Slippery little suckers.

The children made me do it. I use that excuse a lot, but usually it relates to my own children.

We walked into the little bar on a cliff on the coast near Sintra, Portugal, looking forward to dinner after a big day of custard tart eating in Lisbon. The family of four at the next table were tucking into a couple of very large bowls of teeny, tiny snails. Steven wanted to try them. I wasn’t so sure, but then if the six and eight year olds at the next table could demolish that many of the little slime-bags and suck the shells dry, I wasn’t going to be shown up as some kind of English Tourist Wuss.
We ordered a half-serve.
The little feelers were still visible as we dragged them from their homes with toothpicks.
Steven described them as hot, soft pistachio nuts. More-ish. Can’t stop at one. He ate sixty-seven.
They reminded me of when I was a kid, and I hate to admit it, but I picked my nose and ate the result. Well, all the other kids did it…. didn’t they?????
I ate forty-eight snails.
There were still about a hundred left on the plate.

The Threshing Machine goes to a health farm!

It had to happen eventually. I suddenly got sick of food. France, you can keep your crispy crunchy baguettes and lusciously stinky cheese, Italy, I've had it with your roast meats with aromatic herbs and the less Lithuanian zeppelins are mentioned the better.
Born again, I am determined to shed the seven kilos I've gained since we arrived in Europe in March.
On arrival at Casa dos Esteios, the lady of the house greeted us warmly, introduced us to Daniella, a hospitality student, and offered us afternoon tea of juice and "love cookies" (bolinhos de amor, a local specialty). The B&B is set in a kiwi-fruit farm, in the village of S.Miguel de Paredes, about 45 minutes by train from Porto. Surrounded by pine trees, it is totally private, luxurious and perfect for relaxing by the pool.
Later, I said to Beautiful Husband "Why don't we treat this place like a health farm. We can swim, read, eat lightly and maybe be able to fit back into our clothes by the time we leave Europe." He agreed. He could also edit his new book and watch the world cup on the big screen television.
Breakfast on the first morning was prepared by another Daniella, and consisted of crunchy rolls, brioche, yoghurt, fresh fruit, ham, cheese, and bolinhos de amor. The next day, omelettes and sausages were added. By day four, a sponge cake (pao de lo, another regional specialty) had arrived.
Every day, we wander down to the pasteleria for a mid-morning pingoo (like a machiato, but really, really strong), and we share a pastel de nata and a whatever else takes our fancy from the luscious display.
On the day that Portugal beat North Korea by seven goals, the B&B owners generously invited us to watch the game and join them for lunch of caldo verde, Portugese chicken with pilaf, chips and salad, green wine, port and more love cookies.
We had originally booked for three nights, but by the end of lunch, asked if we could stay for five.
Steven is working hard, and watching lots of football with student Daniella (who knows more about the game than he does!). I'm trying to increase my laps of the pool by ten a day.
In our first week, we've eaten a lot of pateis de nata, and portugese chicken. We've tried to continue the original health farm idea by having a salad for dinner...
We decide to stay another week.

The Threshing Machine

My beautiful husband has been calling me the above moniker for a few weeks now. Hmph.
He'd be beyond forgiveness save for the delightful idea of bringing me to Europe.
Two years ago, we were staying in Tuscany and took a drive to Volpaia, a tiny 13th Century village near Radda in Chianti. There was a bar and one restaurant, La Bottega. It had a terrace with a view of vineyards, rolling hills, forests and a stately house or two. We looked at the menu - roast pork with herbs for E6, handmade pasta with truffles for around the same price. We ate there a few times, and declared it one of our top two favourite restaurants in the world. And vowed to come back.
So, we invited our good friends The Wynns to come and rent a house in Volpaia for a week, and join us in eating our way through the menu. The house was a three storey terrace house, E88 a night for the four of us. We could eat out every night and stay within our budget. Each day we'd excitedly ask each other what we were going to have that night. The rabbit stew or the beef in chianti? Paul decided the wild boar stew was his favourite, Belinda liked the spinach ravioli with sage butter, but Steven and I couldn't make a firm decision (we loved it all).
One day, beautiful husband and I walked for two and a half hours along a dirt track between Volpaia and Panzano. Views of forests, pencil pines, wild boar (behind a fence, so obviously domesticated wild boar!), chianti pigs, vineyards, olive groves, more stately homes. We arrived in Panzano hungry, and discovered that the famous butcher I had read so much about was open for lunch with a choice of a E10 "Mac Dario" or E20 "Welcome". As soon as we walked in the door, we were handed a glass of wine and invited to try the nibbles on a table in front of the meat display (it is a real butcher shop!). I passed on the lard on toast, but the salami was fragrant with herbs, and we sprinkled perfumed salt and olive oil on bread. Seated upstairs, we ordered the Mac - a burger with rosemary potatoes, vegetables and bread. I stabbed my burger, and for a second wondered how chef had managed to get red wine inside....
Crunchy and hot on the outside, bloody on the inside. The wine was E3 for a quarter litre, and for dessert, delicious olive oil cake and mocha coffee for E2.
A few days later we went back and shared the Welcome. Four dishes - all cold. Steak tartare (strips not mince), shredded pork, pork roast with crackling and meatloaf with red pepper sauce. The meal was fantastic. Communal tables filled with excited and delighted Italians and tourists, all gobbling up huge amounts of meat and chatting to fellow diners about how they knew about this wonderful place.
It is a unique restaurant, and Dario is a genius.

