Here at Gadling, we’ve been keeping tabs on the new BBC America reality show “No Kitchen Required,” which is taking cooking competitions to new highs (and lows). Battling for fame and glory are award-winning chef Michael Psilakis of New York’s Fish Tag and Kefi; private executive chef Kayne Raymond; and former “Chopped” champ Madison Cowan.
The chefs hunt and gather ingredients to prepare regional cuisine in various locations, including Dominica, Belize, Fiji, Thailand, South Africa, Hawaii, New Mexico and Louisiana. The show is a cross between “Survivor” and “Top Chef,” with a dash of over-the-top, Bear Grylls-style drama thrown in, but it’s all in good fun and provides a fascinating cultural and culinary tour of little known destinations and cuisines.
Here, we have a teaser clip from New Zealand that features the chefs watching a haka, or traditional Maori warrior dance, prior to having the local community judge their respective meals. Here’s hoping they didn’t give anyone food poisoning.
So Travel & Leisure has published a list of “America’s Best Cities for Hipsters.” This is amusing – and a wee bit annoying) to me for a variety of reasons – not least of which because Seattlemakes the top of the list. I’ve lived here (actually “there,” because as I write this, I’m in a sublet in Oakland) for nearly three years. Apparently, I’m reverse-trending, because San Francisco is #3 (Portland, OR is #2).
As the sun (metaphorically – this is Seattle we’re talking about) sets on my time in the Pacific Northwest and I prepare to relocate back to the Bay Area for what I hope to be at least a couple of years, I’m filled with mixed emotions. Hipster-mocking and -baiting has been one of my favorite pastimes in Seattle, which is both ironic and hypocritical of me when you take T & L‘s definition of “hipster” into consideration:
“They sport vintage bowling shoes and the latest tech gear-but they also know all the best places to eat and drink. [The magazine] ranked 35 metropolitan areas on culturally relevant features like live music, coffee bars, and independent boutiques. To zero in on the biggest hipster crowds, we also factored in the results for the best microbrews and the most offbeat and tech-savvy locals.
It’s our take on the debated term hipster….whatever your take, you generally know hipsters when you see them-most likely in funky, up-and-coming neighborhoods. A smirking attitude toward mainstream institutions means they tend to frequent cool, often idiosyncratic restaurants, shops, and bars-the same kinds of venues that appeal to travelers looking for what they can’t find at home. There’s also an eco-conscious influence in contemporary hipsterdom.”
So let me get this straight: I’m a hipster because I care about the environment, and I write about food, thus I eat and drink in places that are too idiosyncratic for mere mortals. And jeez, I just edited a craft beer guide. And I really support my local indie businesses. Conversely, I know jack about tech, and you will never, ever see me in a pair of bowling shoes. I also want to bitch-slap the bejesus out of smirky, pretentious funksters who feel the need to categorize themselves in order to maintain a sense of self. Cliques are for high school, kids.
[Image via Flicker user Conor Keller fortysixtyphoto.com]I also find it deeply ironic that a luxury magazine likes to think it knows what’s hip, because real hipsters love nothing more than a bargain, whether it’s $2 happy hour PBR’s or a sweet bowling shirt from Value Village. I can assure you the average T & L reader does not shop at Value Village.
What I find interesting, however, is that part of my mixed feelings about leaving Seattle have to do with its very hipsterness. I love street fashion, vintage, indie anything, tattoos and food artisans (hipster alert!). People watching has been one of my favorite activities in Seattle, because most Seattlites have such great style. It’s a city where the alternative-minded can grow old semi-gracefully, without looking like roadkill from Gen X or beyond. In Seattle, no one gives a f— about what you look like, or what you’re into. You can just be.
It’s sheer coincidence that last week, while reacquainting myself with Berkeley (where I lived for nearly a decade), I wondered why it is the natives here have no style (in my hipster eye view, pilled fleeces, flowy hemp clothing and ergonomic shoes are terminally unhip). I already missed Seattle’s eclectic street style, which never fails to inspire, amuse, and yes, sometimes horrify me (Boys, please stop with the neon, nuthugger skinny ankle jeans. Just sayin’).
Is this essentially a very shallow essay on an incredibly superficial topic? Yes, absolutely. But if it is a “tipping point” as T & L claims, then hell, I’m game. I’m ultimately leaving Seattle – an amazing, beautiful, vibrant city – because the climate kicked my ass (see my forthcoming post on “Sleeping In Seattle: SAD And Its Side Effects”). I’m back in the Bay Area because the economy is simmering and for someone in the food business, this is Ground Zero.
