In truth, this should be the first post in our Bavarian winter wonderland roadtrip, but I could not quite figure out how to say what I wanted to about our trip to Nuremburg’s Christkindelsmarkt and I still cannot. This has been one of those keep-you-up-at-night-writing-in-your-head posts. Initially what I wanted to talk about are the additional strains living in a foreign country can put on a relationship – from cycling in the rain to Read More »
My clearest memories of high school French class are not of writing verb conjugation after verb conjugation on the black board. Instead, they are of the annual Christmas carol day when we would take a break from memorizing the textbook and listen to French Christmas carols. Of these, the clearest in my memories is << La Légende de Saint Nicolas >> (“The Legend of Saint Nicholas.”) This was not the tale of Jolly Old Saint Nick, mind you, but a morbid story that started innocently enough with three young children in a field. Soon, darkness falls, and they seek shelter in the home of a butcher who, as these things always go, is evil and who chops them up and puts them into a tub to brine. Read More »
Sometimes I day dream about a big house (okay, let’s be honest, a château) in France, with a vineyard and a shaggy dog. On random Wednesday nights we host friends, eating al fresco on a wooden table. It is always a simple meal, nothing complicated or fancy, with fresh vegetables and perhaps a roast. There is always wine, from our own vines. I live in wellies, and the Frenchman begins to wear a hat and let his hair grow long. Read More »
This past year, after our experience with Prague’s gruel, we discovered the joys of fine dining with amazing meals at Drouant in Paris, Kapari in Santorini, Le Cheval Blanc in the Loire Valley, Les Brisants in Brétignolles-sur-mer, and Konoba Nikola in Croatia. Upon moving to the Netherlands in August we, thus, made it a point to only eat out if it was going to be on par with these restaurants, saving our money and our paletts. Read More »
Each day, I read through my inbox and take time to glance over the emails from airlines and travel companies advertising flight deals, inserting a bit of wanderlust into my mornings. Sometimes, the deals are so good I spend the rest of the day contemplating whether or not I should simply pack a bag for the weekend, book a hostel, and hope on a plane. Read More »
Last year around this time we had just completed our second move in Europe, from Montpellier in the south of France to Toulouse, a city still in the south but more inland and a short drive from the Pyrenees.While it is undeniable that these moves have been exciting, they have also been some of the most stressful and anxiety-filled times of our lives. Read More »
When a country dedicates a holiday to a chocolate cake, it must be delicious. But in a country that claims to be the coffeehouse and cake capital of the world, such a cake must have divine inspiration. Invented in 1832 for Prince Wenzel, the Sachertorte of Hotel Sacher has reached legendary status in the confectionary world and enjoys December 5 as its own gluttonous holiday.
After a failed attempt to secure post-opera seats in the hotel’s lauded Rote Bar Restaurant during our Vienna adventure, we “settled” for afternoon sweets in its outdoor cafe where we enjoyed a pre-opera snack instead of house coffees (with orange liquor) and sachertorte. The torte’s recipe is a carefully-guarded secret, but seems to consist of a chocolate sponge cake topped by a layer of apricot jam and a hardened chocolate icing.
Though the official rights to the name “The Original Sachertorte” belong to Hotel Sacher, Vienna’s other top confectionary, Demel, also claims co-ownership of the recipe. Of course, we had to try Demel as well, and we were split on the cake-off winner. (Though it must be noted that the waitstaff at Hotel Sacher was much superior to that of Demel where unfriendliness was extreme thereby giving Hotel Sacher the edge.)
If you cannot get away to Vienna, you can try to bake your own Sachertorte by following this recipe from the BBC. Make sure to serve the finished cake with a dollop of unsweetened, homemade whipped cream.
Better late than never, isn’t that the phrase? This post has been in the works and the blog on hold since November at which time the career/life balance got the best of me, when the scales tilted towards more career than exploration. In fact, they have been resting, one-sidedly on the floor ever since. It is time to remedy that. Thank you for your patience and sticking with me on this journey of adventure!