Piedmont is the new Tuscany.

Those of you who read my previous post, know that we are big fans of the chambres d’hote/B&B. We particularly enjoy them when they offer evening meals.
There is always an element of surprise – you’re never sure what you’ll get, whether you’ll be eating alone, with the hosts and/or other guests. Often the vegetables will come from their garden, and they will serve typical local food.
The meal will definitely be larger than what we are used to at home, and if we do it every night, we’ll be larger too.
Our first night in Italy was spent in a small village near Bergamo. We ate with the hosts, their English-speaking son (all artists) and a Dutch couple.
The first course arrived: spatzle made from spinach with potatoes and pork. A smallish bowl, but very tasty.
The second course was six different cheeses, radicchio and artichokes marinated in oil, salad from the garden, and bread. Followed by biscotti and dessert wine.
All delicious, but seemingly round the wrong way. We were a bit confused, so it felt a bit too light. (Considering how much food we’ve eaten this trip, that is a good thing).
The next night we ate at the local bar, which our hosts recommended.
My first course was a pasta made from pizza dough, boiled and served with sage and butter, and Steven’s was gnocchi with pork sausage and asparagus. Both very rich.
Second course was a round cheese (similar to camembert) and vegetables, all cooked on the grill, the cheese oozing over the vegetables. This is the way they do things in Lombardia. The second course is either cheese or cold cuts. No hot meat dishes.
On to Piedmont and another B&B, with dinner.
First, some sage leaves dipped in batter and deep fried. Crispy and salty, and I’m going to try cooking that at home!
Then, Fontina cheese from the nearby alps, served with our hostess Raffaela’s jam/chutney made from the last of the summer fruits (grapes, peaches, apricots), cooked for 36 hours with no sugar added. Tart and rich and spicy.
Next was tagliatelli with fresh tomatoes, parsley and garlic.
I was expecting dessert. But no.
Pork in orange sauce, accompanied by spinach salad with sheep’s cheese, pine nuts and lemon dressing.
Okay, Raffaella, I’m pretty well done.
We had almost finished the Grignolino wine when dessert arrived: fresh raspberries (the sweetest I’ve ever had) and home-made lemon sorbet.
And then a glass of Genepy, an Alpine liqueur to wash it all down.
We finished our wine standing in the garden, looking at the lights of the surrounding hill towns and the shadowy, snowy alps in the distance.

Dear Doroty

When the price of food in Poland is so ridiculously cheap by Australian standards, why wouldn't you suggest to the Beautiful Husband a restaurant recommended by no less than the Michelin guide?
After a fabulous review in "In Your Pocket", I chose Wesele in the main square of Krakow. We were presented with food menus, but no wine list. We ordered our food and asked for wine. The food and the wine arrived at the same time. Now, when my plate of goose lands, I want to tuck in straight away, not sit there like a goose waiting politely while the waiter goes through the slow process of uncorking and getting the Beautiful Husband to ensure the wine is not corked (as if he'd know anything about corked wine). By the time the food has arrived, I expect to have at least one glass of wine down my gullet! We ordered two sides, beetroot and steamed vegetables. Beetroot was yummy, vegetables were...fresh from the freezer!!!!! Excuse me, Mr Michelin, I have a quibble with your selection criteria.
And therein ends the meal. No suggestion from the waiter that we may have liked dessert. In fact, not even a glance in our direction. We sat and finished our bottle of wine and felt somewhat disappointed.
Next night, I suggest another restaurant mentioned in "In Your Pocket". The review is pretty good, although the line "slightly more ambience than a milk bar" could cause some people to look elsewhere. That would be a mistake.
The waitress (maybe the owner?) spoke perfect English even though the place was packed with locals, and helped us with our selections. I ordered pork stew ($3.47, I kid you not), buckwheat ($1.21) and beer. Beautiful Husband had chicken breast with mushrooms ($4.16) salad, french fries and two glasses of wine. Total bill $18.75. But that's not the point. The service was excellent, the meats tender, the salad fresh and tasty, the buckwheat, well, it was buckwheaty. We were happy. We'd eat there every night if we lived here.

