Keeping it simple....

Goodnight...

xo

bb

A confession or Guilty pleasures or I blog therefore I am

xo

bb

p.s. caught you by surprise, didn't i, in the last frame. the essence of the guilty pleasure is of course guilt. knowing me, you know the guilt is not that i didn't attempt to bake these from scratch (don't have the skill or patience), but is instead eating something from a box when i have a baker around the corner. but while the local boys are magicians with muffins and even brioches, they have not mastered the croissant.

p.p.s. speaking of guilty, i have been very remiss at posting and reading your blogs. i'll be back to it soon! the fluguelbindery made me an offer i couldn't refuse - a one week work trip to india in exchange for a week of holidays, all decided at short notice. i've just finished the holiday, and now i have to pay the bills...

Food for the stomach and mind

Am I little embarrassed by my food obsession? I am. But not too much. An Italian friend of mine worked for a while with a travel agency in Boston which arranged guide tours of Italy. She the most common question that she would get is: what will we eat? It can cut both ways. I have known Americans who must travel with their Oreo cookies (and not just to single out Americans, Gujarati's - my people - are known to travel with their own snacks, dry chutneys, and if they can afford it their own chef) and those who are more excited about the food they will eat than what they will see.

For me Naples has been mostly about work (sadly, but the Flugelbindery is paying the bills) and meeting friends (much happier -- and the nice thing is that this a small town in the end - you meet people everywhere - crossing the street, in cafe, walking home late at night...). But I can't deny a thrill when I go to the local cremeria and see little balls of mozzarella floating lazily like fat fish in a tank. And I won't deny the thrill of seeing a cheese platter when I'm invited to dinner.



But for me also food for the mind (less fattening, you know?). Below a picture from Rita McBride's latest exhibition in Naples. Can you guess what the shapes are?




The neon versions were constructed by an aged neon master in Naples who I had the chance to meet.

Though I haven't read them before, Rita McBride is famous for her "faux" novels. Her first was a faux museum catalog / romance. She has also done faux science fiction. Very cool woman.

Thursday lunch box, Naples

I have no nostalgia for the lunch box. Lunch hour at school was a difficult experience for me. I was a finicky eater and was usually stuck with food that I didn't really like (Is it really my fault though? Is Havarti really the best cheese for a child's lunch box?) or that I liked but that was so bizarre that the other kids made fun of me (I recall one really great day when my mother gave up and gave me a piece of cake for lunch -- I realize now that my classmates were probably jealous, but that's not the way it came across then -- and in case you are worrying about my health -- don't -- my mother did that only once).

In any case, here at the Flugelbindery in Naples we have a pretty basic cafeteria. But basic in Naples includes at least three freshly cooked contorni and fresh mozzarella on offer. Oh, and a coffee bar manned by Pepe (who smokes while he draws the coffee and who is constantly rolling up the sleeves of his half-sleeved t-shirt even further, but I digress).

But one of the boys (ok - I mean older gentlemen) brought in some nice pasta and an apple for lunch. So I got to thinking, perhaps I should bring my own lunch with me. You have Exhibit A above: olives, arugula, fresh tomatoes, mozzarella (hidden underneath, you can't see it), olive oil that put at at the bottom of one of the cups, a piece of bread, and in the bag a small little cake).

My mother doesn't read my blog, but you can bet that I'm going to send her this picture!

xo

bb

Grilling

I don't know if this is only an American (/ Canadian) thing, but summertime and warm weather makes many people think of grilling. (By the way, it was 33 C in NYC yesterday.) In summer the traditional balance of kitchen power shifts from women to men: women hang up their oven mitts and aprons, and men take out their tongs and charcoal and head to the grill.

Growing up we were not a grilling family. In part this was the perception that grilling was really a non-vegetarian activity. This isn't entirely fair: grilled veggies (and for that matter fruit!) are great. But it is true, you don't see men buying multi-thousand dollar grills all for the sake of some nicely browned eggplants. It also has something to do with the fact that we're from India. Indian husbands don't typically cook (don't want to offend the Indian men out there, but you know that this is usually true). Lack of cooking skill does not however imply lack of cooking knowledge. Ask an Indian wife how to cook some fantastic dish you've just tried, and more often than not the husband will take over the reply and give you detailed instructions on how to make a dish he himself has never tried. (But in fairness to the Indian man, this kind of backseat cooking is a skill in its own right...)

