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Photo Gallery: La Paz’s Mercado De Hecheria

When I left my hotel yesterday morning to go investigate La Paz’s famous Mercado de Herchería (also know as the Mercado las Brujas, or Witch’s Market), I didn’t know what to expect. Would it be covered, dank and creepy, like the one in Quito? Would it sell freaky and endangered animal parts (please, god, no)? Would anyone kick my ass if I took stealth photos?

As it turns out, the Mercado de Herchería consists of a couple of gloriously decrepit cobblestone streets (Calle Linares and Jimenez). They’re lined with stalls selling folk remedies and objects designed to bring good luck; wealth; love; health; long life; or, in the case of one shop, a lasting erection. It’s fascinating, but not repellent. I’ve thoroughly enjoyed employing my crappy Spanish to ask shopkeepers what various objets are used for. I’m also fascinated by the cholitas (indigenous women from the highlands who live and work in the city); their elaborate costumes of tall bowler hats, voluminous skirts and alpaca shawls, embellished by waist-length twin braids, are stunning.

I’m also pleased to report that I saw no nearly extinct critters, just sea urchins and starfish in need of some reconstitution. I’ve also read that various creatures – probably very low on the evolutionary scale – are sometimes used in potions prescribed by the local yatiris, or witch doctors. The dried llama fetuses, however, are probably single-handedly responsible for putting the market on the map. As ghoulish as they appear to us, they’re used by the indigenous Aymara and other cultures as an offering to Pachamama (Mother Earth). You’re supposed to bury one beneath a cornerstone of a new house to ensure good fortune.

There’s nothing scary about the market, but it’s one of the most lively spots in the city, due to the number of hostels, budget hotels (mine, Hotel Fuentes, is adorable, cheap, and, it turns out, in the heart of the market), cafes, boutiques and souvenir shops. It’s a tourist spectacle, true, but tourism in Bolivia is of the most mellow kind. The mercado is also a true slice of daily life in La Paz. Who knows what you’ll end up lugging home?

Stay tuned for an account of my forthcoming visit to a local yatiri; I’ll be having my fortune told and my soul cleansed. I hope she has a sturdy scrub brush.

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[Photo Credits: Laurel Miller]

The 10th Mountain Division Huts: Colorado’s Historic Legacy To Outdoor Lovers

Since moving back to Colorado last August, I’ve actively tried to gain more experience in backcountry pursuits. I’ve been a downhill skier all my life, but prohibitive costs and weekend warrior traffic are a drag. At this point in my life, I also find more enjoyment in the contemplative, peaceful nature of snowshoeing and nordic skiing.

My ultimate goal for the backcountry has always been to explore Colorado’s extensive and historic 10th Mountain Division Huts. It’s a long-standing source of shame that I’ve lived in this state off-and-on for 17 years, and have never stayed in a hut (pictured: McNamara Hut).

The non-profit hut system was established in the early ’80s by 10th Mountain Division veteran Fritz Benedict and a handful of other Aspen locals. Its origins date back to pre-World War II, however, when the U.S. War Department began training mountain troops for combat. Camp Hale, located near Colorado’s Eagle River Valley, was selected as the army training grounds for over 11,000 men, in December, 1942.

In January, 1945, the 10th Mountain Division found themselves in Italy, where, according to the website, “they played a crucial role in several battles.” During this time, many of the Division had developed a shared love of the mountains and Colorado. Post-war, a number of 10th Mountain vets settled here; some were instrumental in the founding of ski towns such as Vail and Aspen.

The hut system is in part a memorial to the soldiers of the 10th Mountain Division, and some of the early huts were built with donations from the family and friends of fallen vets. Today, the huts rely upon donations (click here to contribute) for construction, maintenance, and operation, which help to keep overnight fees low. The average bed runs about $30/night; it’s also possible to book the entire hut for a flat fee. It’s best to make reservations months in advance since the huts fill up, but if you become a member (fees range from $25/year to $1,000/lifetime), you’ll be able to participate in the 10th Division reservations lottery, and book early.

