Stockholm’s Spirit Museum, A Bizarre Museum

by David Farley on

Sweden has a strange relationship with alcohol. After going through a period of prohibition in the early 20th century, booze officially resurfaced but under strict government control. Today, for example, you can only find three brands of vodka on store shelves: Absolut, Good ol’ Sailor, and Explorer. If you want a more high-end variety – say, Karlsson or Purity – you’d have to find it in a bar or order it online.

Whatever the case, you might need a bit of vodka before visiting the new Spirit Museum, or as it’s officially written, Spiritmuseum, in Stockholm. This is not a place dedicated to the ghoulish and ghostly; it’s all about alcohol. You won’t, though, learn much about the history of booze in Sweden. You won’t learn, for example, that Swedish Protestants played a large role in implementing Prohibition in the United States. Or that in Sweden, a “bar,” as we know it cannot exist: the establishment has to serve food. Or even that in the 1950s the Swedish government had ration books that kept track of how many bottles of booze you were purchasingInstead, you’ll enter a bizarre booze-themed fantasyland, created by someone who most certainly was under the influence of a Swedish spirit. The bi-level space is separated by seasons and guests are given a packet of spirits and to drink at each the season. In spring, I tasted an orange liquor. Summer was elderflower, late summer was caraway and dill, and autumn was wormwood. And each room/season had a particular theme: spring had fake trees and the summer room contained two campers, like the kind you pull behind your car – the back windows of each showed videos of people singing Swedish drinking songs.

Upstairs there’s a “hangover room,” a small space bedecked to look like someone’s apartment. As soon you shut the door, a recording of a hung-over woman begins. She’s talking to herself about how crappy she feels until the recording culminates with the woman vomiting. In the next room, you’re encouraged to lounge on a cozy banquette and watch a video of a guy’s night out. The show takes us on a journey through his inebriation, labeling each stage: sober, tipsy, loaded, hammered and wrecked. By the time we get to “gone,” he’s passed out in the snow.

It’s admirable they don’t necessarily romanticize alcohol. But neither does the museum seem to make much sense.

Fittingly, there’s a bar inside the museum as well (one that, of course, serves food). Of the cocktails on the list, I was intrigued by the Brooklyn Cocktail: Four Roses single barrel, Amer Picon, and Dolin vermouth. As I was contemplating getting one – maybe it would have helped me understand what I had just experienced – I met the museum director, Helen Ericsson.

Did I like the museum? Um … yes, I did. “It’s not about the production of spirits,” she told me. “It’s about the human experience with alcohol.”

And then she added: “Next year we’re taking a step back and adding more about the history of spirits. People now think the museum is a little strange.”

I’ll drink to that.

[Photo by David Farley]

Why I Love The ‘Loin: San Francisco’s Vibrant Tenderloin Neighborhood

by Laurel Miller on


Having lived in San Francisco off and on for the better part of half my life, I’ve seen my share of gentrification. And, like many things, it has its positives and negatives. It’s hard to hate on improvements in housing standards, public safety and sanitation. It’s great to see economic growth in neighborhoods once plagued by social ills. It utterly sucks to see yet another crappy chain store replace the corner grocery.

I have high hopes for San Francisco’s Tenderloin, however. While it’s developed an undeniable hipster presence/street cred over the last few years, I don’t believe it’s ever going to fully go the way of, say, Williamsburg, or Boston’s Quincy Market. No matter how many Prohibition-era-style bars, or trendy restaurants populate its hilly streets, the ‘loin will, I hope, always remain more than a little bit seedy, sketchy and sleazy. Bless its sooty soul.

Historically, the Tenderloin has always been a bit rough, and folklore about how it got its name ranges from meaty references to the city’s underbelly to the haunches of hookers. Technically, the neighborhood stretches from Union Square to the southern side of Nob Hill (lower Nob Hill is now known as the “Tendernob,” and popular for its bars and restaurants).

Today, despite the uptick in trendiness, the Tenderloin still most visibly populated by crack addicts, gutter drunks, prostitutes, transvestites, transvestite prostitutes, junkies, bag ladies and assorted other ne’er-do-wells. It’s not a pretty sight, but the people watching is priceless – especially these days, when you throw in lost tourists, nuthugger-wearing club kids and suspender-clad bartenders.I’ve been hanging in the Tenderloin since my mid-20s, exploring its innumerable dive bars and incredible ethnic eateries (Vietnamese, Pakistani, Indian, Mexican, Chinese, Korean, Filipino, Indonesian …). Back then, nearly 20 years ago, I confess it was a bit dicey walking around the Tenderloin at night, but I’ll stand by my opinion that today, it’s not a dangerous neighborhood if you’re not looking for trouble. I’ve walked, alone, at 3 a.m., with no problem. When I lived on the edge of the Tenderloin for 16 months, from 2008 to late 2009, I walked to and from work through the Tenderloin every morning and evening, with nary a hassle.