In any case, I discovered not so long ago that my gas oven has a broiler underneath. I'm not sure if you've ever looked below your oven, but if you haven't do so know. A broiler in is basically an oven in reverse, placing your food centimetres from powerful gas jets. Your food is warmed, browned, and crisp in minutes.

Despite this felicitous discovery, my broiler was mainly used to finish omelets, until yesterday that is. For some reason I bought haloumi cheese, not entirely certain what I would do with it. Somehow it remind me of the "grill" and 40 minutes later I was marinading, skewering, and grilling away. (Haloumi, like paneer, is great for grilling.)

Of course, there is a reason why men grill outdoors in the summer. Indoors, in a small apartment it gets hot. But aside from this small detail, it was delicious: tasty and satisfying, while light enough to satisfy my stringent diet.

If you're not already perspiring by reading this, you can find the recipe here. Surprisingly my kebabs came out looking pretty much like this:

{from JamieOliver.com}

And now, you guessed it, I can't stop grilling. I'm still not sure whether or not to tell my parents what I'm up to.

bb

Homemade, reconsidered

Though some might brand me cynical, unpatriotic, hard hearted, and an all-round party pooper, let me just come out and say it: I don't believe in Homemade, and for that matter I'm pretty skeptical about homemade too.

I don' t recall when exactly it began, as it crept up insidiously, but there are so many things described as homemade - things you can buy in restaurants, stores, even supermarkets, places that clearly are not homes - that being Homemade doesn't mean much anymore. It just means it was at least partly completed on the premises. It could have arrived frozen and ready to thaw or bake and it can be called Homemade.

So having gotten that off my chest, what, you ask, is my problem with real homemade? Something truly made from scratch in a home?

It's just that most homemade isn't really very good. The whole progress of civilization, modernity, urbanity has been taking us to the point where people specialize in doing things, and learn to do them well. So the baker bakes. The butcher, butchers. The pâtissier makes pâtissierie. You go to the chocolate shop for chocolate, and don't really need to mess with tempering chocolate at home. And if you want a glass of wine or beer, really, don't bother to make your own, because someone out there has figured out how to do it better.

Two qualifications here. First, I am lucky enough to live in New York, so you really can get people who have all of the above skills and more. But you can in many other cities as well. If you live in one of those cities where you can't get these services, then I admire you for trying at home. Second, some people, a few, a very few, are really good at some of these things. I imagine that the baker goes home and with fresh rolls for his family (I would like to imagine... in reality, I'm sure he/she goes home dead tired of the smell of fresh bread.) So again if you're one of these, then congrats (and invite me home soon!)

(And a quick aside on bread machines. I was given a secondhand one as a gift. The bread is not bad, but I'm not really a bread person and I only use it when someone wants to have some exotic variety not locally available...

And a surprisingly different view of ice cream machines. I actually have had a few good homemade ice creams. I wouldn't mind one of those machines that has its own freezer, as a long as it comes with an apartment large enough to contain the noise of the compressor.)

So there it is. I really don't believe in homemade.

* * *

Which is what makes the next confession difficult. I made (ok - I watched / helped as a friend made) mayonnaise. I was skeptical; even though the store-bought varieties are insipid, who really wants some creamy goop inside a perfectly good sandwich? Another issue is that I am allergic to one of the common ingredients (prepared mustard), so the idea was by making at it home I could be sure it was safe. I had to be dragged to the kitchen. I complained. I pouted. (And you know, it's not that I don't like to cook -- I was just convinced this was an exercise in futility.)

And now... I am addicted to the stuff. Homemade mayonnaise is spiritual. Indeed, using it I made a sandwich with my own hands that I would rate as one of the 5 best sandwiches I have ever eaten...

* * *

So if there is anything I can say to redeem myself at the end of this post, it is this: Yes, sometimes (often) I arrive at situations with strong prior views and opinions. Sometimes I need to be convinced to give things a try. But I'm always open to trying and unashamed to change my mind.

And now if you'll excuse me, I've got to go and make a sandwich...

bb

Cozy moments (Friday night) or hibernation

I hope you had a lovey weekend -- some of us I know did!

It must be a sign of my advancing years, but I spent Friday night at home, without the slightest urge to head out. It was cold out, with the peroration of winter threatening to become a full and unexpurgated volume 2. But fear not, I was not alone...

* * *

Yes, I was shacked up with an American, a French, an Italian, a Swiss, and a bottle of wine.

* * *

Yes, I was shacked up with four pieces of cheese and a bottle of wine.