You can’t have it all, and the grass is always greener. Those cliches aren’t very hip, but they’re true. I miss all the hipsterness that once surrounded me, but I also love seeing sun, citrus trees and the Bay Area’s unbeatable food scene again. And that, in a nutshell, is why I’m trading down to a place a little less hip. I can always visit Seattle when I’m feeling frumpy.
Standing in the shadow of Freiburg‘s massive 13th century cathedral, swarms of hungry, determined Germans lined up at dozens of sausage stands, waiting to gorge themselves on long, skinny encased meats in round little rolls. I made the mistake of wading into the carnivorous, frenzied crowd and got pushed around like a child in a stroller sucking on a pacifier.
When in Germany, it is generally a good rule of thumb to avoid standing in between Germans and grilled meats. Some of the men were eating double decker hot dogs – two really long dogs stacked on top of each other with just a small little roll to carb up the fleisch. ‘Twas the afternoon before Easter but the deprivations of Lent already seemed like a distant memory in the heart of the Black Forest.
Europeans tend to be less religious than Americans, but Easter is celebrated with more gusto on the continent than in the US. As I write this, it’s 30 minutes to midnight on Holy Saturday in Freiburg, a market town in the Black Forest region of Germany, and the glorious din of church bells fills our second floor hotel room.
Travelers visiting the US during the Easter weekend might not even realize there was a major holiday, as most Americans don’t have either Friday or Monday off from work. But most Europeans take a four-day weekend and shops in many countries, Germany included, are closed on Friday, Sunday and Monday.
Freiburg is a beautifully preserved medieval town with a university founded in the 15th century. It’s a town of long, narrow gurgling canals, quiet gliding trams, street musicians, scarf-wearing blondes, serious looking people in titanium eyewear and packs of nocturnal, singing drunks.
Freiburg bills itself as a “Green City” and the old town is a pedestrian paradise that is completely closed to vehicular traffic. I live in a suburb of Washington, D.C., where walking can be hazardous so the huge crowds of pedestrians owning the streets feels a bit like a visit to another planet. The town, once controlled by Austria and then France, hosts an outdoor Saturday market and with the impending holiday, the entire city was bursting at the seams with shoppers, stocking up for Easter.
I didn’t want to queue up for the grilled meats, but I did have some incredible Schwarzwälder Schinken, known in the US as Black Forest ham. Within the EU, only Black Forest Ham from the Black Forest can be called as such, but in the US all bets are off, and companies are allowed to call any old crap “Black Forest ham,” even if it was made in Hackensack, New Jersey. What I tried in Freiburg was unlike anything I’ve ever had before. It was intensely smoky, very salty and melt-in-your-mouth delicious.
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Aside from the outdoor Saturday market, Freiburg also has an incredible indoor food court called the MarktHalle, which has everything you could want, including Persian, Brazilian, Argentine, Indian and Thai. There’s no Auntie Annie’s or Orange Julius but you get to eat on real plates, using real silverware for a song. But braving the Saturday afternoon crowds is not for the faint of heart. (see video)
Freiburg is also a place where you will want to drink beer – lots of it. There are several small breweries in the area but my favorites were Martin’s Brau and Hausbrauerei Feierling, where small mugs of otherworldly beers can be had for less than 3 euros.
In “A Tramp Abroad,” Mark Twain wrote, “Where and how did we get the idea that the Germans are a stolid, phlegmatic race? In truth, they are widely removed from that. They are warm-hearted, emotional, impulsive, enthusiastic, their tears come at the mildest touch, and it is not hard to move them to laughter… They hug and kiss and cry and shout and dance and sing.”
They do indeed sing, after dark, when their bloodstreams are flowing rivers of beer. The Romans called this region the Black Forest because the dense forests blocked all light, making it difficult to see. But in Freiburg, one need not look very hard for good food and drink. Follow your nose and listen for the roving drinkers in song.
If you go: Freiburg (formally known as Freiburg im Breisgau is a two-hour train ride from the Frankfurt airport. It’s known as the sunniest, (1800 hours of sunshine!) warmest city in Germany, but that isn’t saying much. I stayed at the Hotel Kreuzblume, a small, stylish hotel with very nice rooms and good service, starting at 85 euros, located on a quiet pedestrian street in the old town.
Don’t get me wrong. I love hostels. Even if someone offered me the choice between a free luxurious hotel room or a basic hostel dorm, I would choose the hostel simply based on the social factor. That being said, it’s not always easy sharing a room with 10 other people. Here are some of the most annoying experiences I’ve encountered in hostels.
