As my time abroad approaches an end, I can only say—I swear it has been more exciting, tasty, and random than my blog would have led you to believe. I will definitely be posting residual entries that I have compiled from my scribbles on napkins, plane tickets, menus…I’m in the process of typing them up, promise :) In addition, I will be back on track in New York, posting my adventures working for a culinary magazine, surviving in the dorms, and just generally living in the city.
Otherwise, my life here has been completely spastic. In Germany, I hit up the small Currywurst stands to chow down on sliced wurst with curry sauce and crisp fries, all eaten with a clear plastic toothpick on an unpronounceable side street. In Austria, I visited a fondue house where I polished off an entire plate of bread, vegetables, and assorted pickled items all drenched in thick cheese.
Back in Italy, I headed to Zaza’s, where I indulged in a multi-course meal of the most flavorful truffle cream sauce over fettuccine and grilled seafood (swordfish, calamari, and prawns) with roasted peppers; all of the ingredients straight from the bustling mercato centrale across the street.
In my apartment near the Arno river, however, my gourmet aspirations give way to laziness and a desire for something simple. Canellini beans, small peas, lemon juice, olive oil, and garlic—heated and eaten directly out of the pot; whole wheat pasta and tomato basil sauce with fresh grated parmesan cheese. Abashedly, I admit that I savor each of these meals equally, from the wurst to the truffle, from the calamari to the beans.
Monday, April 21, 2008
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
"Overjoyed, Enraptured, Entranced"
Jordan and I have a glass (or two) of wine at his place. Anxious for the dinner supposedly awaiting us at La Giostra, we try to take the edge off. A two minute walk down the street and we find ourselves inside the tavern-like space, with white Christmas lights beautifully out of place, twinkling around the wooden beams of the ceiling. As we casually glance over the menu, already knowing exactly what to order, an Australian couple sitting directly next to us leans over, gesturing helpfully at their warm appetizers—“They bring you a huge plate of cheeses and meats, so be careful!” They laugh, looking down at the large quantities of abandoned food on their plates.
I immediately get on with the sommelier—he loves me after I attempt, in my rudimentary Italian, to chat with him about the wine list. Next, the waiter convinces Jordan and I into the classic Bistecca Fiorentina to share, in addition to the Pear and Cheese Ravioli.
Indeed, when the appetizer plate arrives, it fills the table—with salted meats that coat your tongue, crisp bruscetta, and the classic Florentine delicacy, pollo fegato (chicken liver) on toast, which Jordan meekly slides in my direction. A chunkier version of the chopped liver I ate every Jewish holiday in my Grandma’s posh living room, I happily oblige.
The Pear ravioli—well, I fear that nothing I write could capture the way you chew the homemade pasta until the entire raviolo begins to melt in your mouth, revealing the sweet pear pureed and whipped into the light cheese, leaving only a tiny tickle of the sweet fruit flavor on the center of your tongue, the smell of ricotta wafting over the table, side smiles cracking.
When the steak finally arrived, it seemed as if an entire cow had been happily led to our table, plopping down on its enormous silver platter. Thick cut, juicy, and flavorful, Jordan and I began in silence, pausing only to drink the light and tannic red wine or to pick at the accompanying caramelized carrots and home fry style potatoes. After some time had passed we leaned back in our chairs with labored breath, smiling over the now meager leftovers.
We were in practically in a stupor by the time Francesco, out waiter, slowly placed desert in front of us, as the sommelier simultaneously surprised us with a sweet Muscat, almost thick when poured into the small square glasses. The tart lemon sorbet cleansed and contrasted with the wine, while the whipped, creamy, tiramisu was both light and unbelievably rich all at once.
We stumbled home, hours after out arrival—the sommelier practically helping me out the door, as he called after us, “Return again! Ritorniate, per favore!”
I immediately get on with the sommelier—he loves me after I attempt, in my rudimentary Italian, to chat with him about the wine list. Next, the waiter convinces Jordan and I into the classic Bistecca Fiorentina to share, in addition to the Pear and Cheese Ravioli.
Indeed, when the appetizer plate arrives, it fills the table—with salted meats that coat your tongue, crisp bruscetta, and the classic Florentine delicacy, pollo fegato (chicken liver) on toast, which Jordan meekly slides in my direction. A chunkier version of the chopped liver I ate every Jewish holiday in my Grandma’s posh living room, I happily oblige.