* * *

I know they say age changes you. And I suppose this is the irrefutable proof: really, I missed nothing. There was soft, runny, and gloriously smelly cheese (an American cheese -- really, the Americans are making some very good cheese these days). There was the always-reliable Gruyere, and the never-modest Ubriaco. And not to leave the French out of it, I had a very satisfying wedge of Tomme de Savoie. The wine was nothing revelatory. Actually, since I'm in confessional mode I'll admit it. I drank one (make that half) of those bottles that someone brings you for a party that you would never buy for yourself or even take to someone's party. But, you know, it wasn't half bad.

* * *

They sometimes say that ageing is learning to make do with less. Sometimes perhaps. But sometimes it is learning to make do with more.

bb

P.S. And it is true that I knew I was going to a speakeasy night on Saturday. Two friends of mine. Twins: composer and architect. And an amateur, evangelical mixologist. For the rest, I am sworn to secrecy.

7 things I love... (free-style tag)

We've all done a tag or two (or n, n large) tags in our days, but Marion has invented a new form, which I picked up over at Jane's place and which I'm going to call free-style tag. In this version, rather than tagging 7 specific people, you just let anyone who feels like it join in. Think of it as a big jam session, or even better those drummers in the park (bring your drum and join in!), rather than a symphony orchestra.

So my version of it, like Marion and Jane, will be 7 things I love right now... If you're inspired, please do join in!

1. Kurosawa's Ran. No surprise given my last post, but I was waiting to be transported back into a world of heightened feeling and sound (I've probably been missing going to the opera), and this film did it.
2. Gorgonzola cheese. These days I can't get enough of it (which is why I take care to buy very little -- you know, little cheese.)
3. The art of my friend Lee Etheredge. I'm lucky enough to own a few of his pieces (and so are MoMA and the Whitney!) But I caught up with my friend recently and was delighted to see him doing new and exciting work (not yet on his blog, but keep an eye on it!)
4. Cappuccino. (You can see there is no order to this list.) Of course we all love a good cappuccino. Italics here will mystify our Italian friends who are used to a good coffee from a bar no more than 100m from where they stand, but in these parts you have to go looking for one. (But this takes me back to a young bb discovers the world anecdote. When I first began drinking the stuff at Italian restaurants outside Italy, I would enjoy the foam but then find the coffee just too bitter. Some years later I discovered the coffee I was having was too bitter, not that perfect marriage of coffee and foamed milk. And can I get one more pet peeve off my chest? If the president of Starbucks or any other chain is reading, please not that it is coffee and foamed milk not coffee, milk, and foam. The problem here is you get coffee with warm milk and mound of topiary foam on top. Done right the milk itself takes on a light foaminess...) Anyway, I 've had a decent espresso machine at home for about 8 years, but recently I have begun using it to make myself a cappucino every morning. As good as my favorite coffee bars? No. But better than 95% of most others? Yes.
5. The laptop computer. OK, I guess this really dates me. But even though I had a laptop, my "real" computer until 3 years ago was a desktop to which I was tethered. But now everything is on my laptop (don't worry, duly backed up), and I can roam free. And you know good ol' bb likes to roam!
6. Semi-fictional, semi-history. The writing is formulaic, but I couldn't put it down.
7. And finally this picture:

I suppose most of you are asking yourselves: who? It's Roger Federer who just won his 16th Grandslam Championship, with his father. (Just to be clear, since I sense most of my readers aren't sports type, I'm talking about tennis). Some of you may be shocked to discover that I watch any sports at all. The truth is not often, but sometimes tennis. I think this is because we watched it growing up (unlimited television during Wimbledon!) And some of you may be shocked then to discover that I admire a sportsman. But friends, there is much to admire here. First, how he plays. It's more like ballet than today's physically grinding game. Second, there is the impossibility of it. He sees angles and openings no else can. In that sense, I think he is like an artist, creating and orchestrating movement and visual possibilities. And also if you look at his tall, slim frame and his muscle-bound opponents, you can't understand how this man can stand a chance. Third, he has been doing this for about 6 years. Six sports years are like 30 normal years. He has somehow operated at a the highest level that long, maintaining his body, his mind, and above all his freshness of spirit -- the desire to excel, to win, and the pleasure of doing what you do. And finally, you've got to love this picture! Look at his delight, and look at the father's delight. And look how delighted they are to be sharing the moment. Even the greatest champion, artist, scientist must have these moments, when he or she is a child again basking in his or her parent's love and admiration.

bb

BIG CHEESE little cheese

Somehow, somewhere two weeks have slipped since my last post. I thought this next post was going to be about some films I've seen (the next one maybe...) but this one is a about:

BIG CHEESE and little cheese.

