Check out our new home

www.virtualyee.com

a random walk down 55th street

While walking to Starbucks, I passed a sign for JavaPop (the "healthy alternative to coffee"), a small white dog whose hair had been dyed blue, and a man selling his poetry on the street corner. I'm back!

A pints a pound the world around...

...except when you're in London. Then a pint is at least 3 pounds.

Wachau

There were no flaxen-haired children singing and dancing in the hills to the sound of music, but this may be because the Wachau half marathon had no hills! Boh. I guess I'll have to head to Tyrol next time.

On the bus to the starting line, I sat next to a 46-year old highschool history/Latin teacher. His marathon PR was 2:28; however, due to an illness earlier in the week, he was hoping to finish the half in under 1:20. He had never run outside of Austria. I wonder what the German-version of "Ubaldo" is.

The course was beautiful. To the left were hills, vineyards, and sometimes castles. To the right was the Donau River. Alongside a water station, one of the wineries offered runners Riesling to sample.

On the train ride back, I fell asleep and must have dropped my book, pen, and jacket, because when I woke up someone benevolent put them in a neat pile next to me.

MQ and a tangent to Knedliki

That [pop] you heard was my head imploding during today’s visit to the MUMOK, Vienna’s modern art museum in the MuseumsQuartier. The lower floors were outside of my “envelope of comfort” in a way more extreme than even the Kunsthalle’s “Tram and Trama” (Dream and Trauma”) exhibit. There were just too many deformed babies and naked people in mud for one afternoon.

On my way out, I stopped by the designform, which had an exhibit on the “stuff” people use in every day around the world. It was quite progressive (it emphasized similarities rather than differences) and had a little section on cooking. (Yes, you knew I’d get to food somehow). I think I spent a good fifteen minutes marveling at the different spoons of Japan and watching a video of ladies making dumplings (“Xina – Ravioli”).

Speaking of dumplings, it dawned on me the other day that Austria, the land of meat and potatoes, is actually the perfect place for making gnocchi. I don’t love them, but Georgia does, so I dug up my notes from Italy and went to the kitchen.

Gnocchi – Put whole potatoes in cold water and bring to a boil. Cook until they are fork mashable, drain, and put into an ice-water bath. Peel potatoes and mash until smooth. Add flour (Marco used Type 00, I used Type W480, you should use All-Purpose), a little at a time, and knead. You’ll have added enough flour once the dough stops sticking to your hands. Cut off a bit of dough and roll into a snake on a floured surface. Cut into nickel or quarter-sized pieces. Add grooves by pressing the sticky end of the gnocchi (i.e. the interior of the snake) onto the tines of a fork. Let gnocchi rest on a plate of flour. To cook, add to boiling salted water until they float.
Fresh gnocchi don’t keep long, so I think it’s better to shape them right before you plan to boil them. If you decide to keep extra dough in the fridge, you’ll have to add more flour before shaping them again.

Gnocchi are good in rich sauces and small quantities. Kind of like post-modern art.

This is kind of gross if you think about it. . .

This does not include chocolate...

Pope, Soap, Rope

The Pope was in town visiting this weekend, which meant that all the churches put up yellow and white flags (to show support? to help him get through the city? to demonstrate the diversity of God’s real estate portfolio?). Georgia and I were walking through Stephansplatz and we came across a gospel concert.

The performance was broadcast on telescreens throughout the city center. A young man in black was directing an Austrian choir, singing things like Glory, Glory, Glory and Praise the Lord, Lord Jesus Christ. Their diction was excellent, their songs all in English, and their enthusiasm terrifying. Some of the audience were quite moved by the music—they stood up, danced, clapped to the beat, sang along, shouted back. I wanted to run away. It began to rain. The choir director finished a passionate solo.

“Well,” said Georgia, “he does do a good job of trying to be a black woman.”

The premiere of The Magic Flute was on Friday, which we expected to be very good because (1) This is one of Mozart’s only operas in German (the rest are in Italian) and (2) Austrians love Mozart. The opera itself was disappointing—the singers weren’t anything special, the costumes seemed like those of a high school musical, and the orchestra and singing wasn’t in sync. The people watching, however, was fantastic. We saw a woman dressed in a corseted, aquamarine dress, which made me think of Ariel the Little Mermaid, Part XXXVIII. We saw men in full tuxes drinking 9 euro glasses of champagne. And, finally, we saw

Austrians making out in their box seats before the show started
Austrians
making out in the refreshment hall during intermission.

I know Friday night is date night, but I thought Italy was the country of love. I never saw this hanky panky at La Scala.

Maybe this is why Italy is shrinking and Austria is not.

Loafing is hard work

There are times now when I really miss Italy. I wish I could pop into a café and get an espresso for 75 eurocents. (Austria’s fault.) Or speak the native language. (My fault). Or not feel guilty about feeling busy but doing nothing. (Georgia’s fault). We don’t have internet in the apartment (instead, we have several mannequins, a hookah, and a paella pan), so I’ve taken to studying Accounting with the book Bain sent me.