le mystere du cafe

Today, in an art-nouveau style cafe in the old town of Tallinn, a woman of not inconsiderable years made me a hot and strong cappuccino...just the way I like it. Last week, in a small coastal village in Sweden, a young girl made me a hot and strong cafe latte. Neither had probably ever trained at a barista academy.
In France, I watched a woman in a cafe ruthlessly murder a jug of mik by boiling it, cooling it in the refrigerator, returning 10 minutes late to boil it again, cool it again...and so on. I'm not sure what the purpose of this process was, but to me it illustrated the absolute horror of French coffee making.
Pourquoi?
When it comes to food, the French are meticulous in everything they do. Their pastries and bread are devine, their sauces silky, their markets full of wondrous fruits and vegetables, the cheeses sublime...and yet....the coffee is, by and large, horrible. Is it because to the French, milk is for making lovely cheese? Is it because they tend to favour robusta beans? Or a combination of both.
We searched blogs for suggestions of good coffee shops in Paris. We tried them. We will keep searching.

favourite places to stay

Most of these you will need a car for!
To quote my husband: "In Australia you get standard accommodation for boutique prices. In Europe you get boutique accommodation for standard prices."
I guess Europe has a long tradition of bed & breakfasts/chambre d'hote.

TURKEY
Sumptious dinner and breakfast with warm, knowledgeable hosts with a view of the monuments. Can't get anything closer. In my top 5.
Gallipoli Houses

ITALY
Rome:
Out in the suburbs, but they will recommend a fantastic restaurant nearby.
Anna and Elena

Sorrento/Amalfi Coast:
Gorgeous view, eat in their restaurant. Splurge - it's worth it!

Fontecchio:
In my top 5. Remote but stunning.

Marche:
Beautiful area.

SWEDEN:
Ukna:
In my top 5. One of the few places we have been back to, and would love to stay there again.

THE NETHERLANDS:
Chosen by Steven's publisher. Both charming and interesting.
Rotterdam
Amsterdam

SPAIN:
Villanueva de Algaidas
Good base to visit Granada, Seville and Cordoba. Very helpful owners who will direct you to a lovely hidden cafe.

COPENHAGEN:
Easy bus ride to town. Helpful, friendly owners.

FRANCE:
Montreal:
In my top 5. We had a fantastic time here. Easy day trips to Dijon, Beune and Flavigny-sur-ozerain(Chocolat town). Beautiful area.

Salles de Villefagnan:
I begged Steven to leave me here....

Saulty:
My first chateau!

Morbihan:
Lovely dinner.

Brittany:
The birds nest dinner! In my top 5.

Provence:
Handy to all Provence has to offer.

near Lille:
We ate a dinner of home-grown ingredients at night then picked raspberries in the morning.

Tours:
Nice hotel in the old town.


I'm sure there will be more to come!

Warm and sticky

Wrong country, different name, but I knew what they were the moment I set eyes on those little spirals of deliciousness. The taste and smell of them was imprinted on my brain thirty years ago.
My mother made them according to a traditional recipe, passed to her by Finnish friends in Mt Isa. I would watch her prepare them with love, and the house would fill with a cinnamonny-yeasty smell. Warm and sticky, hearty and sweet.
They are called Bullar in Sweden, but I know them as Pulla.
While we’re in Stockholm, we’ll be eating one a day. And I’ll think of mum.

Chambre d'hote

No matter how much you savour every moment and refuse to take anything for granted, there are some things about travel that are... a touch tiresome.
A noisy hotel room that you pay $150 for, and can’t swing a husband in.
Translating “noix, basse and cote” on a restaurant menu as “fish coated in nuts” and ending up with a large steak with zucchini.
The answer is “Chambre d’hote”.
You get a gorgeous room filled with family antiques, often on a 17th century farm for $90 a night. You then pre-book a dinner, “Table d’hote” and enjoy whatever the host feels like cooking that night. It’s 3 or 4 courses, including wine for a paltry $22. You’ll perhaps share the table with 6 septugenarians who can’t speak English and 2 young Parisiennes who can. Laughter ensues as you try to understand a jolly old man’s joke about Napoleon. You offer each other seconds from the copper pot of vegetable soup and pour another glass of wine, knowing the carafe will be refilled as soon as it’s empty.
After three hours of stuffing yourself like a french farmer, you stumble back to your room of thick stone walls and sleep like… well, like a pickled french farmer!
You wake to a breakfast of croissants, fresh bread and homemade jams made from the fruit of the trees in the garden. Before leaving, you use the free wi-fi to book the next Chambre d’hote.