So what's it all about? There's no way to pretend the following will be coherent, so I'm not going to try:

* In London I lived next to a cheese monger (love that occupation name - monger, iron monger and cheese monger being the two I continue to see - it's not used in American English). Well, I thought of myself as living next to La Fromagerie, though in reality it was a 4 minute stroll away. It's a gem of place, and most things cost just about as much as gems. But getting back to the cheese, they have their own cheese cave. I should say "cave", because it's a wonderful room that the customers can walk into, to be surrounded by the smell of ageing cheese. What a smell! And the cheese monger himself will give you a tour, with some suggestions and tastings thrown in. Looking back, I don't know why I didn't buy more cheese. For one thing, you could get unaged raw milk cheese, which we can't here. For another, it's irresistible! So just for the record, it's not that I could resist, it's just that somehow I went shopping on Sunday, market day, and tended to buy my cheese there...

* In New York, I live next (in the same sense as above) to a very fine, quite reputed cheese section. Indeed, one person liked it so much he asked - and was given permission - to get married there! (No, not me, though not a bad idea for the future...) The only problem here is they have many cheeses pre-cut and pre-wrapped. Good cheese, but usually hunks (don't like that word, but it's the right word...) Of course, you can get them to cut piece for you, but you have to endure the competitive sport called New York grocery shopping. Some people move too fast and knock you over. Some run their shopping cart into you Achilles' tendons (there's a reason ancient mythology picks this as Achilles' weak spot...) Even more taxing is weaving your way through the crowd. Overtaking the slow walkers and the indecisive, while yourself being flanked by a shopping cart and a baby stroller. In this kind of high-risk situation, you don't really want stop to to ask for your bespoke slice of cheese. You grab what you can and run.

* In Boston, I now have my own cheese monger. Actually it's a wine store and provisions store. The wine store is great, if like me you enjoy good wine but don't enjoy the sticker shock of buying wine outside continental Europe (sorry UK -- same problem there as here....), and I'm sure at some point I'll write about how this has changed my life. (But that phrase sounds bad no? At the least, a bit tricky...) But the cheese monger... Life changing... My local grocery options here basically consist of overly expensive, overly large, pre-packaged cheese. Now instead, I pop in for somewhere between $2-$4 worth of cheese. A thin sliver of Gorgonzola here, a brick of Robiola there, and even better a great selection of American cheeses. (For the doubters out there, American cheese isn't only Kraft slices. There's good stuff there. Right now I'm nibbling on a American raw cow milk's cheese...)

I wish there a were a more philosophical peroration to this line of thought. But really, that's it for now. Big cheese, little cheese.

bb

Requiem for a toaster

My parents bought me a toaster in 1992. At the time I was still at an age where my parents would buy me things, but all ready of an age where my parents would buy me such things, things I needed more than things I wanted or desperately desired. We were the kind of family that when we went to the movies didn't buy popcorn or sodas. It's not that my parents didn't want to spend the extra money, or that they were trying to save our appetites for a dinner that would follow (or - except for a few unmentionable years - were trying to protect my waistline). It's just that we didn't believe in these things. Popcorn was nice, and soda was nice, and I never lacked for these things. It's just at the movies we didn't believe in them

(Strangely, all these years later, I still don't believe in popcorn at the movies. I am so absorbed in the film that even the basic process of shoveling food into my mouth is too distracting -- although perhaps this is the time to confess that for few years I used to take pasta to the movies. I mean if you are going to eat, then why not eat really good food?)

In the 18 years that have followed, I have taken that toaster for granted. For, you see, I am not really a toast person. Toast has never been a breakfast food for me. Nor do I take toast with an omelet at lunch or brunch. And when I eat bagels , I eat them untoasted. Nonetheless, it follows my blindly and loyally wherever I go.

I have from time to time used the oven feature. But really when I use an oven I need a real oven for baking. And I don't eat much frozen food. But still sometimes the oven has come in handy.

My parents bought me the toaster because they thought I needed one. There is a pretty lengthy list of things my parents bought for me, generous as they are, and most of the items on that list proved to be pretty useful. (The one item that stands out as less used than the toaster was an electric can opener. I got rid of it years ago. Not because I don't open the occasional can, but just because the mechanical variety seems to take just about the same effort and take up less space. I still don't understand why someone would need an electric can opener. I'm not being judgmental here, or, I hope, unappreciative of a thoughtful gift. I'm just trying to understand.)

