Days of Being Mild

Yes, I now realize I’m holding a Lazio scarf (and that it is upside down)

It’s been a rigorous social calendar lately...

Thursday: Dinner/Movie Night

I had cooking duty this time

Globalization gone awry: Martin applies wasabi to his quesadilla

I made crispy won tons and soft tacos (sharing my precious Cholula hot sauce imported from the States!) for our weekly dinner and movie night. Sigrid baked a traditional Danish cake, topped with crème fraiche. We watched Flags of our Fathers afterwards since Martin, the guy with horrible movie tastes, left early for a party.

Friday: Party at Nielsenhaus

A very special beverage from Belarus

It was the “Dress like your favorite dictator—just kidding” party at the Kiwi’s spacious flat. If you have a themed party, you can’t make it optional. Nobody dressed up. It’s too bad I chucked my Hugo Chávez costume. I thought, “Why would I need this in Denmark?”

Daniel’s wife, Sara, sporting an interesting shirt dress

Jessica, an American, chats with Fuchun

Chetna is a good sport (and this shot had some accidental lighting/exposure effect)

Thousands of miles away from W’burg and the East Village, hipsters flourish.

Saturday: The Tour des Chambres

A sober start: farmer Sigrid dines with football ref Martin

The much-anticipated Tour des Chambres did not disappoint.

To refresh your memory: the Tour des Chambres involves all members of the suite. Each person picks a theme for her room and decorates it accordingly (costume optional). She also picks an alcoholic beverage to go with that theme. Individuals are assigned cooking, cleaning, or grocery duties. We eat dinner together, and then draw room numbers out of a hat. When your number comes up, you go to your room, prepare the drinks for all members, and invite everyone in. The party continues until we’ve visited all rooms.

Heidi in her goth/cutter outfit; pasta for dinner

This year, we only had six participants (a relief for me; if you know my tolerance level, the thought of my consuming twelve drinks is frightening). Since I have instituted fiscal austerity measures, I opted for something easy: a Brooklyn artist/photographer’s minimalist Williamsburg studio. I wore all black.

Sigrid dressed like a traditional Danish farmer; Fuchun chose a Chinese moon festival theme, complete with moon cakes and Chinese alcohol; Morten had a yuppie, colorful ‘80s room, outfit, and cocktails; Heidi slashed up a shirt and wore leather pants to promote her S&M, goth room (which had knives, scissors, candles, and Marilyn Manson music); and my favorite: Martin’s football room.

Room number 12

The ‘80s room (that blazer is even more horrible in person)

To create a little DIY fun with my lazy theme, I asked each person to use my point-and-shoot Canon to create MySpace-like self portraits. Then I had people pair up and asked them to “surprise me” with a photograph or series of photographs; we then left them alone in my room. The winning team would get some kind of prize. First, the self portraits (I forgot to do mine!):

Next, the team portrait competition:

Team 1: Sigrid & Heidi

Team 2: Fuchun and Martin

Team 3: Robin & Morten (the clear winners; I am wearing his blazer)

The evening’s unrelenting flow of booze pressed on, paused only by a brief midnight feeding frenzy. I almost lost it in the ‘80s room. The cream in the shots of the football room made me reel. I think I had close to nine drinks.

Unintended portrait of my neck

Danish beer

Soused

Welcome to the football room...

ARSENAL!!!!!!

Dancing to Danish music

In the last room (S&M), slurred speech filled the air as we crashed on the animal print blankets, dangerously placed near a tray of candles. Headbanger music raged on. I remember snapping some incriminating photographs of Heidi and Martin.

The final frontier

Playacting? You be the judge.

Martin kept removing my shoes and placing them near the candle flames. He muttered something about fire and velvet, and then stumbled into the hallway. That was his last appearance for the night. Fuchun passed out on the bed, his face obscured by a Dr. Seuss-like Silkeborg football hat. Heidi and Sigrid chatted in Danish.

You are getting veeerrrrrrry sleepy

Update: 6 October 2007
Faithful readers will notice I have removed the remaining portion of this post. It is a mea culpa to expunge from the public record any damning evidence that will surely be used against me for years to come about my already well-documented cluelessness. Much gratitude to the blog’s ombudsman, NP, for steering me straight. And, more importantly: apologies to the affected (and much adored) party, DL.

Another Urban Chameleon

An impostor tries to challenge my authority!

During last night’s partner university reception, we enjoyed glasses of chilled cuvée with assorted appetizers whilst mingling with professors and administrators. There is a possibility I may spend two years in London instead of one (more on that much later).