Since moving to Europe I have mostly traveled and adventured alone. There are drawbacks to solo-adventuring, but, at the same time, the advantages are many. For example, when I adventure alone I can spend an hour taking photographs of butterflies or a single flower if I wish, whereas had I dragged him along, the Frenchman would have drained his phone battery out of game-playing boredom while he not-so-patiently waited for me to finish.
My favorite part of solo adventuring is the lunches. In the small French towns I love to arrive around lunchtime, locate the main square, preferably waterside, and read through all of the menus before deciding on a restaurant. I look for a menu that is local and features regional specialties, a good price (10 euros or less), and all three courses. The best solo lunch that I have treated myself to so far was at Le Grand Bleu in the seaside town of Sete in southern France.
There, I dined on a first course of Tielle Setoise, an octopus and tomato tarte, a second course of loup or seabass, and a dessert of my favorite food in France (after the cheese and wine, bien sur): Ile Flottant. As I sat alone, I memorized the menu, which contained various Mediterranean fish names and chatted with the gentleman sitting next to me about huitres or oysters, a subject on which he had many opinions. I listened and smiled with the Romani street musicians set up a band across the street from the restaurant terrace and, in my contentment, even gave them the only spare change I have ever given a street performer. In Sete, on the terrace of Le Grand Bleu, life was wonderful.
Outside the terrace, it was cold and overcast, not at all the ideal weather for visiting the South of France’s “little Venice,” as the guidebooks tell me it is called though I can hardly imagine the locals, mainly sea-roughened fishermen, calling it that with a straight face. Sete is a town of causeways and canals, a true port town, existing, it seems on fishing and marine activities.
The fishermen yell and holler, and the seagulls follow the boats into the harbor in a large flock, dipping and screeching as though they will tear the boat apart in their mad search for the fishy-deliciousness it carries. And, on the way out to the sea, somewhere in between the Mediterranean and the end of a river lie Sete’s famous coquille farms.
After my lunch, I wandered around the grey city, wondering what to do until the return bus came in the late afternoon. The guidebook suggested climbing the mountain that overlooks the town for a view of the sea. But, as I gazed up at the viewing point with a belly full of poisson and a poor choice of footwear, that interested me little. Instead, I chose to walk along one of the canals where I happened upon a gaggle of people climbing aboard a neon-yellow boat. Without much else to do, I, too, climbed aboard, for the unknown boat adventure.
As it turned out, the boat was headed out to view the coquille farms. The visit was to last approximately two hours and I gladly sat down with my full belly and wrapped my scarf tightly around me as we headed out to the sea. (The boyscout rule may be to always be prepared, but the French lady rule is that if you have a scarf you always will be.)
The coquille beds poke up from the water in neat little rows of wooden platforms. Through them cut roads and pathways for the farming boats. The beds are reminiscent of a garden trestle, with only the top of the structure visible above the water. Hanging down from the trestle is the garden where thousands of shellfish “flowers” grow before they are ready to be harvested for consumption at restaurants such as Le Grand Blue on coquillage platters across France.
As we motored along through the streets of the farm beds, the guide motioned half of us to go below the deck as the captain slowed the boat. We sat, noses pressed to the glass, watching the green waters in front of us. Slowly, slowly, slowly, the thousands of long strings of shellfish came into view, the depth of their artificial sea homes unknown. Later, back on the deck, the captain taught us about oyster farming, making jokes at my expense about the bad interactions of alcohol and oyster, jabs, which, I admit, were a bit lost on me as the fun allergist has told me that oysters may be my death.
Back at shore, I debated eating another Tielle Setoise before deciding on some biscuits from an adorable canal-bordering shop. Now, six months later, the biscuit tin is still with us, holding all of our electronics, chargers, converters, and more converters, reminding me always of my little afternoon of delicious food and shellfish in the wind.
“Shy is the oyster. Fervent is the claim. Peaceful is the ocean floor rocked by the sands of time.”
– Bradley Chicho, poet