Sex in the Dorms
Now, I completely understand that months on the road with no action can be difficult, but really, you can be more creative than that. First of all, the shower is a perfectly acceptable place to have sex – and your hostel roommates will thank you for it. Or, why not add a little romance to the special night and splurge on a budget motel room? You could also take this opportunity to cross some things off your bucket list: having sex under the Eiffel Tower, having sex on the London Bridge, or having sex on the Italian Riviera. Basically, you could be having sex anywhere but in the hostel dorm. While I’ve had a few encounters with these offenders, the worst was in Interlaken, when the girl on the top bunk came home inebriated with a random guy from the bar. Not only did she wake me up with all the shaking and moaning, but also her bra somehow got tossed onto my head during the exchange. Let’s just say it was very awkward the next morning.Snoring
I know people who snore can’t help it but if you know you snore loud enough to wake up the whole building, please splurge on a private room. Many hostels offer them, so you’ll still be able to interact with other travelers and still have the whole social experience of backpacking. Once in a 10-person hostel room in Buenos Aires, the guy next to me was snoring so loud the rest of us stayed up all night. Since I was the closest to him, I was given the task of waking him up every five minutes to tell him to roll over. His response? “Stop waking me up. I’m sleeping.” Must be nice.
Dealing with Different Body Temperatures
Everyone runs on a different temperature. While some people deem 70 degrees to be tank top weather, others will have long sleeves and jeans on. When you’re in a hostel, however, you need to judge how the group feels. If everyone else is sweating and for some odd reason you have a chill, ask reception for an extra blanket. Don’t make everyone suffer. During a trip to São Paulo, I was in an all-girl’s six-person dorm. The room always seemed to be on the humid side and we were all constantly opening the windows and turning on the fan. That is until one girl who “had a cold” decided that since having air blowing on her would make her sicker, we should turn off the fan, seal all the windows and breath in her germs. Unfortunately, she had the bed near the window and total control of whether it was open or not – not cool.
People Who Smell
Backpackers get a bad rap for not making enough use of the showers provided at the hostels. And even when laundry hasn’t been done in weeks, it can seem like an unnecessary waste of time and money. Please trust me, it’s not. Take a shower and do your laundry. I don’t care if you need to skip a meal in order to pay for the laundry, do your fellow travelers a favor and do it. When I was in Rio de Janeiro, I actually had a guy who smelled so much like sweaty gym socks, the rest of us in the dorm would go to bed late and wake up early just to stay out of the room. Not to mention, we all now had to take extra showers and do extra laundry to get the smell off us.
Food Being Stolen
I understand that times are tough, especially when you’re a jobless backpacker on the road. However, stealing other peoples’ food to save money or because you’re too tired after sightseeing all day to go get your own food is unacceptable. If it’s not in the “community cabinet,” don’t touch it. On a trip to Rome, I went to the grocery store and purchased ingredients to make a killer omelet for dinner. I made sure to get enough stuff for two nights, as the next day was a holiday and the shops would be closed. After a day of sightseeing, I came back to find everything gone aside for one egg and a can of beans. So while someone enjoyed my delicious meat and cheese omelet, I got to live on crackers.
Ill-equipped kitchens
This is usually the fault of the hostel more so than the backpackers, but regardless, it’s annoying. Why are there 100 forks and knives, but no spoons? How am I supposed to eat my cereal without a bowl? From a plate? Out of a saucepan? There are certain staples a kitchen should have – spoons, forks, knives, bowls, plates, cups, a frying pan, a pot and a can opener. I think a wine opener is also pretty important, but that’s just me.
Excess Noise
Obviously, everyone has different lifestyles and travel schedules. While one backpacker may love exploring a city’s nightlife and staying out until sunrise, another may be the type who enjoys waking up at 7:00 a.m., sightseeing for the day and calling it a night. Sometimes people have to catch early flights, while others may not need to wake up until noon. Because of this, you need to expect a bit of shuffling and rustling at inconvenient times. That being said, you can make everyone’s life easier by doing some pre-preparation. If you know you’re going to be stumbling back to the hostel drunk at an ungodly hour, lay out your pajamas and a bottle of water before you leave for the night. Have a train to catch at 5:00 a.m.? Pack the night before so you only have a few odds and ends to take care of in the morning. Not only is it courteous to other travelers, but it saves you time and allows for some extra sleep.
No Shower Time
Usually when staying in a hostel, you do not have a private bathroom. Keep this in mind when getting ready. Other people are waiting to use the bathroom and shower, and it’s annoying when people use up all the hot water. Of course, we’re all thankful you’re taking a shower – remember, people who smell are annoying – but also keep in mind you’re backpacking. Nobody is expecting you to look like a supermodel on the road.