Hungry students know how to turn appetizers into dinner

Professor Henrik immediately sought me out by the grand piano. He’s Danish, but completed part of his studies in northern California. The very first day of introductions several weeks ago, I asked a question about the professor-to-student ratio. Afterwards, he introduced himself to me, wanting to know where I grew up. We formed a Californian bond. He is the sort of cool professor you always dreamt about in undergrad: articulate, knowledgeable, and stylish. He has messy blond hair, wears cowboy boots and not-too-ironic tees, and speaks with a devilish accent courtesy of his time spent in America. I challenged him to pick out the other three Americans in the crowd. Aside from choosing a Canadian, he did pretty well.

I had two glasses of wine—the most I’ve had my entire stay in Denmark. Fuchun crossed the room and interrupted my conversation. “You are…very rosy,” he remarked. “Oh no!” I said. “It’s already too late. How red am I?” I frowned. “No, it looks very attractive,” he said in accented English. Fuchun and I are suitemates, if you haven’t already gathered that from previous posts. We talked about Amsterdam and the housing situation.

I looked up and made eye contact with Jigme, who was clearly talking about me with his guest across the room. I walked over. “We were just talking about football and wondering whether or not you are a professional,” he said. “Oh good grief no,” I said. And then I snapped the photo above to get Cristina’s lovely sweater against the green chair backdrop.

We have formed a football team. So far, I am the only woman on the team. Daniel, who is part Danish and part Kiwi, serves as team manager, but he has selected a horrible name: Global United (we are now petitioning a name change). Practice began today; I missed both sessions. So far, we’ve got a Bhutanese, a Salvadoran, a Dutch guy, Daniel, a Nigerian, two Americans, and a Belarusian. My soccer boots are still lost in the post, thanks to the Confederacy of Dunces, a.k.a. the United States Postal Service.

Your tax dollars at work: the USPS marked my package for SWEDEN, not DENMARK (the Dane with the green pen probably had a good laugh).

Oh, and three cheers for RvP, C.Fab, and Eduardo! I am enjoying watching Champions League games at night, as they ought to be watched.

And earlier this week we had a huge vegetarian potluck. These kids can cook.

My stomach was probably shocked from all the great food

Giulia brought a traditional Italian dish: aubergines (yes, they call them that here), tomato, and cheese

Larissa slices into a delicious spinach lasagna

One of three men present, Ricardo understands the new world order: men (who know what’s good for them) cook and clean!

Velkommen til Kollektiv

Life in the commune offers stark contrast to DIY New York. The methodical pace of egalitarianism has proved both vexing and logical in its Beccarian spirit.

Our highly organized communal kitchen

The kitchen organizational structure works like this: each of the twelve suitemates corresponds to his room number. I am Number Six (yes, like The Prisoner). We each have a full cabinet (marked by number) for dry goods, and half a refrigerator for groceries. For frozen goods, we have a different colored bag (again, marked by number) which we toss into the stand-alone freezer.

Cabinet system demarcated by room number (notice the clothespins)

Every Tuesday is general cleaning (rengøring) day. This shift rotates to two people, who must clean and vacuum the common room, wipe down all the surfaces in the kitchen, and vacuum and mop the floor. The whole process takes only about 30 minutes. I had cleaning duty my first week with Stephanie, an attractive, dark-haired Danish girl (or, Number Eleven). It’s a good system, since the kitchen counter starts to resemble a bread crumb factory and a Jackson Pollock painting by Monday night.

Cleaning board shows who has duty this week (green placards)

Individual chores depend on your number. I share laundering the kitchen towels/rags with Anders whenever the bin fills up. Others must clean the ovens, take out the trash, or buy supplies (out of a fund to which we all contribute 30 kroner a month). During our first house meeting, someone made a movement to amend the chores. I noticed later in the meeting minutes: “Number 3 and Number 12 switched chores and the cashier-chore was passed to Number 7; Number 2 was put on Oven 2.” It is all very regulated and democratic.

Almost all kitchen electronics, pots, pans, and dishes are communal. Anything private is marked by a clothespin identified by number. Everything else is fair game, including the three toasters, sandwich maker, electric kettle, and microwave. Each person is responsible for cleaning his own dishes in a timely manner; if he wants to do them later, he clips a pin onto an offending dish.

Laundry is free. Anything that might hinder cleaning is made easy; we also get soap and cleaning supplies. An American classmate of mine had a large flier entitled “HOW TO CLEAN” in her welcome binder. It goes into minute detail on how to clean the bathroom, kitchen, and common room, complete with diagrams.

The other day we received notice of autumn cleaning from the janitor. After cleaning, an inspector comes in to check that we’ve done an acceptable job. If not, they hire a professional cleaning team for which we have to pay. This is a shocking change of pace for someone coming from the individualistic American system (which gives rise to some of the filthiest living conditions I’ve ever seen—greasy pizza boxes packed with soiled boxer shorts, encrusted silverware soldered to bowls, and unimaginable odors clinging stubbornly to fabric surfaces). See the notice below.