The Pear ravioli—well, I fear that nothing I write could capture the way you chew the homemade pasta until the entire raviolo begins to melt in your mouth, revealing the sweet pear pureed and whipped into the light cheese, leaving only a tiny tickle of the sweet fruit flavor on the center of your tongue, the smell of ricotta wafting over the table, side smiles cracking.
When the steak finally arrived, it seemed as if an entire cow had been happily led to our table, plopping down on its enormous silver platter. Thick cut, juicy, and flavorful, Jordan and I began in silence, pausing only to drink the light and tannic red wine or to pick at the accompanying caramelized carrots and home fry style potatoes. After some time had passed we leaned back in our chairs with labored breath, smiling over the now meager leftovers.
We were in practically in a stupor by the time Francesco, out waiter, slowly placed desert in front of us, as the sommelier simultaneously surprised us with a sweet Muscat, almost thick when poured into the small square glasses. The tart lemon sorbet cleansed and contrasted with the wine, while the whipped, creamy, tiramisu was both light and unbelievably rich all at once.
We stumbled home, hours after out arrival—the sommelier practically helping me out the door, as he called after us, “Return again! Ritorniate, per favore!”
Saturday, February 2, 2008
Just Near the Duomo...
I received the call on Saturday night, my mind quickly clicking through each creamy, fresh, gooey, thick, salty, sweet morsel that had crossed my lips the past few weeks, fast and colorful like grainy slides through my old, bulky red Viewmaster.
"High cholesterol runs in the family, Carly. You need to limit your cheese, bread, sugar--you know what to do"
I sighed.
"Dad, I'm in Italy. ITALY. Do you realize what you're asking?"
Bubbling hot cheese on crispy thin crackling pizza dough, marbled salami with ingrained peppercorns, wrapped around thick slices of pecorino cheese, fresh penne bolognese covered in slowly melting parmesan, a silky prosciutto, warm cheese, and funghi panino from the bar across from my Borgo Ognissanti appartamento--the best panino I've ever had. The cripsy bread breaks with only a small nudge from my teeth, giving way to the warm innards; thick and hearty ham covered in chewy cheese, with the occasional musky, meaty flavor of porcini mushroom.
And the gelato. Oh, the gelato. Thick and creamy, or light and icy, with cascading chocolate chips in the stracciatella, or slightly frozen strawberries in the fragola, each bite causing the kind of smile that makes your cheeks ache. Caramel gelato with a fresh crema base and sticky caramel swirls laced throughout, sandwiched between two hot waffles, the smell making you feel like carnivale has already arrived. Sitting down with the messy desert on a corner across from the ponte vecchio, dripping ice cream onto the cobblestone street between your feet--perfection.
Fuck cholesterol.
I call up La Giostra, one of the best restaurants in Firenze, known for their unbelievably rich, unfailingly cholesterol raising, multi-course meals-- "Per favore, posso fare una prenotazione per domani sera?"
"High cholesterol runs in the family, Carly. You need to limit your cheese, bread, sugar--you know what to do"
I sighed.
"Dad, I'm in Italy. ITALY. Do you realize what you're asking?"
Bubbling hot cheese on crispy thin crackling pizza dough, marbled salami with ingrained peppercorns, wrapped around thick slices of pecorino cheese, fresh penne bolognese covered in slowly melting parmesan, a silky prosciutto, warm cheese, and funghi panino from the bar across from my Borgo Ognissanti appartamento--the best panino I've ever had. The cripsy bread breaks with only a small nudge from my teeth, giving way to the warm innards; thick and hearty ham covered in chewy cheese, with the occasional musky, meaty flavor of porcini mushroom.
And the gelato. Oh, the gelato. Thick and creamy, or light and icy, with cascading chocolate chips in the stracciatella, or slightly frozen strawberries in the fragola, each bite causing the kind of smile that makes your cheeks ache. Caramel gelato with a fresh crema base and sticky caramel swirls laced throughout, sandwiched between two hot waffles, the smell making you feel like carnivale has already arrived. Sitting down with the messy desert on a corner across from the ponte vecchio, dripping ice cream onto the cobblestone street between your feet--perfection.
Fuck cholesterol.
I call up La Giostra, one of the best restaurants in Firenze, known for their unbelievably rich, unfailingly cholesterol raising, multi-course meals-- "Per favore, posso fare una prenotazione per domani sera?"
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