The 10th Mountain manages and takes reservations for all 29 of their off-the-grid huts. They’re connected by 350 miles of suggested routes, and range from cabins located fairly close to trailheads, to serious backcountry locales. Some of the huts are owned and operated by the Braun and Friends hut systems, near Aspen, as well as Summit Huts Association, near Breckenridge; information on all can be found on the 10th Mountain website, huts.org.My interest in the huts goes back to childhood; my dad is a WWII vet, and prior to enlisting, his dream was to be part of the 10th Mountain so that he could ski and work with horses (along with mules, the animals were used to transport gear and explosives over the Alps). Instead, he joined the infantry, and moved to Colorado to attend veterinary school at Colorado A & M (now CSU) on the G.I. bill.

Today, at 86, Dad is one of the world’s foremost experts on equine medicine and behavior, and until a couple of years ago, he was still skiing. My love of Colorado must be in my DNA, because my parents met at A & M, and I grew up skiing in Colorado (Dad, along with a few colleagues, also founded the Sierra Veterinary Medical Association, or SVMA, over 50 years ago; like him, it’s still going strong). So. My need to do a hut trip has perhaps been biological imperative.

In the final days of 2012, I visited Crested Butte with the express purpose of learning how to do alpine touring (AT). It’s a discipline of nordic skiing that involves wider skis with convertible bindings, which enable you to ski on a “fixed” or “free” heel. The boots can also be switched into “walk” or “ski” mode. In traditional cross-country skiing, unlike downhill skiing, only the toe is fixed to the binding, and the skis are narrower.

You can tour uphill with the aid of “skins,” which are self-adhesive, reusable fitted liners that adhere to the bottom of your skis. The outer surface has a fibrous covering, which provides traction so that your skis don’t slip. When you’re ready to ski downhill, you peel off the skins, and away you go.

Note that ideally, you should never attempt any backcountry pursuit alone, or at least not without having your avalanche certification. Plenty of people do it, and every season sees totally preventable deaths (see end of story for tips, and where to get certified).

To give AT a try, I hooked up with Crested Butte Mountain Guides (photos above and below, owner Jayson Simon-Jones) for a half-day trip ($125), led by part-time guide Amy Stevens. Amy is adorable, but also admirably tough (ask her to tell you about her fall from an 80-foot cliff some time). She schooled me on AT basics, and we embarked on a four-mile round-trip tour of the backcountry of the Snodgrass Trail, just past the ski area of Mt. Crested Butte.

It was a glorious, two-hour skin up to the Lookout, which provided us with a view of the tiny town of Crested Butte and surrounding peaks. By contrast, the trip down took a matter of minutes, since we were effectively downhill skiing. I was hooked, and immediately began plotting how I could do a hut trip, given my lack of experience.

Fast-forward to early March. I’d enlisted Scott Messina, longtime field operator for the 10th Mountain and an employee of Aspen Alpine Guides, to take me and a fellow hut-virgin, E, on an AT trip to the McNamara Hut, outside of Aspen. One of the first of two original huts, McNamara was built in 1982 as a memorial to Margy McNamara, whose husband, the late Robert McNamara, served as Secretary of Defense from 1961 to 1968. It sleeps 16 on its two floors (which include bunk and single beds, and one private double).

After meeting at the 10th Mountain office in Aspen, Scott drove us a few miles up Red Mountain Road to the Upper Hunter Creek trailhead, in the White River National Forest. The hut itself is just under five miles away, in the Hunter-Frying Pan Wilderness, at 10,306 feet. A recent dump meant there was loads of snow, making this a particularly scenic trip.

We could only stay one night because the beds were booked, but it was enough to provide us with a taste. E and I both share bad backs, so our primary concern was how we’d fare packing in our sleeping bags and other gear, as well as food. The huts are solar-powered, with gas cooking equipment and compost toilets in the outhouses. You source water by melting snow in huge stockpots atop the wood-burning stoves (at right, Jackal hut, similar in appearance to McNamara)

The trip in, mostly uphill, is considered intermediate. E and I quickly overheated and shed layers every 10 minutes, but we were entranced by the beauty of our surroundings. We skinned through snow-covered meadows, into aspen groves, and up through forest thick with spruce, Douglas fir, and Lodgepole pine. There were bear claw marks on trees and ermine prints in the snow. This time of year, much of the wildlife is hibernating or lying low, but the McNamara is actually one of the few huts closed in summer because it’s in the midst elk calving grounds (it’s open Thanksgiving through April 30). As we climbed, Scott told us about the moose he’d seen the previous weekend in the nearby Maroon Bells.