It’s a fill in the blank workbook. Sample question:

“The Garsden Company balance sheet has two sides. The heading of the left side
is A_____, and the heading of the right side is L_________ and E______.”

New-hire training will also include finger painting and naptime! Just kidding. Consultants don’t take naps.

Why do I get vegetables by the kilo?

I went to the Nachtmarkt, which has a wonderful selection of spices and a surprising variety of asian food (homemade tofu!). Most of the produce comes from Italy.

My inability to speak German resulted in the purchase of one kilogram of spinach, which is in fact heavier than one kilogram of anything else because it comes with odd stares on the metro. (Imagine getting onto a crowded subway with a Costco-sized bag of carrots. Or a sofa pillow full of green leaves).

I am not obsessed

Vienna is a culinary enigma. Home of wiener schnitzel—veal smashed flat, breaded, and fried; delicious drizzled with lemon—sausages, and sachertort, it’s also the host to health food stores stocked with brown rice. I’m still recovering from my butter binge in France, so I haven’t had any pastries yet.

Near Georgia’s language school is the fanciest kebab shop I’ve ever seen. It is clean and has leather seats and an LCD TV playing Turkish (?) soap operas. The bread is soft and freshly toasted. The tomatoes are pretty good and the falafel is made to order.

I think I need to start work soon. Or get a new hobby.

Highlights from Paris (only half is about food):

* Rose wine and spring rolls at the rooftop restaurant of the Pompidieu
* Notre Dame at night
* Caramel, chocolate, and salt macaroons from Cacao et Chocolat (36, rue Vieille du Temple).
* Spotting tile spacemen throughout the city
* Lunch at Bastille market (Roast pork, baguette, comte, crepes).
* Wandering around the Marais
* Chocolate and raspberry croissants, courtesy of kind hosts Iris and Irv
* Conversation about the future direction of journalism (and the Wall street Journal), once again courtesy of Iris & Irv
* Roasted tomato stuffed with lamb confit at La pamphlet (38, rue Debelleyme)
* Running along the Seine (morning run through the dew around the Eiffel Tower; afternoon long run)

Francia

After the initial cultures shock (village to city), it was nice to be among tons of people again. Montpellier was very relaxing and full of good French food, cheap wine, and delicious yogurt. In a café/bookstore, I found Adam Gopnik’s Paris to the Moon, which I read over a cup of tea. His writing was marvelous, as usual.

En route

On the journey from Chamonix to Montpellier, someone rummaged through my bag and stole the one thing that was very dear to me and (I thought) no one else in the world—my running shoes. So, I visited stores in Montpellier like Courier (“To Run”) and Footlocker. They do not sell ANY sports equipment.

UPDATE: The list of missing things continues to grow – a bit of zyrtec, American cell phone, unlaundered Arizona State basketball t-shirt. I don’t know the full extent of the damage, partially because I never took a census of my stuff and partially because I’m very disorganized.

Cookies and milk

I still love the Alps. When I’m there, I (1) blend in with the other people wearing polar fleece (in Chamonix), (2) thank God I’m not lactose intolerant (in Courmayeur), and (3) have a new appreciation for Frodo’s climb in Lord of the Rings. The Valdaosta also has a wonderful cookie called Tegole (“tiles”). These hazelnut cookies are round, thin, and the diameter of my mouth, the result of which are little razor cuts on the corners of my mouth from eating too many in quick succession.

The Mont Blanc ultra marathon was a few days before I left, so incredibl(ly crazy) athletes were beginning to descend on the area. I wanted to bow and touch the hem of their gore-tex jackets. I half expected to see Dan O’Flaherty among them, but then realized he’s probably quite content running ultra marathons in New Jersey.

P.P.P.P.P.P.

I love food, but what I love more is feeding people. It's more fun to cook for others than for myself, and more satisfying to cook for friends than for strangers. Therefore, in exchange for a bed, visitors to my humble village must eat my food. (And, to keep the gender roles blurred, clean the dishes.) (See Exhibit A: "Captive house guest." Don't worry, Barry. I set him free eventually.)

Usually I recreate dishes from work. One day after a night at the restaurant during the Toscana Nights street festival, I tried to replicate Marco's gnocchi with cream and pears. The dish was doomed to poor imitation from the start due to a lack of gnocchi and cream. With no gnocchi, I changed the consistency of the sauce to better suit the long pasta I had. With no cream, I changed the flavor profile to fit a lighter sauce.

In other words, it came out completely different. Crepes rather than pancakes. Cake rather than brownies. Gumbo rather than jambalaya. This dish, which I call 6Ps (porri, parpadelle, pecorino, prosciutto, pera, pepe), has been declared a favorite by all (three) guests who visited after it's creation. And only one was related to me. God's smiting thumb! I'll have to hang on to this one for when I'm a yuppie.

