Delicious Expeditions

Plush velvet, jewel-toned sofas; polished brass fixtures; long, elegant etched mirrors; women with fabulous floral hats, sipping tea next to men in dark suits, newspapers in hand; intellectuals in heated debates, with waiters in crisp, white aprons serving glasses of champagne is how I envision café society. Even though this scenario was more common a century ago, it’s still alive at the Café Savoy in Prague (well, minus the jeweled sofas and floral head-gear; the waiters, though, are right on cue).

I’ve always pictured myself in this environment, present and past life. I would spend my days, keeping up on current events and trends, while nibbling on delicate pastries, as well as large chunks of Germanic layer cake, oozing assorted cream fillings. All this would take place over endless cups of Viennese coffee poured into fine, bone-white china, before I would switch to a Moravian red, served in a thin, long-stemmed glass at a respectable hour. Seated beside fascinating individuals, I would pretend to read thought-provoking books while analyzing their footwear and topics of conversation with an enlightened, silent critique.

Savoy Pastry Case

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A sharp metal trill awakes me, like church bells hidden inside the closet. It continues in short intervals as the street trolley bends around the corner with a high-pitched squeak and stops across the lawn from my bedroom window. Hordes of people get on and off, scurrying to work, as I pull the white lace curtain back and open the double pained antique windows. It’s the beginning of August, so the day is warm and the heat already intense. Out of the corner of my eye I notice a large group of tourists trekking across a cobblestone street, heading to the narrow lane, which leads to Prague Castle. The enormous complex, with its varied architecture, sits high on the hilltop in front of me, above the trolleys, in perfect view—the perfect view, from my new apartment, at least for the next month.

Trolley & Prague Castle

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Sunlight fills the patio; filtered through bougainvillea, palm trees, banana leaves and jasmine vines. Everywhere you look the light is different, softer near the muted, paint-peeled apricot walls, harsher on the ancient grey stones. A soft breeze dances around a guava tree, full of sweet yellow fruit, swaying its long, green limbs ever so gently from side to side. Key limes weigh down the branches of a short, stout tree at the entrance of the old, colonial house. A house, which dates back to 1600 and is the new residence of El Buen Café (Jesús 36), just down the street from its original location.

Entrance to El Buen Cafe

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6am is the designated time of departure into the dense forested area close to the Novak lodge. Mushrooms are on the menu today and they have to be hunted down, not in a supermarket, but in the dark, damp earth. I manage to miss the outing (thank God this isn’t a real job, or I’d be fired on my first day), as well as all the morning activity in the lodge. I tell my affable hosts that it’s the jet lag, but in truth, I don’t believe in doing anything at 6am, except sleeping. Luckily, for my benefit, there’s a second excursion planned.

As a first time forager I’m quite pleased with myself, since I manage to fill my simple, round woven basket to the rim with large, cream-colored mushrooms within only a half hour. This isn’t so hard, I tell myself, why all the fuss about getting up early to start the prolonged, rugged search.

I’m soon discouraged, though, when Miriam points out that all my pristine, perfectly shaped mushrooms are poisonous and have to be discarded. She assumed I could easily handle my first task, but discovers instead that I will need close supervision. As a city girl, born and raised in Houston, Texas, in the time of mega-supermarkets, I just failed Foraging 101.

Mushroom Hunting with Miriam

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Last Fall I attended a family reunion in Slovenia, which was actually a two-week extravaganza of food and wine with my father and his many cousins. They were returning to the old country (a 100 years later) to meet their long lost Slavic relatives, whom I tracked down in 2001 (but that’s another story).

On the trip we spent a few days in the capital city of Ljubljana with its charming river running through Old Town and its many romantic bridges. My Slovenian musician friends (see the Perfect Meal post for history) all live there, so luckily I have an established social circle.