We arrived at the hut– a most welcome site if ever there was one– approximately four hours after setting out. The first to arrive, we shoveled snow, lit the stove, and hauled in buckets of snow for water. The hut itself was more than just functional: it was a cozy wooden cabin that reflected the conviviality that defines the hut trip experience. There were rows of built-in beds; communal dining tables; a book shelf and board games, and an open kitchen. The outhouse was outside on a small back deck, and a side room was stacked full of cords of wood.

While we changed into warm, dry clothes and got settled, our hutmates began to straggle in. It had started to snow, and the sun was setting. We ended up with a friendly group of six snowshoers and skiers, and by night’s end, we were sharing our food and drink. I put together a cheese plate; handcrafted elk sausage was passed around; wine was poured, and beers were cracked. As the snow outside intensified, we sat around talking the outdoor life. Two of the group, a young couple, had spent the previous night sleeping in snow cave they’d dug (by choice). “It only took a few hours,” the female half of the couple said. Talk about a match made in heaven.

For dinner, I prepared a pasta dish for E and Scott (as a food writer, I had to prove to myself that it’s possible to eat well on a hut trip, even when one has a crapped-out back) While we cleaned up, the other groups moved in to prepare their dinners. Later, two young women prepared S’mores to order for the rest of us using the wood-burning stove (my eternal devotion to these ladies).

That generosity is characteristic of the hut trip mentality. Sure, people visit for romantic getaways (if sharing a cabin with up to 14 other people can be considered as such) or for a solo escape. You certainly don’t have to mingle or be an extrovert, but you’ll likely be depriving yourself of some great conversation and experiences if you don’t. It’s so rare these days to connect to other people in an environment that prohibits the beeping, blinking, ringing, honking distractions of daily life. A hut stay, for lack of any other description, is pure.

The next morning, we powered down breakfasts of instant oatmeal mixed with almond butter (my pre-hardcore workout fave), and looked in wonder from the front porch at the thick frosting of powder that coated the trees. Scott suggested we skin up the north face of Bald Knob, nearly 1,000 feet up from where we stood, so that we could have a downhill sesh before heading back to the trailhead. Despite E’s and my initial doubts about skinning a steep ascent, Scott was, as always, patient and encouraging, and distracted us with information about flora, fauna, and avi safety (he teaches certification classes). Before we knew it, we’d reached the summit.

It was thoroughly rewarding. We could look down upon the entire valley, and over the Elk Mountains. There was also a front moving in, so we stripped off our skins, converted our bindings and boots, and thigh-burned our way through unmarked powder back down to the hut.

By the time we made it back to our truck at the trailhead, it was a white-out, but that’s honestly the time I most enjoy running and cross-country pursuits (as opposed to downhill, in which I’m an utter wuss about weather). It’s like I’m in my own country, a place where the only sound is the whoosh of my feet moving through drifts of snow, and my own breath. For just a brief moment, the world is muffled and still, but my connection to it is far more tangible than that of my daily life spent behind a computer. It feels like a good day to be alive.

How to safely experience the backcountry

  • Avalanches occur due to the convergence of a series of conditions. Never treat a backcountry outing casually, especially when these conditions are ripe.
  • If you’re not experienced at backcountry pursuits, get a guide or go with friends who have certification.
  • Always check conditions and let someone know where you’re going and when you’ll be back before heading out.
  • Have the proper avi gear with you, with will include a shovel, beacon, and probe.
  • Depending upon where you live, get a backcountry rescue card. The 10th Mountain offers CORSAR (Colorado Outdoor Recreation Search and Rescue) for $3.00/year, or $12.00/five years. To quote their site, “Money generated from the sale of these cards goes to the Colorado Search and Rescue Fund, which then provides reimbursement for expenses incurred during search and rescue missions.” It can not only mean the difference between life and death; it can save you and taxpayers hundreds of thousands of dollars in the event of a mishap. It’s the cost of a PBR; no excuses!