In any case, after a long gap, and for some random reasons, I bought a loaf of toasting bread the other day, popped two slices in, and depressed the button. Nothing. I was taken a back. There are few certainties in our world, but this is one of them. When you depress the toaster button, the heating wires turn red, and the two slices are on their way toast heaven.

It stood there, inert, mute, cold, lifeless. My toaster was no more.

* * *

I miss my toaster for all these reasons, except the toast. But I am gleefully, and guiltily, thrilled to recover the counter space, the one most precious ingredient in my kitchen. And I have plans for that space, such plans! But more on that some other time.

For now I would like to remember the toaster that my parents bought for me 18 years ago, and the 18 years we have lived together since then.

bb

Update

I had better just confess this now. I've become a toast addict.

An ice-cream Rorschach test

I was just out at the local ice cream store where I confronted a few annoyances, much bliss, and some random musings. So taking these in order...

A few annoyances: It's one of the gelaterias that is a heavy-weight foreign import, and makes much of this. A few years ago when they opened there were lines down the block. This I accepted with resignation (by just not going -- no ice cream is worth queuing that much for). But it must be said that they achieve something which seems so simple (because so many gelaterias in Italy manage to do it - and in other European countries as well, all to varying degrees of skill of course), but remains elusive at almost all the places I've been to in the US or Canada: the ice cream actually tastes like the substance for which it is named. So the dark chocolate has more intense chocolate flavor than biting into a bar (along with the icy creminess of course). The pistachio tastes like the nut, even more so than it looks like it (no need for pistachio ice cream to look especially green...)

(While I'm on this point, do you mind if I digress? No? Many thanks... There are two other things that seem so, so, so (!) simple yet are almost impossible to find outside Italy: a well drawn espresso and properly cooked pasta. Now I'm not going to get into the North-South debate in Italy -- whether you like your coffee in Naples or prefer it Turin is up to you, but there are at most a few places in NYC where you can get that kind of coffee. And no, I don't mean one of those obsessive Berkeley/SF style coffees, where the coffee roster mutters a dozen prayers over the roasting machine, and where the barista is hunched over the machine with the concentration of a scientist attempting cold fusion... Of this type there are now perhaps a dozen in New York. They'll make you a cappuccino with a 12-leafed frond on it, and even the macchiato has has at least a four-leafed frond on it. No, I want to pull up to the bar, order my coffee, get it a minute later, drink it in peace for a minute or two, pay, and then leave... And preferably in that order...

The other mystery is why it is so hard to get properly cooked pasta outside Italy. Not saying you can't get it, but it is sufficiently elusive that this alone can be the acid test of an Italian restaurant's quality. But I won't rave any longer....)

So getting back to that annoyance, they won't let you combine more than two flavors in the the smallest size take-away container. For that you must order the large. Why? There's room enough. And if you ask for two flavors on a cone, they put one scoop on top of the other (horror!) rather than the two flavors side by side, in harmony, where they belong...

Much bliss: As you've gathered, the stuff is good. Really good. Great, I'm not sure (bear in mind, great for me is truly the ultimate standard -- great food stays in my mind for days if not weeks, not unlike a great work of art or unfortunately the latest pop-tart tune I heard on the soundtrack at the gym), but good certainly...

And the musings: Let it be in the form of a question: Suppose you had two flavors, side by side, in a cup. Assume also you know exactly how each tastes (if necessary, then with a quick pre-taste). Then how would you go about eating the ice cream? I can think of 3 distinct ways, but I'm sure there are more... And I believe each one reveals something essential about your personality. Leave your reply in the comments, where I'll post my answer in a few days...

From all of this digressional ranting, you have gathered that I'm in need of a holiday. But succor is at hand in the form of an airplane ticket to Italy... South here I come! And North, you won't have to wait long either...

Have a great tail end of the summer everyone... More soon!

xoxo

BB

New words, same guilt. Or The new carbs

Just read this phrase in the newspaper, "carbon indulgence".

referring to someone who was trying to design an environmentally
friendly home but allowed himself the indulgence
of importing the wind turbines from Finland
- saving electricity but using so much to transport them
to Chicago - are you following this?

What is next? Carbon guilt? Carbon envy?

I had just caught up with the idea of "carb indulgence" and "carb guilt", where carb refers to carbohydrates. When did the staples of my childhood, pasta and bread, become a guilty indulgence, to be savored like cake? I don't know, but it happened.