Ljubljana Castle on Hill

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Dia de los Locos or Day of the Crazies celebrates the beginning of summer. It’s one of San Miguel’s most festive occasions, which takes place every year on the first Sunday of June after San Antonio de Padua. It’s basically a large costume party in which the entire town participates.
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Rarely do I come upon a place that stops me in my tracks with its simple beauty, however, the courtyard of the Camino Real Hotel in Puebla does just that. If it weren’t for the man speaking on his cell phone next to me, I could easily play time traveler. This spectacular 16th century structure, originally a prominent colonial convent, encompasses a whole city block. In the first centuries of the Spanish empire, it housed the daughters of Puebla’s élite, noblewoman who chose the church and an education over marriage.

As I enter the building from the bustling, traffic jammed street, the patio’s vast, space and serenity surround me. It seems impossible that something so tranquil could be just steps away from chaos, but that may well be the secret of Mexico–contrast. Crossing the threshold of the ancient, 15-foot high wooden doors, I’m transported back in time. A few steps past the lobby beckons the largest colonial patio I’ve ever seen. In the center stands an immense fountain, the base covered with centuries-old talavera. It bubbles cool water as the intense mountain sun beats down upon it. The patio is surrounded with arches, supported by massive stone pillars. Yellow paint brightens the walls, bringing warmth to the cold, grey stones that cover the floor.

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New York City usually brings to mind the finest, most sophisticated restaurants in the world, with little thought to basic meals and home-cooking? I could be health conscious and enjoy a bowl of fruit and yogurt when visiting, but that’s something I can do at home (even though I rarely do). After years in Mexico, the land of hearty breakfasts, I feel compelled to go and explore the best the city has to offer in the way of simple, homey morning meals.

Good Enough to Eat on Amsterdam @ 83rd is one of the best places for perfect (affordable) eggs. Consistent beyond belief, this small, cozy establishment is bustling on the weekends when the brunch line weaves out on to the sidewalk. Simple wooden tables and farmhouse decor, with an emphasis on cows, provides a comforting environment for a bountiful breakfast. The owner, Carrie Levin, wrote her culinary thesis on the egg (90 pages, can you believe?), so obviously, it’s the specialty of the house. My personal favorite is the Wall Street omelet with baked ham and sharp cheddar cheese, served with homemade buttermilk biscuits and strawberry butter (the best in town and I’ve tried them all). Each time my plate arrives, I stick my fork into the eggs and marvel at their perfection: soft, light and fluffy. No rubbery, overcooked omelets here. Levin has her eggs shipped in directly from local farms and one savory bite emphasises her commitment to egg excellence. I stick to what I like, so I haven’t delved into the sweet side of the breakfast menu yet, but the pumpkin french toast with pear-cranberry compote and apple pancakes look and smell delightful as they pass by…and the coffee, delicious. A special blend, roasted specifically for the restaurant, it never fails to please. Even though it’s not traditional morning fare, try the sour cherry pie and/or carrot cake. You won’t be disappointed. If it’s too early for dessert, return in the afternoon, as I often do. for a little treat.

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El Buen Café, Jesús 23

After 17 years and 3 months I’m closing the doors at Jesús 23, the original and only location of El Buen Café, my restaurant in San Miguel. It’s not a sad occasion, as I thought it would be, but a wonderful opportunity to clean house. I’ll be reopening in a few months, just down the street, or at least I hope so. There have been some last-minute problems obtaining my new space, but I’m so sure that it’s my destiny that I’m headed out-of-town to track down the owner and secure the deal (story to follow in the memoir).

When I moved into Jesús 23 in 1991 I never would have imagined that I would spend such a large part of my life there. The small room on the corner with its lovely, wide arch separating the dining room had been my landlady’s father’s dry goods store in the 40s and 50s. He sold sacks of corn, flour, rice, and beans to his neighbors, as well as useful household items, such as soap, brooms and bottle openers. Supposedly, during the decades between his store and my restaurant, not a single business was able to keep its doors opened very long. A week after I sat up shop an unknown woman came in to tell me about the house and street, both inundated with spirits. San Miguel is well-known for its ghost stories and I always loved hearing about their escapades. She said I would have to make friends with them if I wanted to stay and that they especially loved fresh flowers. Easy enough, I thought, I would follow her instructions. Obviously, it worked and 17 years later I urged my family of spirits not to worry, I was only going down the street and we would still see each other often.

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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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