[Photo credits: McNamara and Jackal huts, 10th Mountain Division; skiers, Jayson Simon-Jones; aspen backcountry, Flickr user KR1212; Bald Knob, Laurel Miller; white-out, Flickr user Cangul]

Why Mexico Isn’t Central America, And Other Things I Learned From Writing A Book About Cheese

Exactly one year ago, I was embroiled in final edits on my first book, “Cheese for Dummies.” It’s a 408-page, comprehensive primer on all things cheese, including an extensive geography section.

I was reviewing the “America’s” chapter, when I saw that my editor had taken the liberty of relocating Mexico from North America, and lumped it with Central America. Baffled, I spent the next hour researching, then polled my Gadling teammates; we are, after all, a well-traveled bunch. The consensus, of which I was already certain from years spent backpacking throughout Latin America: my editor was wrong, wrong, wrong.

It was at the urging of my Gadling colleagues, with whom I engaged in a lengthy discussion about the topic at hand, that I decided to write this article. They thought it raised some interesting arguments about geopolitics and cultural differences within a given region, and found it fascinating that cheese was the conduit. As Heather Poole put it, “Maybe you thought your book was about cheese, when really it’s about the people who eat cheese.”

Before my editor would concede, I had to present a compelling argument as to why there’s no way in hell Mexico is part of Central America. That’s like saying all Latin American countries are the same. Yes, there’s a common language in most instances, but the dialectical differences, indigenous languages and slang are vastly different.

Colonization may also play a commonality in most Latin countries, but the indigenous cultures and various immigrants differ, which can be seen in language, art, folklore and cuisine. There are also extreme variations in geography (known as terroir, in food or wine parlance) and climate, often within the same country.

Dairy wasn’t a part of traditional Mesoamerican culture. The Spanish conquistadors brought cows, sheep, and goats to the New World and introduced dairying and ranching to Mexico. Besides the Spanish influence, in more recent times, cheesemaking throughout Mexico, Central and South America is believed to have been inspired by immigrants from Italy, and Northern and Eastern Europe.With regard to cheese, the majority of Latin America (which, for the purposes of this article, refers to Mexico, Central and South America) produces and eats cheese as a subsistence food in rural areas. Most families own a single cow, or sometimes goat, and rely upon the animal’s milk as an essential source of protein. Urbanites, regardless of social class, have access to the same crappy processed cheese we do here in the States; specialty cheese shops are a rarity in most of these countries, for various socioeconomic reasons.

Peru and Bolivia, which suffer from extreme poverty and are largely rural, primarily produce fresh, simple cheeses like queso fresco. These cheeses can be consumed quickly due to the lack of refrigeration, and provide an immediate source of nutrition and income. Venezuela and Brazil, with their largely tropical climates, also rely upon mostly fresh cheeses, some of them highly salted for preservation. Cheese production in Central America is also mostly about fresh cheese, the result of poverty and climate.

Argentina, a more industrialized nation, is one of the world’s leading producers of Parmesan, an aged cow’s milk cheese that approximates Italian Parmigiano-Reggiano. This is due to Argentina’s large population of Italian immigrants. Aged cheese production is only feasible if there’s a facility to store it as it matures, and, usually, an additional source of immediate income – such as fresh cheese.

Ecuador (photo at right), which has a high proportion of Swiss immigrants, also produces a handful of aged, alpine-style cheeses, in addition to fresh cheeses (being on the equator, much of the country is tropical rainforest and not conducive to aging dairy products).

Mexico is one of the few countries in the America’s that has a long, distinguished cheese history, and is one of the world’s largest consumers of cheese, despite a relative lack of diversity in styles and varieties. In recent decades, an artisan cheese movement has developed, and parts of Querétaro, Chiapas, Tabasco and Michoacán are major cheese-producing states. Oaxaca, Mexico’s culinary capital, is the producer of one of its most famous cheeses, Queso Oaxaca, a string cheese also known as quesillo. Cotija, from Central Mexico, is the country’s most renown cheese.