6Ps - Add olive oil in a pan with chopped prosciutto and chopped leek. Add cubed, skinned pear and let cook for a few minutes. Add dry white wine (Vernaccia di San Gimignano) and let cook until alcohol evaporates. Add pepper and butter to taste. Add cubed pecorino and let cook until pecorino starts to melt. Add almost-cooked parpadelle to pan, mix, and let cook excess liquid in pan has been absorbed by the noodles.

* To make the pear flavor more subtle, crush cooked pear pieces with the tines of a fork before adding pasta.
* Salt levels in this dish will vary based on the prosciutto you use. (di Parma = dolce; di San Daniele = semi-dolce; di Toscana = salato). Add salt as necessary.

One thing I forgot to mention

Marco is a great chef and entrepreneur. He opened the restaurant where I work about three years ago. The restaurant is decorated with bold colors and modern art and features a courtyard out back where visitors, both Italian and foreign, can enjoy the Tuscan dusk.

Most of these visitors must be surprised by the tattoo/piercing parlor that opened across the way in June. Nestled in the a thousand year old castle, the shop is painted black with gold trimming and also features Lucky 13 Apparel. Leaving work one day, I saw an Italian grandmother in a cashmere sweater looking first at a black hoodie encrusted with a fake diamond scull (100 euro), then at a pleather belt (35 euro), and then at a set of handcuffs ("for sex").

The shop has caused a small stir among the more conservative citizens of Ambra, and students of economics know that the solution should be Coase's--the family restaurant should buy the tattoo shop. And then shut it down.

The latter will never happen, because the former already has.

Marco, a great chef and entrepreneur, is also a tattoo artist and the athiest drummer in a heavy metal band. Anticipating public consternation, he named his tattoo parlor "Doctor Madd" rather than "Doctor Satan." The shop in Ambra is doing quite well. Marco plans to open other stores in Florence and Arezzo.

I mention this to shed light less on Marco than on the area, because Marco's shop can survive only as long as there are people who require his services. There are British and German tourists that walk among the castles and celebrate the red wine and rolling hills. There is the nearby bridge, which Leonardo da Vinci painted into the background of the Mona Lisa. And there is the youth culture. Here, you can get a piercing with your pasta. You can drink prosecco with folks with multiple tattoos and barbells in their ears. You can learn about scarification until the explainer must go home for dinner with his mother.

Rock on.

In my room lives quite possibly the dumbest mosquito in the world. It bit the bottom of my foot.

One k.g. of Tomatoes per d.a.y.

Last week, I released 2 kilograms of tomatoes into my kitchen. Within 48 hours they were nearly extinct. There were two of us here at the time, so we had a kilo each. Mmmmmm.

This week, they are disappearing at the same rate, but there is only me here now. Lycopenodermia has not yet set in, though having recovered from an episode of carotenodermia a few years ago, I’m not afraid.

The good news is that I’m chock full of Vitamins C, A, and K; of molybdenum, potassium, and magnese; and of chromium, B1, and B6. If I had a prostate, it would be happy.

Today, I popped them into my mouth like grapes while reading Orhan Pamuk out on the porch. Another delicious way to eat them is in tomato sauce. Pasta optional.

I learned how to make this sauce from watching Monica’s mother, Giuletta. Add a bit of olive oil to pan a with quartered pomodorini (cherry tomatoes? These are not cherry tomatoes. They’re little jewels!). Let them cook over medium flame for no more than 18 minutes. While tomatoes are cooking, add salt, pepper, and red pepper flakes and squash the tomatoes with a fork. After cooking is finished, mix in fresh chopped basil and run it through a food mill.

I omit the food mill part because I like the texture, and I do not like washing dishes.

In which I fell off the face of the earth

Dear loyal blog readers (aka, Dad):

Sorry for not updating lately. Things that happened in July:

- Umbria Jazz (Perugia) - Ironically, all the musicians I saw (Sonny Rollins, Eric Alexander / Vincent Herring) were from New York. The jazz was excellent, tickets inexpensive, and, by nightfall, streets full of drunk Italians wandering throughout the city from one concert to the next. Also had Grom.

- Cathy came to visit, so we rented a car and wandered around the countryside. Woo freedom! I got to see Montepulciano and we visited a few wineries. A favorite: Pian Dell'Orino, an organic winery in Montalcino. They have distributors in CA and NY, so the best part is I can get their wine when I get back to the states!

- Marco turned 31, the twins who live across from me turned 24, and I turned 22. Walter, Monica's son, and a few other people turned a year as well. The unusual number of summer birthdays makes me think that there must be something romantic about post-crush and the olive oil harvest... (This is rivaled in funniness by the Corcoran family, whose members were born predominantly in November.)

- Had one final meal at I'Toscano (via Guelfa 70r, Florence) and a final ice cream at Vivoli. Now they're closed for the August Holiday :-(.

- Apparently, between July 21 - Aug 21 is the hottest time of the year in Italy. Temperatures of 40 degrees C have seriously sabotaged my motivation to run...

Will post more about food later.