Of course I grew up on chapatis and vegetables ,
so for example the idea of eating chapatis
with chapatis does seem rather odd.
Italian readers' opinions?
Would you call pasta and bread a staple,
or was this part of the Internationalization/ vulgarization
of Italian food where the concept of pasta as the primo
was lost and it became the main?

Perhaps it is our age. We are well intentioned, well informed, but utterly incapable of doing anything other than feeling guilty about our incapacity.

OK, I'm talking about myself.

BB

Nobel prize nominees (several months too late)

Is there a Nobel prize in wellbeing? Or instead can a chocolate maker qualify to win the Peace Prize? If so (and why not?) then I believe these are the nominees.






I've previously written about the awards for "loo of the year", but this something at a different level altogether. Have you tried these before? As you would expect, they first came to me in a contraband shipment from Europe when I was living in New York and I was recently updated by another contraband shipment here in London. You look at the package and think, what an absurd idea, trying to capture a dessert in a chocolate bar. Why not let dessert be dessert, and chocolate be chocolate? Two families, both happy. But the genius is that they do.

You bite into the the thick square and you are suddenly awash with the unctuous taste of the crème and then after a moment the cruch of the brûlée bit. That's it! They have really captured it and wrapped it in a bar!

The geniuses who created this are clearly capable of magic. Why don't they create an inspiration bar, or just quit messing around and create a bliss bar? Oh, of course, that's what they've already done.

Cheers,

BB

P.S. Here in London I have regular access only to the crème brûlée and tiramisu flavors. I tried the lemon tart in the aforementioned contraband shipment. But if anyone wants to ship me the chocolate tart and macarons (gasp.... sigh...) then you'll earn my eternal gratitude.

Before / after: Attack of the mushroom mound

It started innocently enough, with the desire to cook a mushroom ragout for 6-9 people. So I doubled the recipe that could feed 4-6 people. I had never seen what 2 kg of mushrooms look like, here it is:


Intimidating and impressive. That's my 10-person paella pan filled to the brim. But the alchemy of the fire again takes over, and after 90 minutes it looks like this:


It was (thanks Mark Bittman) delicious, but still enough to feed 14 people. Since I only had 4 for dinner, if you would like any mushroom ragout drop me a line and I'll send you some in the post.

Cheers,

BB

P.S. Another excellent blogging theme stolen from my friend Lola.

All told pretty satisfied

All told pretty satisfied with how this turned out. Bittmanesque simplicity on the left, and my own humble effort on the right. No, let me say it, proud. You'll just have to take my word that the tomatoes fresh from the market were succulently caramelized, the paella rice rich with stock, onions, garlic, saffron, and pimentón (and not anemic as they look in the picture; resolution -- must improve my food photography). For me this humble dish approaches the alchemic wonders wonders of baking. Correction, this dish exactly achieves the alchemy of the oven. In goes goop (for a cake) or slosh in this case and out comes a tasty delight.

If only I could solve all my problems with the same ease.

Cheers,

BB

Prrrrrrr?

Is this a cat's life? Eating a succession of fine meals accompanied by a veritable bowl of wine and then time in the afternoon to rest and think of meals past and meals future? Is this what it means to purr contentedly? I am of course referring to my most recent trip to Italy, and if all of the above includes worrying about adding too much fat in the wrong places then I think it is.

I don't want to alarm our Italian friends (hello friends) into thinking that I am like a starving refugee washed up on their shores (though it often seems like this). I do sleep in a warm bed, and I had seen hot and cold running water before being in Italy. What I had not seen (since my last time in Italy - admittedly it was only June, but it seems like the dim past) was a succession of fine meals ranging from a low of 13 Euros (a deliciously thin pizza and a carafe of red wine) to the bank-breaking extravagance of 40 Euros for a no-holes-barred, 4-course meal at a fancy spot. At my neighborhood spot in London I would pay 20-25 pounds for one of those meals where you carefully tiptoe across the menu like a minefield in order to convince your friends that you aren't either very stingy, poor, or suffering from an eating disorder (I'll have a side of field greens please and an ice water).

Yes, there was more than food on this trip. There was art, typically the older masterish variety.


There were mediaeval towns. There was driving and road trip music (more on the latter some other time). There was a wedding.

But as my stomach grumbles at getting back to dry toast and Danon Activia, my mind seems to wander back to a plate of truffle scented pasta and a half litre of Montefalco Rosso.

(Note the wall that is used to keep out starving foreign tourists.)

Prrrrrrr ... grrrrrr...

BB