Any book on food, regardless of topic, is going to acknowledge differences due to the terroir and microclimates of a given region. Northern Italy, for example, produces rice and dairy in its lush pastures and fields, while drought- and poverty-stricken Southern Italy has a notable absence of cow’s milk, because sheep fare better on sparse vegetation. As in the North, pasta is also a staple, but it’s eggless.

Writing a book on cheese taught me far more than just how to argue with my editor about where Mexico is located. I learned more about world history, geography and politics in the year it took me to write my book than I did from 12 years of school and earning two degrees.

History has always been my poorest subject, and I’ve only ever been able to learn it by traveling. I was staggered by how much knowledge I’d gained just from writing about cheese.

I think two of the most visible examples of what cheese has taught me came shortly after I submitted my manuscript. I was watching “Jeopardy!” with a friend, and answered a question – that would previously have left me scratching my head – by screaming out (correctly), “What are Visigoths, Alex!” My friend stared at me, flabbergasted.

The other incident occurred during a discussion with some friends about why Spanish cheese doesn’t have a greater foothold in the U.S. (something that’s rapidly changing, by the way). I explained that it was the cumulative effect of the Spanish War, two World Wars, and Franco’s rule, which suppressed the country’s agricultural and commercial progress.

It’s not my intention to sound like an obnoxious smartypants. I’m just incredulous that something as simple (yet complex) as fermented milk made me a more educated, well-rounded person. I’ve always believed that travel is the best educator, but by writing a book on a seemingly limited topic, I’ve also learned that food is, indeed, more than just mere nourishment.

[Photo credits: cheese, Flickr user marimbalamesa; spray cheese, Flickr user xiaming; milking, Laurel Miller]

Hangover Cures: A Global Primer

New Year’s Eve is fast approaching, so what better time to provide a list of hangover cures from around the world? Our friends at Alice Marshall Public Relations in New York asked some of their clients about local versions of hair-of-the-dog. Unsurprisingly, the preferred remedies all have a distinctly regional flavor. Here’s to a headache-and-nausea-free January 1!

St. Barts
On this notorious party island, the secret is to stay awake. Pull an all-nighter, and when “the bakery” in St. Jean opens, score a croissant straight out of the oven. Devour it, cross the street and jump into the ocean.

Thailand
Although I’ve found coconut water to be the best hangover helper in existence, Thailand has a more original cure. According to the Anantara Golden Triangle resort, Black Ivory Coffee (aka elephant dung coffee, which I believe puts kopi luwak to shame) is what does the trick. Elephants feed on coffee beans, which then ferment in their gastrointestinal tract.

The beans are then plucked out by the mahouts (elephant keepers) and their wives, roasted, and sold for approximately $1,100 per kilogram. But wait, there’s more! Eight percent of all sales are donated to the Golden Triangle Asian Elephant Foundation. No reason is given for why this cure supposedly helps, but I’m thinking this folklore is full of … you know.
Maldives
As if being in the glorious Maldives weren’t cure enough, Naladhu luxury resort has my kind of cure in mind (that’s me, right, killing a hangover in Mexico). They provide queasy guests with fresh coconut water from their own groves. All those electrolytes along with potassium stop hangovers in their tracks.

Cape Town
According to chef Reuben Riffel of One&Only Cape Town, a swank urban resort, you need to drink yourself better. His solution is an alcohol-free tonic consisting of one cup of chilled Rooibos tea (an indigenous plant), a half-cup ginger ale, and 1 ounce of lemongrass simple syrup. Top with soda water, and a dash of Angostura bitters.

Santa Fe
After many visits to Santa Fe, I’ll swear by the local’s cure for a long night. A green chile cheeseburger is the prescription, although I’d add that a bowl of great posole, green chile, or a breakfast burrito also work wonders.

Nantucket
Nantucket Island Resorts recommends a brisk swim in Nantucket Sound, followed by a visit to Brant Point Grill for a Lobster Bloody Mary and lobster kabobs. Now we’re talking.

Have a safe, happy, hangover-free New Year’s!

[Photo credits: elephant, Flickr user rubund; coconut, Laurel Miller]

Intrigued by Black Ivory Coffee? Watch this video!


