part luscious Belgian and Swiss chocolates are perceived as rich, fattening, sweet, milky, creamy and old-fashioned. French chocolates – especially those made in Paris – are seen as dark, lean, intense, avant-garde, surprising, disconcerting, sometimes silly or shocking. They’re filled with everything from camembert to lavender honey and floral essences, liquorice to ginger, herbs and spices, and fine wine, sometimes in multiples of three, four or six unlikely combinations.

Chocolatiers and suppliers in Italy, America, Belgium and Switzerland have followed suit. But the sheer concentration of avant-garde masters in Paris is unrivaled. And few outside the French capital have comparable panache or draw. Who had ever heard of Pierre Marcolini, a Belgian choc-and-awe master, before he opened his chicissime boutique near the French Senate?

No wonder Hevin and Marcolini display their edible artworks as if they were jewels. While they won’t set you back as much as a bauble from Cartier, you might think twice before ingesting them. Aesthetics are a big part of the experience.

It may well be this nexus of food and fashion that is driving Paris’s current chocolate boom. Chocolat and haute couture meet on the runway, sometimes to the strains of opera, with chic chocolatiers daubing models with liquid chocolate, or hanging chocolate undies and necklaces in strategic locations.

As dozens of boring old mom-and-pop stores selling useful items continue to disappear from the 2nd, 6th, 7th, 8th and 16th arrondissements, or the inevitable Marais, they are often replaced by chocolate boutiques. Toss a euro coin and it will land on big-name or hungry provincial cacao magicians planting their tills in the last available floor space.

Ridiculous? Perhaps. But this is Paris, ça c’est Paris. Chaudin’s chocolate Eiffel Towers might as well be emblazoned with the capital’s latest moniker: “Paris, City of Chocolate.”