On one memorable night, it seemed every freak in the ‘hood was gathered on my doorstep or beneath my window. Asian Tranny Hooker was smoking crack in the doorway, her smeared vermillion lipstick giving her the look of a Cubist painting, as usual. A junkie was shooting up in front of my garage (I sternly ordered him to find a more private place, given my block’s populace of elderly Asian couples). As I readied for bed, the cops busted a john propositioning one of the neighborhood streetwalkers underneath my bedroom window. Never a dull moment, I tell you.

I don’t mean to glorify the ugliness that typifies the lives of many ‘loin residents. I just have a real appreciation for the grittiness of city life, as well as diversity, and a glaring dose of reality. Some of the Tenderloin’s more unfortunate denizens are living the way they are due to their own mistakes; others are merely victims of circumstance. I can’t say I’m always empathetic, but living in such a neighborhood certainly has made me more understanding to the plight of some of the residents (a term I use loosely, as I’m primarily referring to the homeless). It’s also made me more grateful for things in life I often take for granted: healthy food, warm clothes, shelter, friends, family, education, a non-addictive personality, and indoor plumbing.

Sociopolitics aside, I love the Tenderloin because I find it San Francisco’s most vibrant neighborhood for food and drink, as well as people watching. Some of my favorite ethnic dives and “casual fine dining” restaurants are there – Shalimar, Pakwan, Turtle Tower, Osha Thai Noodle, Canteen, Farmerbrown – as well as some of the best cocktails in the city.

Try a libation at temples of mixology like Bourbon & Branch, or Rye, or savor the dingy, dodgy atmosphere of classic, old-school dives like HaRa, Summer Place, Nite Cap, or Geary Club (the fact that you can smoke at the latter isn’t a selling point for me, but when combined with the aging Russian barmaids – all cleavage, throaty voices, and stiff pouring hands – it’s a treasure).

There are some boutiques scattered about – an upscale pet shop here, an Australian specialty product store there – but mostly you’ll find corner stores of the Korean and Halal variety, pizzerias, “massage parlors,” and coffee houses, as well as the famed Glide Memorial Church. SF’s theater district is there, just around the corner from Union Square. There are dozens of hotels, too. Some rent rooms by the hour, some by the month. Others are old, Art Deco and Art Noveau gems that provide some of the city’s most affordable, eclectic accommodations (I like the Essex Hotel), but newer boutique properties like Hotel Monaco are on the increase.

You’re also within walking distance from just about every part of San Francisco worth seeing from the Tenderloin, even if the views of and from the neighborhood aren’t the stuff of movies. But if you want affordable, colorful and convenient, it’s your place.

The one serious piece of advice I have to offer with regard to safety is to stay the hell away from Eddy Street, even in daylight. I don’t know why this is the epicenter of all that’s f—-ed up and wrong in the world, but it is, and even the local cops try to avoid it. Just stay away.

Eddy Street aside, if you, too, believe all that glitters could be anything from the cap in a hooker’s front tooth to the neon of a glorious dive bar, come spend some time in the Tenderloin.

[Photo credits: kiss, Flickr user charlottz; hotel, Flickr user CT Young; cocktail, Flickr user Splat Worldwide]

Beer Run In Basra

by Sean McLachlan on


We’d been on the road in Iraq for a week, and after inhaling ten pounds of desert sand each, we really needed a beer. Luckily we were in Basra, and our tour leader Geoff knew a good place to buy liquor under the counter. So after a day of seeing the historic quarter and taking a boat trip along the Shatt al-Arab, a few of us ditched our guards and headed out into town.

Ditched our guards? In Iraq??? Sure. Basra is a pretty safe town and our Muslim guards from the Ministry of Interior wouldn’t have approved of us going on a beer run. Besides, what’s the worst that could happen? The last time I went off without my guards I nearly got arrested, but that wasn’t so bad. I even got to meet a general.

Geoff led the way. We passed down some quiet back streets flanked by crumbling concrete buildings. The few passersby didn’t seem to take much notice of us. This is common in Iraq. They’re looking at you but don’t make a show of it. If you wave and say hello, though, they’ll respond warmly.

We ended up at a little corner grocery store. A few dusty boxes of tea and some cans of soup with faded, peeling labels sat on the shelves. It didn’t look like this place had sold any groceries for a decade. It was one of the least convincing facades I’ve ever seen.

%Gallery-171530%We walked up to the counter and asked for beer. The two middle-aged men behind the counter didn’t bat an eyelid. They named the price, we handed over the money, and one of them walked out of the store.