Gadling Contributors’ Favorite Restaurants Of 2012

I take pictures of my food at restaurants. Do you hate me now? Yeah, I thought so. I do it because I’m a food writer and I use the photos to jog my memory when I’m writing about a restaurant. But also sometimes I do it for the same reason a lot of other people do: because I’m so smitten with the taste of what I’m eating that I want something to take with me when the flavor has long disappeared from my palate. There’s an anti-foodie backlash, that dismissive irony that hipsters gave to the world – the one that says: we can’t be enthusiastic about anything and if we appear to look that way, it’s just because we’re being ironic.

Remember when you had to go to an Italian specialty shop to get olive oil? Or when the only tacos you could find were made of ground beef and impossible-to-melt cheddar cheese? No? Well, trust me. The year 2012 is a much better time to be a lover of food than the past decades. It’s a good thing that we care about what we eat; that we want to know where it comes from; that we’re supporting more farmers and fewer corporations. And it’s okay to be so crazy about what you’re eating that you can’t help but snap a picture of your plate. Go ahead.

Below is a list – in alphabetical order – of Gadling writers’ favorite restaurants of 2012. No word on if they snapped shots of their food. They did, though, leave very satisfied.DAVID FARLEY
Gastrologik, Stockholm
There’s been so much talk about the triumph of Nordic cuisine the last couple years. I spent my first time in Scandinavia-in Stockholm, to be exact-eating my way through the handsome city of water and islands. My favorite meal was at chef Jacob Holmstrom’s restaurant, Gastrologik, where I feasted on a multi-course dinner. Dishes included a smooth crème of rooster liver, deep-fried cod belly, and fork-tender reindeer.

L’Osteria Monteverde, Rome
I spent one night in Rome earlier this year and my friend Pancho took me to this unassuming restaurant in the Monteverde neighborhood. It’s part of a trend in Roman dining right now where a talented chef takes over the space of a neighborhood eatery outside the center of town (where the rents are cheaper), does little to the décor, and quickly transforms the place into a destination restaurant. The menu listed what seemed like some tricked-out versions of classics but I went with the traditional carbonara and didn’t regret it.

In New York, there were just too many to keep it to one, so I’ll briefly mention my faves: Ngam in the East Village for an impressive fusion of American comfort food and northern Thai cuisine (the massaman curry pot pie makes me salivate); Mission Chinese Food on the Lower East Side for just about everything on the menu; and ditto for Fort Defiance in Brooklyn’s Red Hook which hit the mark on everything I ate there.

RACHEL FRIEDMAN
Bernys, Bateman’s Bay, Australia
This summer a friend and I drove Australia’s little appreciated south coast roads from Sydney to Eden. Along the way, we stopped off in the seaside town of Bateman’s Bay. Eager to get an insider’s view of the popular tourist destination, we asked a group of local fishermen where to get lunch. They recommended Bernys, a brightly painted but ramshackle place serving up fresh oysters, a dozen for a mere six Aussie dollars. We piled back into the car with two loads and headed to the nearest beach. Parked at a picnic table, we spent a blissfully lazy hour snacking on our mouth-watering mollusks.

ALLISON KADE
Flatbush Farm, Brooklyn
I really loved Flatbush Farm when I was there and had this incredible bean dish, and an incredible polenta dish. But they change their menu all the time, depending on what’s seasonal, which is part of the charm.

COLLEEN KINDER
Barboncino, Brooklyn
I have only love songs to sing for Barboncino, a newish wood oven pizza place on Franklin Avenue. Their basic, cheese-less marinara pizza, as sweet as it is garlicky, makes you wonder whether cheese is a cover-up for inferior sauces. Delicious and the perfect portion for one. For brunch, the egg pizza is surprisingly good, and well-paired with a Nutella calzone. Decadence.

JEREMY KRESSMAN
Pok Pok NY, New York City
New York is probably the last place you’d expect to find mind-blowing Southeast Asian cuisine – many of the tropical herbs and fragrant spices that make cuisines like Thai so wonderful and flavorful are hard to come by on the other side of the world in a cold-weather climate like New York City. So I was dumbstruck to discover earlier this year that Portland chef Andy Ricker would be opening an outpost of his award-winning Thai restaurant near me in Brooklyn. There’s no shortage of standouts on the menu, but the Northern Thai-style specialties are the best: the outstanding Chiang Mai-style Khao Soi soup is a wonderful sensory and flavor overload–crispy noodles, tangy citrus and milky coconut broth held together by a fiery mixture of spices. The “Sai Ua Samun Phrai” (Chiang Mai grilled sausage with spicy green chili dip) is a “punch in the mouth” in the best possible sense of the term – pairing, savory, smoky sausage with bitter squash and a spicy dipping sauce.