They took care to put the notice in both English and Danish

More fliers: one announcing the Tour des Chambres party sign-up; the other, notes from our house meeting (click to enlarge for a laugh)

The Danes eat early. The kitchen is pretty full by 6 o’clock, so I’ve learned to avoid that hour. Morten commented with surprise when he saw me cooking at 9 PM. He said I am like the French guy who lived here last year; we’ve had multiple conversations about the differences between northern and southern Europeans. Other times I beat the crowd by starting to cook at 5 PM.

I like my suitemates much more than my non-Danish classmates. Perhaps it is a fondness born from a new life in a foreign environment, only to wither away once safety and routine are reestablished. I have not been in a rush to declare particular allegiance to the quickly forming cliques within my program, fueled by the false intimacy of Facebook, booze, and a shared—though hardly singular—experience. They walk about the city in herds, desperately thankful for companionship in any form.

But the Danes in my suite act like old veterans. Many have been living here for a couple of years and see their family several times a month. They have jobs at the local Bilka or eatery. They are sociable, but not intrusive—very Danish. They are curious about America. I am constantly fielding questions about New York, George W. Bush, The Daily Show, “globesity,” film, and music. I can be curmudgeonly and introspective, so their initiative to have a weekly dinner/film night has been a pleasant surprise. Pairs rotate cooking duty, we eat together at the dining table, and then pick a movie to watch together.

Last Thursday, Fuchun and Morten created a truly globalized meal: Korean sushi filled with sausage/hot dogs and miscellaneous vegetables and eggs, boiled glutinous rice balls filled with red bean paste, and a seaweed stir fry. Afterwards, we watched Friends with Money. Martin, with his affinity for action and war movies (we watched a Bruce Willis movie my second night here), said he could never get that time back in his life. Morten wanted to know if Americans really have such shitty relationships. “Oh yes,” I replied.

Table setting courtesy of Fuchun and Morten

Fuchun toiled for hours to create this meal

Rice balls with red bean paste

Brave Danes (and Fuchun) wielding chopsticks (L to R): Heidi, Sigrid, Martin, Morten, and Fuchun

Sigrid and I are up next. I’m planning a Mexican main dish and a Chinese appetizer. I have a feeling we’ll be watching a war movie.

Bilka, Buses, and the Banegårdspladsen

Who would’ve thought one could derive so much pleasure from the completion of mundane tasks? I’ve been in Denmark for almost a week now. I am comfortable with finding my way around town, buying and cooking food, and expanding my social network. Mobility, nourishment, and connectivity are central to life anywhere, so I am beginning to feel at ease.

Friday I walked around near the student village to explore the neighborhood. Finding Bilka (pronounced “BEEL-ka,” as a seven-year-old girl corrected me), the Danish answer to Wal-Mart, took over two hours. Morten told me the walk should take fifteen minutes. He instructed me to walk through a swamp, then through a tunnel, and onto a footpath. I took the scenic route by accident, and snapped some photos. It was a gorgeous day.

On the way to the swamp

A glorious sight: football pitches!

Student housing (the sloping roof is better for snow and energy efficiency)

Tunnel road

Wu Tang Clan unleashed (with pretty kitty stencil detail)

In the pasta aisle at Bilka, I scoured the shelves for pesto sauce. I glanced to my right and noticed a tall, lanky figure with closely cropped, pale blond hair. I recognized him immediately. It was Morten! He is everywhere. We shopped together and walked home using the shortcut.

Saturday was the Skjoldhøjkollegiet’s kick-off bash. I had no interest in attending until receiving an e-mail from Jessica, a fellow Californian, saying she was alone at the party. She had knocked on the door, but nobody answered (I was listening to music in my room). I felt bad, so I put on a sweater and walked in the darkness following the sound of dubious rock music in the distance.

A cover band called “Parklife” played in the main square, and there were beer bottles covering every inch of table surface possible. I found Jessica by a red van and a pair of sumo wrestlers shouting at each other in Danish. Morten and Frank found us immediately, and we joined a large group of international students. I met people from Spain, Lebanon, the Netherlands, Kenya, Germany, India, and China. I couldn’t pronounce most of the names, much less remember them.

Parklife, indeed

Sumo wrestling in Denmark (yes, it has come to this)

“Are you Chinese?” asked a guy from Spain. Oh boy, it was starting already. “No, I’m American. I’m from New York,” I replied. “You’re not American!” “Oh, yes I am,” I insisted, giving him the back story of when my family came to the States. “But you’re 100% Japanese?” interrupted the Lebanese woman. “Yes.” They paused. Then the Spanish guy started chanting, “Bush! We love Bush!” People looked over (even the sumo wrestlers).