“He will be back in one minute,” the owner said. “Where are you from?”

We replied and had the usual friendly conversation of “Welcome to Iraq” and “How do you like my country?” Lots of smiles and handshakes. Anyone who has traveled knows these conversations. They quickly get repetitive but they’re good for international relations. Iraqis and Westerners could do with a few more friendly conversations.

“We are Christians,” he told us.

We nodded. The liquor sellers in Iraq tend to be from the Christian or Yazidi minorities. They still suffer harassment, even though they aren’t breaking the rules of their religion. In some places liquor sales are strictly forbidden by self-appointed vice squads. In other places like Basra it happens in a semi-secretive fashion with everyone turning a blind eye, like with the pot dealer at a university dorm. In Baghdad the liquor stores operate out in the open. It all depends on which of Iraq’s countless factions controls that area.

The guy returned with a bulging plastic bag filled with cold cans of Turkish beer. The owner cut the conversation short.

“You go now,” he told us. Having foreigners in the store was attracting attention. People on the sidewalk peered through the glass door as they passed by. A group of guys across the street stood staring. One made a call on his mobile phone. I looked right at him and he looked right back at me, expressionless.

We thanked the shopkeepers and left. I volunteered to carry the bag. I figured if we ran into trouble I could use it as a club. A dozen beer cans upside the head will stop just about anybody.

It was the only weapon I ever carried in Iraq and I never got to use it. Those guys across the street were simply curious. The one with the phone wasn’t calling in a hit squad. We got back to our hotel with no trouble at all – except for getting lost. And what’s the point of traveling if you don’t get to ask for directions in Basra with a bag full of beer in your hand?

Don’t miss the rest of my series, “Destination: Iraq,” chronicling my 17-day journey across this strife-ridden country in search of adventure, archaeology and AK-47s.

Coming up next: “Hostility And Smiles On The Streets Of Nasiriyah, Iraq!”

[Photo by Sean McLachlan. This is actually a liquor store in Baghdad that runs much more openly. I didn’t get a photo of the Basra folks. They weren’t exactly in a photogenic mood.]

On The Insatiable Global Hunger For Italian Cuisine

by David Farley on

Does the world really need another Italian restaurant? Apparently, yes. Every time an Italian restaurant opens up in New York City, I like to think that somewhere in the universe a puppy dog is wrapped in prosciutto, stuck with a giant toothpick and eaten. Well, not really. But as a denizen of the Big Apple, I’m continually amazed by the insatiable appetite New Yorkers have for Italian food. There’s an Italian restaurant on nearly every block in the city. Or so it seems.

But it’s not just New York. It’s the entire United States. It’s the entire planet, really. It wasn’t always this way. Italian food outside of Italy was southern Italian fare that morphed into Italian-American fare, the now generally maligned cuisine that is often perceived as sloppy and goopy and unsophisticated. And before World War II, big cities in North America were sprinkled with Italian restaurants here and there. Pizzerias were blue-color taverns but the pizza pie hadn’t really caught on yet.

But all that’s changed, of course, as Italian restaurants have become nearly ubiquitous on the American dining landscape. Just how did Italian food conquer the world (to reference the title of a recent book on the subject)?To find out, I went to Eataly, the ultimate response to the world’s insatiable hunger for all things Italian; that 50,000-square-foot behemoth in New York City – and, soon, Chicago, and god knows where else. It was on one recent night when a group of well-known Italian (and Italian-American) chefs were gathering for an event called Identità.

“Italian food was born in the home,” said Oscar Farinetti, the founder of the Eataly empire. “Unlike, say, French cuisine, which was born in restaurants. For this reason, Italian is replicable. I can’t make, for example, foie gras in my house. But I can make spaghetti carbonara.”

I rarely eat something in a restaurant I can make at home. And I don’t think I’m too anomalous in this attitude. So Farinetta’s point explains the popularity of Italian food, in general, and Eataly, in particular. But not really the legion of Italian restaurants in the United States and around the world.

“Who doesn’t like Italian food?” Chef Mario Batali asked, rhetorically. “It appeals to all that is good and stylistic about Italy. And it costs a lot less than a Maserati.” Gina DiPalma, the pastry chef at Batali’s flagship restaurant, Babbo, echoed her bosses point: “Italy belongs to the world,” she said. “With all the great art and fashion and style that has originated from there, it makes sense that Italian food, too, would have such a huge global presence.”

Then she looked over her shoulder and pointed to Batali. “That guy is the real reason Italian food is so popular outside of Italy. Or at least in the States.” She went on to say that when they first opened Babbo 15 years ago they couldn’t get things like farro and guanciale, which now are fairly common in most supermarkets.