You want me to eat a bird's nest?

We arrived at the 16th Century farmhouse at the end of a road to a garden of sculptures. I said to Steven, “An artist lives here.” I asked Madam if she was said artist, but no, it was her husband.
In the description of dinner, I heard the following words: St Jacques (I assumed that had something to do with scallops), endives, buerre, orange, jambon, poire and fruits d’hiver ( I translated that to Steven as “winter fruits”). So far so good, except she turned to us at one point in the description of the jambon course and said “where the bird sleeps.”
Where did the bird fit in with the jambon?
An artistically arranged plate of six of the juiciest, sweetest scallops arrived with braised endives and an orange, white wine and butter sauce. Steven uncharacteristically decided to savour his food, whilst I characteristically inhaled mine.
Then, a pot containing ham and lots of hay around the edges… jambon in a bird’s nest! It was tender and moist and salty and delicious!
And for dessert, a pear tart with kiwi fruit sauce.
We slept under a canopy which was an old milk tank from the farm.
For breakfast the following morning, home-made bread, yoghurt and jams; a local specialty custard cake and buckwheat pancakes.
As we left, I said to Madam “You are an artist.” She smiled shyly.

A kick in the gizzards

Steak tartare, roquefort, duck, croque madam, chocolat chaud…… I’m a walking cliché. If I keep this up, I may have trouble with the walking part of that statement.
I’m just in the mood, so I’m going to try it. And if I don’t like it, I’ll probably eat it anyway.
Last night at the art deco Chartier, formerly a working-man’s cafeteria, now a very popular eatery in Paris, I chose the Choucroute Alsacienne. Didn’t know what it was, but I should have guessed from the word “Alsacienne” that it involved sausage. Several, in fact, plus sauerkraut.
Tonight I had a salad, which I thought was a healthy option. Pity it involved meat from many animals, plus their insides. Gizzards were listed as an ingredient.
We nipped across to the supermarche for dessert; fraises de Francaise the size of small apples.
We’re in Brittany now, so I guess tomorrow’s cliché is crepes and cider.

excusez-moi monsieur, i think my steak is not cooked!

What do you do when in Paris?
Wear a beret.
Visit the Eiffel Tower and Notre Dame.
Eat steak tartare, duck, escargots and/or chevre.

Didn’t bring a beret.
Walked the Promenade Plantee (a disused viaduct which is now a 4km walk high above the street with gardens and parks and pushbikes and children).
Ate at Bistrot le Cap. Feeling rather full so can’t type much. Mon bon mari had the escargots with lots of garlic and butter sauce and the duck. I had a delicieux chevre encased in brik pastry with hazelnuts and honey.
I was a steak tartare virgin.
Not any more.

It wasn’t painful. It wasn’t over too quickly. It was actually very pleasant.

I might even give it another try.

Boulangerie Beatrix, Paris

After a quick stop-over in Kuala Lumpur, home of the super-highway and mega-mall, we landed in Paris, surprised and delighted by the mild spring weather. We decided to combine our love of walking with following up some internet recommendations for good coffee shops. The first was not too far from Notre Dame and sold lots of varieties from all over the world. While the barista/owner was very helpful and could make pretty designs on top of the foam (not something that usually inspires us), I noticed he had a habit of licking the spoon that he’d used to make the designs and then re-using it on the next cup. Nice. I figured we’d survived two flights with various edible food-like substances, so I kept it to myself, and we ordered a Machiato each. It was ok, but the French heat-treated milk will always taste odd to us. A French woman once explained to us that “Milk is for babies (bebes)” and therefore only good for making cheese, yoghurt and other yummy things.
We did a longish circuit around Notre Dame, and then stopped for lunch at our favourite Boulangerie, Beatrix, around the corner from the Pompidou Centre. Last time we came to Paris, we caught the Metro into town, and then wondered what to do with our luggage. More seasoned travellers would have taken them to their hotel, or found a locker or something more sensible, but we decided to ask the bakery owner what she thought we should do with two small suitcases. In contrast to what we’d heard about the French, she offered to mind them for us. We thanked her by eating a large morning tea. And then came back for lunch every day. The afternoon coffee shop was fine but while the french do baguettes and tarts very well, the coffee is a bit disappointing.