A chill swept through me, and Morten suggested we move inside to the disco and bar. They were playing very bad techno music, but the other students were really getting into it. Morten and I sat down, and we made fun of the DJ. “I’m very reserved!” he shouted in my ear as I put my earplugs into place. “WHAT?” I shouted back. “I’M VERY RESERVED!” he repeated twice. This, coming from the guy who suggested he could beat me in sumo wrestling, despite not having exercised in a long time?

At the disco

To give you an idea, he is like an 80-year-old man in the body of a twenty-something. He started listing off classical composers he enjoys. He’s very intelligent, with a dry sense of humor, and reminds me a bit of Niles from “Frasier” (except not gay). He also has an air of general disdain about him, which I find pleasing. As he insisted he was not drunk enough, it took me by complete surprise when he grabbed my hand and dragged me to the main dance floor when ABBA came on. He started twirling me around in a very violent form of swing dancing, and I had trouble sustaining my look of shock as laughter overtook me. Eventually I grew tired and wanted to go home. But I had met a nice group of people in my program, including a girl from Shanghai who invited me to lunch the next day, for which she planned to cook Chinese food.

Food will lure me out any time, any place. So the next day, Frank and I picked up some fruit at the local market and went over to her flat. The group luncheon grew to more than ten people, and there wasn’t quite enough food for us all. I met more people that day: a girl from Oslo, a couple more people from India, an Austrian girl, and a guy from El Salvador. Once again, it felt very L’auberge Espagnole.

Lunch at Zijing’s

That’s me in the red pants checking out photos from Copenhagen on Viktoria’s camera (Scott took this photo)

Ricardo thinks he’s still in his home country as he watches the women cook (just kidding! He helped serve food)

Clearly not enough food (but still very good)

Sunday evening some of our mentors had planned a café meeting, so a small group of us took the #15 bus to the Banegårdspladsen, a place with which I am now very familiar. We met even more students at the cathedral by the canal. It was great meeting everyone, but I despise large gatherings that require moving about or agreeing on things. People in groups of more than three suddenly lose their ability to make decisions; walking takes about five times as long; movement mirrors the reaction time of a fat, inebriated footy fan still at the pub four hours after the final whistle; and conversations are generally insubstantial and dull. I was hungry and grouchy after the light lunch. I went home and grilled some salmon.

Today marked the first day of our introductory week. A small group of us took the #14 bus to campus. We found building 1350, but noted that the meeting hall was on the sixth floor. There were only five floors in this building. After much bumbling about, we found a secret entrance through a computer hall to a room with a beautiful view of the university and city. Over coffee and pastries, we met the program directors and pegged our places of origin on a large map.

Per, the program director, told me that this hall has the best view of the city. Later in his introductory remarks, he stressed how education in Europe is more egalitarian, and how we should address our professors by their first names. High-five, Per.

A guy from Bhutan offers a Danish to a fellow from Kenya

Mingling and morning introductions over coffee and pastries

Afterwards, we checked out the main library (Biblioteket) and cafeteria. Then we went to the train station to get my photo taken in one of those photo booths. I needed it for my monthly bus pass. Here is a lesson in how to waste 90+ kroner. Sure, the instructions are in Danish with cartoon drawings (and we know how good the Danes are with cartoons), but they are absolute rubbish. First, it shows two options: one photo for 30 kroner or 4 photos for 60 kroner. Being the frugal student that I am, I selected option one.

The bulb flashed—no problem. After waiting around for five minutes, a huge portrait-sized photo emerged from the dispenser. Outraged, I had to buy some gum at the local mart in order to get more coins. This time I selected option two. The first time I took a photo, there was some kind of warning. This second option had no warning, so I’m kind of looking off into the distance. Annoyed, I reached down for my bag when a second flash went off, again without warning. Here is the result.

How to waste 90 kroner in minutes

But at least I now have a monthly bus pass (even if that means flaunting this winning photo each time).

All the Meat You Can Eat

On the way to the Stephen Shore exhibit at the International Center of Photography today, Dave surreptitiously snapped a photo of me. Looking the other way for the train, I turned back just in time to find him pointing his bloody iPhone my way. I started to yell. That’s the moment he captured (you’ll notice I’m brace-free and wearing normal shoes again).

I cropped this photo because I am yelling some obscenity and I found it rather unflattering; the photographer liked how the blue in my shirt matched the columns. I told the photographer to sleep with one eye open tonight.

The ICP has a smaller version of Shore’s 1971 All the Meat You Can Eat along with works from Uncommon Places, American Surfaces (snapshots from 1972–1973) on display. They also have a room devoted to an interesting collection of Amelia Earhart photographs and another featuring some of David “Chim” Seymour’s incredibly moving work (there’s one particular photograph of a child worth seeing alone; it’s located in the immediate right corner as you enter the room).