It was then that Massimo Bottura, chef of La Francescana in Modena and number five on the influential World’s 50 Best Restaurants list, jumped into the conversation. “Italian food really matches the modern palate and the way we like to eat now. There’s no excessive butter or heavy cream. Not a lot of fat.” And then he insisted I quote him on something “Italian food is actually quite healthy.”

I lived in Italy for two years and I didn’t see a lot of obese people in the way that one does when you’re in the land of processed foods (i.e. the United States). And that’s saying a lot
considering Italians are obsessed with food.

“When I lived in Italy,” DiPalma said, “I’d be checking out at the supermarket and the cashier would ask what I’m planning on making for dinner tonight. No one would ever ask that here. I even once got a great recipe from my garbage man.”

“We need to fall in love with Italy all over again,” added Bottura. I looked around at all the happy people eating at the biggest Italian food superstore the world has seen and realized that I think we’re already in love with Italy.

The New New Orleans: On The Horizon, Even More Change

by Micheline Maynard on

Ask anyone in New Orleans what they’d like to see happen in their city, and you’ll get a long list of suggestions. Some think crime is the top priority. Others want grocery stores. Some want top quality public schools, and others seek private schools that won’t cost an arm and a leg.

The New New Orleans has far more room to grow and evolve, and developers are already talking about opportunities beyond Freret Street and the Municipal Auditorium.

Two areas come up most often. One is O.C. Haley Boulevard, which sits in a traditionally black and Jewish neighborhood called Central City. The boulevard, named for civil rights activist Oretha Castle Haley, who founded the New Orleans chapter of the Congress of Racial Equality, is being called The Next Freret. It has attracted a boxing gym that used to be part of Freret, and it will be the home of the new Southern Food and Beverage Museum.

The avenue boasts grand buildings, many still empty, with plenty of space for developers to launch major projects. It is attracting some of the same supporters and investors who helped Freret come back to life.

Another area that is garnering attention is St. Claude Avenue, which runs through the Bywater, a neighborhood that sits not far from the French Quarter and adjacent to the Marigny. It’s known for an art scene, dive bars and the makings of gentrification, although it remains undeniably funky.Beyond neighborhoods, however, what will guarantee the success of the New New Orleans is the people who commit to it. One of them is Alon Shaya, fast becoming recognized as one of the city’s rising star chefs.

Shaya runs Domenica, a rustic Italian restaurant launched by veteran chef John Besh’s restaurant group. It opened in 2009, steps from Canal Street in the Roosevelt Hotel, the former Fairmont Hotel that itself underwent a post-Katrina renovation. (This month, it was named New Orleans’ restaurant of the year by Eater NOLA.)

Shaya is about as non-native as a New Orleanian can get. He’s Israeli, and has worked everywhere from Philadelphia to Las Vegas to St. Louis. He wound up in New Orleans to work in a restaurant that Besh opened in Harrah’s Casino. Before Domenica opened, Shaya spent a year in Italy on his own dime, cooking and learning various Italian cuisines, before returning to set up his own kitchen.

The city has clearly worked its way into his heart. “When I came to New Orleans, I didn’t realize it was going to be my last stop,” Shaya says. “Katrina sealed the deal for me. I really felt like I could make a difference.”

With restaurants devastated by the storm, chefs set out across the city to cook for recovery workers. Shaya was part of a team cooking for the workers who were rebuilding Willie Mae’s Scotch House, the legendary restaurant in the city’s seventh ward known for its fried chicken.

The construction, which cost $200,000 and was paid for with private funds, was spearheaded by the Southern Foodways Association, which sent volunteers from across the country, led by chef John Currence of City Grocery in Oxford, Miss.

“I felt like I was needed for the first time,” Shaya says, “by somebody who didn’t know who I was.”

The restaurant business in New Orleans became part of the healing process for many residents left without power and waiting for their homes to be fixed. “What else is there to do? Absolutely nothing, except go to a restaurant,” Shaya says.

He saw a much smaller version play out this summer, when Hurricane Isaac tore through the city. On the Thursday after the storm, 850 customers poured into Domenica, which was one of the few places that had power and an ample supply of ingredients.

But as he has become part of New Orleans, Shaya is also bringing his own background to the food he serves its residents and visitors. Gradually, he’s revising some of his menu to include Middle Eastern touches, and he thinks customers are ready for the changes.

“Young chefs are going out and cooking what means something to them,” Shaya says. “People aren’t resting on their laurels any more. What would have been ambitious five years ago is now expected.”

In a sense, that describes the New New Orleans, too.

For more on the New New Orleans, click here.

[Photo credits: Micheline Maynard]