Food

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Internet access is intermittent. This post is #1 of 3 posted on July 27th

Lisa asked for something about food, so this is for her. Thanks to everyone for reading, and especially for dropping comments.


Berlin

When we were in Berlin the temperatures were such that all I could manage to eat was salad, to go with the rosé, which seems to be the wine of choice in Europe in the summer. Among the changes Berlin has manifest is the meeting of cosmopolitan tastes. Not long ago, a salad might have consisted of cucumber, corn kernels, and some limp iceberg lettuce smothered in mayonnaise. Nowadays, it's a wonderful fresh salad of baby greens, often topped with unripened mozarella, or hard-boiled egg, or paper-thin slices of smoked meat, and with a fine olive oil and balsamic vinegar dressing. We loved the salads at “the beach”, on the River Spree across from the Neues Museum. We had them with Hefeweizen (a pale beer with lots of floating yeast in it, making it cloudy) or rosé or some strange mix of beer and fruit juice that Katharina would order. (Her apparent favourite? Beer with banana juice. Truly.)

Fruhstuch–add a couple of umlauts and you have breakfast, in German. We ate nearly every breakfast in the Bilderbuche Cafe, as mentioned previously. The breakfast menu was long, but most of the choices were a variation on the theme of cheeses, ham or sausage (think thin-sliced prosciutto kind of ham and slices of wrist-thick salami-type sausage—the closest I can think of available in Canada or the U.S.), sliced bell peppers, cucumbers and tomatoes, olives, and slices of melon, peach, and other fruit. The platters were accompanied by a big basket of a variety of delicious breads. To accompany, milchcafé or other variations on coffee or excellent black tea. John would have been miserable with these breakfasts, except that the Bilderbuche also served scrambled eggs with a variety of fillings. Apparently restaurants include eggs for the sake of English or North American visitors; Germans don’t eat them for breakfast, other than hard-boiled as part of a cheese and sausage platter.

We generally had dinner in the Schoneberg neighbourhood where Ezra and Katharina live. We liked the Yogi Haus for Indian food, and a certain Vietnamese place (there are several), and we found a restaurant with an eclectic menu that included great salads. Out and about during the day, we’d pick up street food. I think I mentioned it: currywurst, donairs. Katharina took us to her favourite pizza place in Kreutzberg (a youth-trendy neighbourhood) called “Romantica”. That’s the place that serves horse meat on pizza, if you want it (I didn’t). Customers spill out of the ample terrace and onto a bridge across a canal. Sometimes people bring guitars. It's a festival!

What was astounding about Berlin was the prices. I have come to expect to pay dearly for meals in France, but in Berlin (and likely all of Germany) meals were plentiful and cheap. We generally fed the four of us a great meal, including drinks, for €30 - €40, which, at about $1.30 or so Canadian, is a steal. The breakfasts were €3 to €4. Phenomenal.

When we ventured south into Saechische-Schweiz, our food experiences were just this side of disastrous. We made the mistake of ordering seafood, which of course you shouldn’t do if you are nowhere near the sea; it smelled and tasted like it had known better days, and we couldn’t finish it. The second evening, we asked a person in a travel agency where a good restaurant would be and she recommended her favourite Italian. It turned out to be a pizza place with a few pasta options, The mushrooms on my pizza were canned. The pasta sauce seemed to be, too. This was a region under Soviet rule until twenty years ago, and it seems to me they are still learning how to cater to the needs of diners.

And so, onwards, to France, almost as renowned for food as Italy….



Colmar

Colmar is French trying to be German. Or the other way around. The local dishes there include sauerkraut with sausage (they call it charcouterie) and tarte flambe, which, as far as I can figure, is a pizza-esque dish. We tried neither, but John did order a traditional Alsace hotpot, which is a sort of soup with big hunks of a variety of meat. His was bland. The salads were decent, however, and that’s about all I ate.