U.S. 97, South of Klamath Falls, Oregon, July 21, 1973
© Stephen Shore

Prior to the museum, we stopped at the MoMA Design Store to look at all of the pleasing household goods and furniture, the huge Phaidon architectural atlas, and the Muji products downstairs. I’d been looking for portable stereo speakers for my laptop to take with me to Europe, but this is ridiculous. For $42.00, you can have cardboard speakers in a bag.

Party in a bag courtesy of Muji!

We tried to test it out with the iPhone, but the connection point did not fit. Note to Muji: always design things with Apple products in mind.

Friday night I officially parted ways with my pescetarian past and dined at a Brazilian churrascaria or rodizio, where you pay a set price and choose from a myriad of meats on sticks brought to your table. You indicate your desire for more meat by showing the green side of a card; the red side indicates you’re full or want a break (I needed many). They even had pão de queijo. We talked about feijoada, Belo Horizonte, football, those chocolate easter egg things, how chocolate just tastes better in Europe, and Buzios. The meal was delicious, and brought back fantastic memories of my trip to Brazil (including how my picture my ended up in a Rio de Janeiro newspaper).

The Science of Food at wd~50

I’ve lived around the block from the well-regarded, Michelin star-earning restaurant, wd~50, for almost two years now. A visit from my sister last week finally gave me an excuse to dine in the peculiar space on Clinton Street with the small florescent sign.

This is no ordinary restaurant. If you’re looking for something familiar and comfortable, go to Gramercy Tavern. In the spirit of Ferran Adrià’s famed El Bulli, wd~50 is an innovator, mixing unexpected flavors and textures whilst experimenting with the latest techniques in food preparation (think foam and shapes worthy of DIY art school projects). All four of us opted for the nine-course tasting menu. The kitchen easily accommodated a pescetarian alternative for me.

Here is what chef Wylie Dufresne & Co. prepared for our gastronomic adventure (click any photo to enlarge):

Course 1: Sepia, hibiscus, garlic crumble
[basically some kind of fish with a flavorful garnish; a nice starter]

Course 2: Shrimp and tarragon macaroons
[that’s crisp sesame flat bread in the background; my sister says it “tastes like popcorn”]

These macaroons aren’t like the ones found in Paris. With incredible texture (reminiscent of those styrofoam balls you spray-painted to look like planets for your 4th grade science project), they dissolve in your mouth, leaving nothing but intense flavor. The plateware itself often became a topic of conversation. This particular plate angled towards the diner, submerging half a macaroon within its depths.

Course 3: Foie gras in the round

It’s dippin’ dots, foie gras of the future. There are four flavors in this dish, each represented by a color. One is foie gras, the green is mint, I believe, and I don’t remember the other one. The only element that mattered to me were the dark brown globular bits of Valrhona chocolate. This dish wasn’t on my menu, but I had to try it. We all agreed that the flavors magically manifested themselves in distinct order, with the Valrhona chocolate saving itself for last. It’s like that three-course-dinner gum that turns Violet Beauregarde into a giant blueberry in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. A+ for innovation and taste.

Course 3 (pescetarian): gazpacho (with scallops? Whatever it was, it was delicious)

Course 4: Sweetbreads, cabbage-kaffir, water chestnuts
[the others reported that this tasted very good, especially the kaffir]

Course 4 (pescetarian): Octopus with Campari-infused shreds of lychee

The Campari overwhelmed the other flavors, but then again, I like Campari.

Course 5: Beef tongue, fried cubes of mayo, tomato molasses

Our waiter explained that this dish represents a beef tongue sandwich. You have your beef tongue, mayonnaise, and sauce sans bread. This one earned enthusiastic thumbs-ups from our carnivores, with the fried mayo being the pièce de résistance.

Course 5 (pescetarian): Poached egg

This dish’s looks exceeded the taste. You can only dress up an egg so much, and the powdery gray piles were too salty.

Course 6: French onion soup
[a new take on a classic]

Course 6 (pescetarian): Pretzel matzo ball soup with mustard greens in a beer broth

The concept behind this high-brow soup? Pretzels, mustard, and beer. I liked it, although the pretzel matzo balls were a bit too salty. I did crave a beer, though. Oh whom am I kidding? I was drunk after my first few sips of wine.

Course 7: Surf clam, watermelon, garlic chive, fermented black bean

This was the only course I disliked; the rest of the table agreed. The fermented black beans (and I love black beans) were too strong and overpowered the rest of the dish. The fishy taste of the clams really clashed with the watermelon. While this dinner brought together flavors I probably have never encountered before, this is a medley best enjoyed in separate spurts.