Falling asleep on the New York City subway at 3 a.m. is usually not a good thing. I’ve lived in a few places in the world that have subway systems – San Francisco, Prague, Paris, Rome – and I’ve had the good fortune to have never conked out on the subway, waking up miles past your stop in a semi-drunken daze and wondering what strange land beyond your usual station you’ve drifted off to. That is until recently. I was temporarily staying with a friend in Brooklyn and one night, after an evening of drinks and dinner (and, um, more drinks) with friends, I got on the D train to head back home.
It seemed like one minute I was trying not to stare at the drunken couple making out across from me and the next I was blurry-eyed and slumped over – the magazine I had been reading still affixed to my now sweaty palm. I was deep into a Brooklyn I’d never encountered before. I glanced at my phone: it was 3:13 a.m. I got off at the next stop and began wandering. The streets were quiet enough to hear a bagel drop. I was hoping to find a car service but I had no idea where I was. A minute later, though, I turned a corner and, as if a chorus of angels were belting out a heavenly note from above and a divine light beam were cast down from the clouds, there was right in front of me a brightly lit sign: CAR SERVICE.
The first thing I noticed in the Spartan lobby was a man. A large, girthful man sprawled out on a bench – actually spilling over it – like some sort of plump over-sized octopus. My first reaction for some reason was to take his picture. I did, and then I turned to the man behind the plexi-glass and told him I needed a car.
“Andrei!” he yelled past me. And then again: “Andrei! You got a job.”
I looked around and saw there was no one else in the room. Except for the guy sleeping in the bench – Andrei.
Suddenly this rotund giant of a man, looking unusually comfortable in dreamland, was roused from a deep sleep.
Andrei, who was born in Russia, was a friendly man. As we navigated the sedate streets, he peppered me with questions. Where was I from? Did I like New York? What was my favorite vodka?
Then he asked what I did for a living. “I’m a food and travel writer,” I said.
“Tra-vel wrrrri-ter?” he said, sounding out each syllable like he was verbally stepping on terra firma after being lost at sea for a few months.
Somehow he didn’t understand. He’d latched on to the words “travel” and “writer,” acting as if they were as incongruent and incomprehensible together as the words “Yakov” and “Smirnoff.”
I explained it in simple terms: I travel to places where I eat and talk to people and then I write about it.
“Ah,” he said. “You write about where to find restaurant.”
“Yes.”
“Where to find nightclub.”
I gave him an affirmative “uh-huh.”
“Where to find prostitute.”
Um … not exactly.
“But, you know,” he added, “there are five different types of prostitute.”
And then he launched into an explanation of each plateau of prostitution. I tuned out, thinking Andrei had a Parkinson’s grip on my profession. As a lot of people might. It’s very romanticized and understandably so. Travel is something we all aspire to – it’s our ultimate expression of freedom – a dream job, or in Andrei’s case, one in which you can direct people to the nearest prostitute.
But let’s not jump to conclusions. Every spring I teach a travel writing class at New York University. Within the first five minutes of the first class, I tell my students the bubble-bursting secret: that being a travel writer is almost as over-romanticized as bacon, Brooklyn and Italy. Not that I’m necessarily complaining. Sometimes on the road, we can experience glimpses of a decadent life of Hemingwayan proportions, but when we get back home, the cash-strapped reality sinks in as quickly as it takes to boil a packet of Top Ramen. Travel we most certainly do; money we most certainly do not make.
I’m often asked if my job ruins the act of travel for me. I think back to the epic flights sitting behind guys who unforgivingly recline their seats into my lap, watching mediocre romantic comedies (which are always much better from 35,000 feet in the air, for some reason) and eating microwave-baked gruel all to chase a story somewhere on the planet. I actually hate the act of travel. The word travel, after all, comes from “travail,” which comes from “tripalium,” a Roman instrument of torture.
My answer, though, is no, it actually makes travel richer. I’m forced to go one step beyond the realm of the average tourist so I can attempt to get underneath the place. I end up in restaurant kitchens talking to Michelin-starred chefs, in the passenger seat of other people’s cars going God knows where, and sometimes trying not to fall asleep on the subway after a long night of drinking (and, by that I mean “working,” of course). When I finally do get home, it makes the quotidian pleasures of the familiar that much sweeter. Even falling asleep on the subway and getting a lesson from a Russian taxi driver on how to choose the best prostitute is an exciting endeavor when put in the context of a 15-hour flight.
When we pulled up to my place, I paid Andrei and then suggested that, given his seemingly vast knowledge about the ladies of the night, perhaps he should consider a career change and become a travel writer.
The rub, of course, is that he’d never be able to afford such ladies if he was a travel writer.