France, generally

The French take food seriously. That means it’s pretty good, most of the time. There are several kinds of restaurants in France, and I haven’t, frankly, quite figured out the difference. There are bars, at which people hang out and drink (duh), but which also serve food. There are cafés (or, I’ve noticed this time, “Salons du tea”), at which people hang out and drink—often coffee, but alcohol as well—and which also serve food. There are brasseries, which serve food and drink. And there are restaurants, which differ from the others in that they only serve at specific hours, usually from noon to two, then from six or seven to nine or later. All four have chalkboard menus out front, and in tourist season, there is always a cluster of people taking a bespecktacled look at the fare. A restaurant (and a brasserie) will have one or more “menus” posted; a menu consists of two or more courses at a fixed price, the courses being limited to several choices. There might be a €14 menu, a €18 menu, and a €24 menu, and you get what you pay for. Notice, though, that you couldn’t feel four people for 30 - 40 Euros, as you could in Germany. There is also a “carte”, from which you can order individual dishes, if you choose, but the best deals are on the “menu”.

In a shop in Avignon, the proprietors asked where we were going next, and when we said the Dordogne, there was a chorus of “oh, you’ll eat well there!” Fois gras, duck, all that heavy-duty food that will make you fat if it doesn’t give you a heart attack first—that’s what the Dordogne is known for. We had a meal with Roselyne’s sister in Toulouse the other day, at a very nice restaurant called “7 Severin” (hint: if there is a number in the name, it’s a good restaurant; holds true in Vancouver, too). I had the foie gras as an entrée (entrée being the “entrance” to the meal in France, while the main course is “Viande” (meat) or “Poisson” (fish). Apparently it was good foie gras, but it has the taste and texture of lard to me, so I doubt I’ll be getting fat on it in Dordogne. As for duck, last time I had it in France, I thought the waiter had made a mistake and brought me roast beef. Won’t be getting fat on duck, either.

Cheese. That’s a different story. When you walk into a fromagérie (cheese shop) in France, you must take a deep whiff. “Foot of an angel” is how I’ve heard the scent described. It’s definitely a smelly-foot kind of aroma, but arguably not so disagreeable. I love the smell of the fromagérie. If you love the smell of mouldy basements (and the smell of your dog’s paws), you will too. Otherwise, avoid.

I am happy with almost any cheese. Some take a little getting accustomed to, but to me, worth the effort. John, however, has no tolerance for any but the mildest of goudas, so he goes elsewhere when I shop for cheese. I bought some Emmental for tomorrow’s picnic, and I just hope it suits him, because the French like to TASTE their cheese, just as they like to taste their coffee.

Speaking of which. There is no such thing as café-au-lait in the afternoon. At breakfast, it’s café-au-lait till you float away; it’s expected. Ask for the same at 4 pm, and they will deny ever having heard of such a thing. “Café-au-lait? Qu’est-ce que c’est? Je ne connais pas cette chose!” John thought I was making it up, but Jocelyne confirmed my story. Even she, living in France her whole life, finds it funny.


Cassoulet is a dish indigenous to south-western France. It is a stew consisting of a specific white bean grown in the region, and a variety of sausages and other meats. There is serious competition about Cassoulet, with any of several towns thinking theirs is the best. (Toronto and Montreal have a similar rivalry about bagels.) I tried a Cassoulet in the same good Toulouse restaurant when I was there several years ago and was under-impressed. We tried it again in Foix last night, and again found it less than thrilling. John, I think, nailed it: it is the kind of food that would take one back to one’s childhood—like Grand-mere’s. It is peasant food, hearty and cheap (or should be). It’s comfort food like mac and cheese, if you are a mac-and-cheese kind of person. The difference is that it’s a complicated dish to make, apparently, the process taking a couple of days. Can’t say I understand what the Cassoulet fuss is about.

We are just now into a Catalan-influenced region of France. I am looking forward to a couple of days of paella and Collioure anchovies. After that, whatever the Dordogne has to offer as an alternative to foie gras and duck confit.

So. My plan, at one point, was to create something from this trip that included poetry, photos, food (meaning recipes). I still think the idea is decent, but I’m not sure the recipe part will happen. I did take photos of some recipes today (how’s that for cheap?), but I can’t rightly claim those. There has been no poetry yet, but fodder for much; that will come. Photos, I have a gazillion already. Most of them crap. I’m still trying to find my theme, not satisfied by the shots that have been done better in postcards. I have a lot of cranes and building sites—maybe that will be it.

Thank you Lisa, for making me do this. Next up: the possibly greatest day of my life (yesterday), while it’s still fresh.





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