Course 8: Lamb belly, black chickpea, cherried cucumber

Course 8 (pescetarian): Salmon with some starchy corn fried thing

Descriptions of the pescetarian offerings are scant because the printout menu I received only contains the traditional tasting menu items. So I'm not exactly sure of the green stuff’s origin, but it was some kind of chopped up vegetable. The black things are a fried corn fritter of sorts, and it was delicious. The salmon was dressed in an unfamiliar sauce that made the fish look nuclear magenta instead of traditional pink. It was a bit sweet for my tastes. I was very drunk and full by this course, and my senses were still navigating through the challenging yet exhilarating degustation.

And now for the desserts.

Dessert Course 1: Argan oil horchata, cantaloupe, carob

Is there a way to make horchata better? 27-year-old pastry chef Alex Stupak thinks so. One thing the service could improve upon here is a thorough explanation of each dish. Some descriptions were muttered or not delivered at all. And the explanations would come from different wait staff, which, while creating an egalitarian air, also confused us as to whom to rely on for ultimate culinary guidance. That is a shame, for this restaurant has some of the most inventive dishes in the city. Explanations need to go beyond the mundane “He added a touch of Spanish saffron to the sauce.”

As my spoon dipped into this horchata, it uncovered a piece of iced cantaloupe along with pockets of some delightful spice (which I guess is carob). This dessert is a chilled delight, bringing renewed pleasure and discovery with every bite.

I never got to sample former wd~50 pastry chef Sam Mason's legendary desserts, but after my experience here, Alex Stupak can butter my muffins any day.

Dessert Course 2: Fried butterscotch pudding, mango, taro, smoked macadamia

This was my favorite. Can it get any more decadent than fried butterscotch pudding? When you add slivers of fresh mango, toasted macadamia nut shavings, and sculpted ice cream, the answer is “Yes, yes, oh yes.” Dangerously approaching stomach capacity, I asked one of our servers, “How many more courses are left?” He replied, “Just three more” and then laughed at my look of horror. He was joking.

The fried butterscotch pudding deserves a closer look:

Heaven can wait

Dessert Course 3: Soft chocolate, avocado, licorice, lime

The ingredient list sounds like a dessert disaster in the making. I generally detest licorice, too. But this rich chocolate ganache (that he’s managed to craft into a swirly, edible sculpture) is exquisite with its discrete elements, most notably the lime.

It was time to admit defeat: I put my fork down and let the vultures move in.

Me (with unidentified guest) basking in the unconventional feast’s afterglow

The I.H.O.C.

Hats off to Australia, who defeated Sri Lanka to become the cricket world champions this past Saturday. That morning, at precisely 9:30 AM, I walked into a tiny Aussie bar in NoLiTa only to find a sea of South Asian faces (dotted here and there by a Caucasian—presumably Australian—face) gazing upward at the televised match.

It took about one minute to assess the sweltering, crowded conditions—reminiscent of a popular Bikram yoga class on the west side—before we found ourselves scanning Mulberry Street for alternatives. Ten minutes later, over a café crème and a toasted baguette mottled with blueberry jam, I sat outside a French café discussing plans for an afternoon swim.

The day before, a coworker had returned from Australia bearing treats from the motherland. I ended up with something called a Tim Tam, “Australia’s favorite chocolate biscuit.” Named after the winning horse in the 1958 Kentucky Derby, Tim Tam features two chocolate malted biscuits separated by a chocolate cream filling; this sandwich is then covered in another layer of chocolate. It retains a pleasing crunch and is superb with tea.

Arnott's claims to sell nearly 400 million Tim Tams a year

I went to the Web site to learn more about the product and discovered that the Tim Tam family has grown to include Tim Tam Fingers, Tim Tam Indulgence pack, Tim Tam Multipack, and Tim Tam Balls. As a friend commented, it sounds more like a series of marital aids than a snack food line.

International cookies are irresistible. In one package, you can leap into a culture, knowing what appeals to the masses: flavors, textures, ingredients, price point, packaging, colors, and smells. I love comparing the sweet treats I’ve sampled around the world.

England: Hob Nobs

It’s the chocolate nobly, oaty biscuit—perfect for dunking in tea—by McVities. After being tipped off by a friend, I first tried Hob Nobs in London a couple of years ago after stocking up at the local ASDA supermarket. The oaty texture contrasts wonderfully with the chocolate. And you think you’re getting a chockfull of vitamins or something, with the McVities name and frequent mention of oats.

I have since found the plain chocolate variety (red packaging) stateside, which is superior to the milk chocolate original. I’m waiting for a dark chocolate version. I’ll abstain for now, though; Dean & Deluca sells Hob Nobs for outrageous prices.