PAM MANDEL
Bakery Nouveau. Seattle
Sometimes I go for coffee and baked goods – they make an amazing twice baked almond croissant that’s stuffed with marzipan and smothered in butter, but they also make a beautiful custardy quiche and their California club sandwich is avocado, bacon, Havarti, and a not to garlic-y aoli on their own crumbling, delicate croissants. There’s nearly always a line and it is always worth the wait.

JESSICA MARATI
Wolfnights, New York City
The Brother’s Grimm at Wolfnights NYC is quite possibly the most delicious wrap I have ever had in my life, and I don’t even like wraps. This little roll of heaven contains spicy grilled chicken, pickled shitake mushrooms, raisins, plantain chips, and a generous dose of chipotle aioli sauce, all wrapped in a freshly made chestnut and chilly dough. Cost? A reasonable $7.95. I go at least once a week.

GRANT MARTIN
Longman & Eagle, Chicago
Longman & Eagle has been getting some well-deserved great press for the past couple of years due to a combination of great food, warm atmosphere and the cute six-room inn that they’ve established above their Logan Square restaurant. The fare could be best described as local comfort food that’s pricey but not expensive, while the clientele and staff could be in the same category. The menu changes seasonally, but if you get the chance try the delicious wild boar sloppy joe. And don’t forget to sample part of the whiskey menu – their selection is unparalleled.

LAUREL MILLER
OAK at Fourteenth, Boulder, CO
Dinner with Grant and Liz, last week. They have a dish of San Marzano tomatoes-braised meatballs and burrata cheese, served on Anson Mills grits. It’s like nirvana on a plate.

MEG NESTEROV
Thinking about my travel this year, I’d recommend a few places:

Kantin
, Istanbul
One of my favorite neighborhood spots in ladies-who-lunch Nisantasi is open just for lunch. There are no printed menus, just whatever is seasonal and fresh is written on chalkboards. I’m still trying to recreate their watermelon lemonade, and you can’t go wrong with a savory pastry or kebab. Even better is the dukkan (shop) downstairs where you can take more treats home.

Pesti Diszno
, Budapest
The chalkboard pig outline logo drew me into this “gastropub” (pork was always inviting when I didn’t get much living in Istanbul), and it was one of my favorite meals in Budapest. The design and lighting feels like a hip bar, but the waiters still treated us like VIPs even with a baby and no Hungarian. I had one of the best hot dogs of my life there, if you could call such a wonder of meat a hot dog. Fun place to try traditional Hungarian food with a twist.

Beast
, Brooklyn
I’ve had many a boozy brunch and extended dinner at Beast in years past, and I’ve returned there more than any other place since I’ve moved back to NYC. It feels unpretentious and cozy, yet the food is surprisingly innovative and gourmet. The outstanding burger made with a mix of meats, and the fried manchego cheese bites are so good, you’ll order a second plate. They also have some of my favorite bathroom graffiti ever.

DAVE SEMINARA
Carmelo’s Brick Oven Pizza, New York City
Growing up, my brother Peter was known as the family garbage disposal. You could put a pile of pig slop in front of him and he’d rave that it was the best thing he’d ever tasted. So I was more than a little surprised when he spent a small fortune on a mobile wood-fired pizza oven a couple years back in order to found a small mobile pizza business, Carmelo’s Brick Oven Pizza. He studied the art of pizza making and within a year, he was hitching his mobile oven to the back of his truck and catering parties and events. When he bragged that he made the best pizza in New York, I assumed that he was full of crap. That is, until I actually tried it this year and had to admit that it was just as good as the famous Da Michele in Naples and much better than just about every other Neapolitan-style pizza I’ve had anywhere. Sometimes the most prolific eaters also make very good cooks.

[Photo by David Farley]