Delicious Expeditions

After twenty years in San Miguel, coupled with my obscure travels around the world, not much surprises me. Even yesterday at Billa, on a morning run to get fresh bread for breakfast, I ran across Elverace in what appeared to be his wife’s lacy nightgown and I didn’t even look twice. He and his outfits are now a familiar feature in my life. I no longer need to hide behind the Bellini display in order to get a discreet good look.

Then I went to a neighborhood restaurant called Paradiso Perduto (Paradise Lost). The chef and owner Maurizio has curly, grey, shoulder length hair and stylish glasses. Like Elverace, he sometimes wears his pajamas in public, especially when he comes in late at night to check his kitchen. The first moment I saw him I knew I would be a regular at his place. (He was stirring a large copper pot of polenta in a floppy chef’s hat while drinking white wine.) Maurizio is an anarchist; his restaurant motto—“good fish at good prices.”

Frittura Mista

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You might want to think twice the next time you bypass a copy of Vanity Fair in the grocery store aisle or airport. For the past fifteen years I’ve had a faithful subscription, following Dominick Dunne, the rich and famous, as well as minor nobility and scions of business. They were always distant figures in my life, but somehow I remembered the gossip and the incestuous relationships and now, in Paris, I can discuss their lives with their friends, pretending they’re my friends too…and it works!!

Paris? Did she just say Paris? I thought she’s supposed to be in Venice? I know, but believe me it was completely unexpected.

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I knew I had chosen the right place to live when I saw Elvis, or was it Liberace, at my corner grocery store–Billa. Cloaked in a black cape, a jeweled t-shirt glimmering underneath, he waited patiently in the checkout line. His jet-black hair, draped to his shoulders, hinted at youth; however, his aggressively receding hairline told a truer story of his age. Venetians in conservative wool suits greeted him warmly, inquiring about his day with little notice of his large rhinestone-studded sunglasses or dangling gold chains. He was one of them, a fellow member of my new hood—Caneregio.

There’s nothing I like more than eccentric individuals, people who move to the beat of a different drummer, or better yet, their own forty-piece orchestra. Venice is full of them, or so I have read, and I plan to befriend a few before the end of spring. Elverace is high on my list.

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Last summer I reviewed my life when I was I told I might not make it through an emergency surgery for a massive blood clot after an adjustment from a (Canadian, not to be confused with Mexican) chiropractor, I now call Dr. Death. Confronted with the surprising news, I was relieved I had recently made out my first ever Will. I was delighted I had chosen Mexico and a life of adventure and travel, and I even smiled with satisfaction knowing I had done almost everything I had ever wanted in lieu of playing it safe. Not bad, I thought.

I then sent a quick email to my friends saying thanks for the memories and goodbye. I made them promise I could have a gelato cart at my funeral and a slide show of Betty, my foster child in Malawi. (Don’t worry, on an intellectual level I do realize she’s a baboon.) I asked them to play an eclectic mix of music from my life, starting with Abba and the Bee Gees and ending well, with Abba (thanks to their Mama Mia! revival) and Michael Feinstein. They were only to serve the best prosecco before, during, and after the event, as well as memorize a few simple steps for a “Soul Train”-style procession down the church (?) aisle. “Don’t worry I’ll leave the choreography notes with the nurses,” I told them. “Oh, and if the Harlem Gospel Singers are available, book them and start a donation fund for their transportation and lodging.”

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The scent of roasted pork with a hint of rosemary arrives before the porchetta truck comes into view. Rounding the corner I find the source of the mouth-watering aroma—a large, roasted pig, stuffed with herbs, sprawled across the vehicle’s clean plastic counter. I’m not a fan of animals displayed in this fashion, however, I am a fan of good pork products, so I choose to ignore the head and feet, focusing only on the center and the fresh golden brown rolls stacked in the corner. As a large, cheerful, rosy-cheeked man, clad in a white apron, slices thin slivers of pork, his companion opens up the a roll and places the meat inside, making a savory sandwich, just for me.

Umbrian Porchetta

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I love a good travel deal. It’s not so much about the destination, but more about the price of the ticket. A few years ago I went to Scotland just to celebrate Continental airlines’ new direct route to Edinburgh. Even though I knew seeing the Scottish highlands in late fall wasn’t the best time, the $300 round trip fare convinced me otherwise. Walking the frigid streets in afternoon darkness wasn’t very pleasant, but once I was home with the intense Mexican sun beating on my back, I fondly remembered my time abroad…at half the price.

I think of my off-season travel mantra (suck it up now and then manipulate the memories to eliminate the misery) as the strong, cold Mediterranean wind beats across my chapped, red face. My ears ache so much that I wish they would just fall off as I walk the steep, narrow, dim alleyways of Erice, a fortress town dating back to Roman times. Perched atop a mountain overlooking the Tyrrhenian coast of western Sicily and the famous salt flats of Trapani, Erice is known for its marzipan, the best in Sicily, which means some of the best in the world. Elizabeth (my friend who has a cooking school in Umbria) has joined me in my obsessive quest for quality food. This may seem a little extreme until you realize that I once took an overnight train from Germany to Switzerland to sample a real “Mozart Kugel”. These small chocolate truffles are exported all over the world, but only made with the finest ingredient–fresh cream, in Zurich. I had to try the authentic version, and the trip, I might add, was well worth it.

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Warm golden brown balls of rice stuffed with spiced meat line the glass display case in the tiny, white tiled storefront behind a fish stand in Palermo’s outdoor Capo market. The shop, not even 8 feet wide, is camouflaged by a giant, glistening swordfish lying next to an enormous pile of fresh sardines. Mackerel, cod, cuttlefish, and squid fill in the rest of the fishmonger’s display. Spaced evenly apart, some of these shiny sea creatures, fresh from the ocean, stand on their tails as if ready to jump back into the deep blue Mediterranean.

Fish Stall--Capo Market--Palermo, Sicily

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As the ancient round, grey stone slowly rotates around the deep metal container, crushing piles of dark glistening olives into a thick paste, I step in for a better view and almost slide to the ground on the olive-oil-coated floor in the Ravagni mill. As I adjust my balance, the olive paste–a mixture of leaves, pits, and flesh–shoots from a small opening in the tub’s bottom on to a circular, woven mat. Stacked upon another, the mats are placed beneath a hydraulic press to extract the liquid from the fleshy pulp.

Olive Mill

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