***

Argentina: Alfajores de crema de cacao

Apparently they come in two flavors

Ryan brought me this cool, cigar-like box after a recent trip to Buenos Aires. The large, round cookie disk comes wrapped loosely in a brown foil wrapper in a box of six. It’s slightly crispy (malted) and creamy with alternating layers of cookie and cream, but the chocolate flavor does not overwhelm. The packaging sets up high expectations for this cookie, and it remains the most memorable trait even after the wrapper’s at the bottom of your trash bin.

***

The Netherlands: Stroopwafels

Stroopwafels are simply delicious, and hold a special place in my heart after my 2004 trip to Holland. They consist of caramel/maple-y filling pressed between two waffled wafers and come stacked in sets of eight wrapped in a clear plastic bag sealed with a bendable plastic clamp. Since they are so heavy and sweet, one or two is more than enough with a cup of tea. You can nibble them into different shapes for hours if you overindulge at a coffee shop in Amsterdam like I did.

***

Belgium: Waffle Cookies

I had a grand time in Brussels and Liège for a wedding several years ago. The grocery stores had these Belgian waffle cookies, not to be confused with actual Belgian waffles, which are served fresh and hot, traditionally dusted with powdered sugar. These cookies are crisper and harder. You can feel the coarse, crystallized sugar dissolve on your tongue. It evokes the flavor of the traditional Belgian waffle, but it will only leave you wanting the real thing.

***

Portugal: Chocolate Eclairs

Afternoon delight at Leitaria Quinta do Paco

It’s really quite simple. If you want to try the best chocolate eclairs on the planet, book a ticket to Porto, Portugal and make your way to the Leitaria Quinta do Paco near Praca de Carlos Alberto. No, chocolate eclairs didn’t originate here. Which is why my mention of them here is noteworthy. The place is small and unassuming, but the eclairs pack a punch. No guide book is going to tell you about this place; I had inside information which I am now sharing with you. Incidentally, they have another dessert in Portugal which roughly translates into “bacon from heaven.” It is a cake made of almonds and egg yolks, so it is incredibly rich and fattening. I had it by the shore the day we went to the restaurant that serves baked octopus.

As a bonus, right next door is a wonderful little bakery with a vast assortment of cookies. We got the cat’s tongue cookies and snacked on them (between sips of port) during our day-long hike through the steep and narrow streets of the old city. What a lovely day.

The cookie shop next door: Cookie Monster's fantasy realized

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Taiwan: Pineapple Cake

Pineapple cakes are slightly larger than a Fig Newton, and much, much better

Another treat brought to me from abroad, these cookies have a light pineapple filling and a cakey, doughy outer layer. Their small size make them the perfect accompaniment to a cup of tea after dinner.

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Paris: Macaroons

These airy confections are part cookie, part cake. The outside is crisp whilst the inside has a smooth texture. They remind me of Marie Antoinette: the elegant pastels of the hardened outside coexisting with the soft interior, coming together in one sugary, insubstantial shiver.

Bad macaroons can be dreadful, so it’s important to shop selectively. I tried one during my Chococrawl in the fall of 2005, and it lived up to the hype. Laurent and a few other Parisian boys told me to try the tea house Ladurée, which is famous for its macaroons. Next time.

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Japan: daifuku

Wagashi from Two Ladies Kitchen

I am Japanese and therefore biased towards my favorite international sweet treat. I’ve had daifuku (and wagashi), or pounded sweet rice flour confections filled with sweet red bean paste (or an) my entire life. There’s something so pleasing about the mouth feel to mochi; it yields easily to the forms around it, yet retains a texturized smoothness, matching subtle sweetness with a startling perfection normally restricted to mathematics.

And oh, the colors it can take! Its translucence gives a sneak peek into the presents inside: azuki beans and other forms of sweetness and delight. Dusted with a bit of white flour, these confections look like they’ve descended from some sort of sugar plum fairy heaven. Two Ladies Kitchen in Hawaii makes the best daifuku I’ve ever tasted. If you go to the tiny shop in Hilo on a weekday afternoon, you might be lucky enough to snag a fresh batch of the strawberry daifuku (this will not happen if I’m there before you).

London (in pictures)

It’s been a watershed week for Arsenal, with yet another beautiful goal by Cesc Fabregas yesterday against Manchester City. I’m resting up for the early morning game Saturday against rival Tottenham Hotspur at White Hart Lane. In less happier news, rumors still abound about an American takeover by billionaire Stan Kroenke.

And now: pictures from London. Again, let’s start with the food.

Diner’s delight: soft shell crab and assorted dim sum at Hakkasan

Hakkasan, one of London’s most exclusive restaurants, earned a Michelin star in 2003 for its Chinese cuisine. Created by French designer Christian Liaigre, the sumptuous interior resides in the basement of a tiny, nondescript alley just north of Tottenham Court Road tube stop. Indeed, even the bathrooms are noteworthy.

My eyes adjusted slowly to the dim light as I descended down the stairs to the reception area. Reservations are difficult to come by unless you go for a weekday lunch; I rang that morning and made a reservation for one. The dark wood paneling featured oriental carvings and cutouts offering privacy without sacrificing ambiance. The bright spotlights situated over every table had a dramatic effect against the cavernous darkness; it intensified the dining experience, shutting out everything—surroundings, wait staff, people, mobile phones—but the food.

The pièce de résistance: passionfruit ice cream with chocolate fondant

Bacalhau à Brás (baked cod with onions, potatoes, and eggs) with a glass of vinho verde at Canela

We tried a Portuguese and Brazilian restaurant called Canela Cafe in Covent Garden. I had a glass of vinho verde (to bring back memories of Portugal) along with a classic baked cod dish. Kris had another form of baked cod; I think it had spinach. This cafe is so cute, situated near the 7 Dials; it only has about five or six wooden tables, incredibly high ceilings, and a nice, comfortable atmosphere.

Banana cake with espresso and a cinnamon stick (canela means cinnamon in Portuguese)

I went to many other wonderful restaurants. We tried Roast in Borough Market (but had to order from the food stand). There was a pumpkin curry at Busaba Eathai on Wardour Street (alas, the mango lassi has lost its kick). And I muscled my way into the Wolsley, without reservations, for afternoon tea, consisting of delicate finger sandwiches, scones, and the creamiest tarts on the planet. I read The Evening Standard (which is how I learned about the grand opening of COS, H&M's new, upscale chain that would open the next day on Regent Street) amongst all the proper British people having tea outside of the office.

At Ottolenghi in Islington, I tried the fresh bread board, which includes homemade sourdough bread based on a sour culture from a Danish bakery over a century old. Come on. You hear that and you just bloody order it. Ottolenghi has communal seating, which includes toaster stations with fresh jam and butter. I read my football book over breakfast in this bright, modernist space.

I also had random snacks at Harvey Nichols, Harrod’s, and places in SoHo. We walked through Borough Market on Saturday. I had a half pint of cider with a sandwich. Then I picked up some fresh goat cheese at the French cheese stand. We ate by the Thames in the afternoon sun.

Let’s move on to art.

White Cube Gallery in Hoxton Square

Tate Britain’s sexier cousin, Tate Modern

Right after eating at Roast, we walked along the Thames and spotted the Tate Modern. I asked Dave if he wouldn't mind going in again so I could look at the slides. This, of course, turned into the slide adventure I’ve already recounted. This was a definite highlight of the trip!

The fifth floor slide is well worth the wait

At Tate, everyone can hear you scream

The Tate has this thing called the Tate to Tate ferry, which we considered taking. Designed by Damien Hirst, the boat takes you from Tate Modern to Tate Britain (for a fee).

The view right outside near the Millennium Bridge. Look at all those cranes!

White Cube Gallery in Mason’s Yard (near Green Park tube stop)

The other White Cube Gallery in the West End had a show by Anselm Kiefer; I went on the very last day. The main floor featured a three-dimensional piece called Palm Sunday. Downstairs had the most amazing, texturized paintings. I wanted to snap a picture, but Madame Matron gave me the Death Stare. White Cube had new works by Andreas Gursky lined up for the following week. Gah!

And now for the miscellany, including Arsenal FC.

The cutest street in London: Charlotte Road

On the way back from Hoxton Square, we happened across Charlotte Road in the East End. We spied the most wonderful things windows, like this office with artwork and robots and other interesting gadgets in the works. Across the street was the art gallery with the red velvet couch.

On the way to Liverpool Street station

View from the London Eye

Whoever said London has bad weather all the time didn’t factor in global warming

Walking through Neal’s Yard in Covent Garden (to visit Rough Trade)

My seat at Emirates: a dream come true

The crowds waits for the approaching Wave

Some hobbyists along the Thames

Saturday night fever: birthday party near Farringdon

Saint Paddy’s Day isn’t such a big deal in London. I saw about nine people with Cat-in-the-Hat-like hats in a green and white take on the original. I ended up going to a birthday party with friends at a restaurant (the birthday boy is a chef, so it featured fine, catered treats).

Somehow I found myself in the back of a BMW with a fellow named Alex at the driver’s seat. Alex is a doctor who lives in Hampstead, and he loves my laugh. He has impeccable taste. At the party, I chatted with a South African guy (over which all the gay boys were drooling) about rugby and the 2010 World Cup.

The next day I went for a long walk.

Sunday in Hyde Park after the rain

London: I’ll be back (and sooner than I thought)

March Madness (in pictures)

I had big plans to categorize last month’s adventures by food, A&E, and football, but it gets confusing with different cities. So let’s begin with Los Angeles—specifically: the food.

Lunch at the Getty Center restaurant