Where Will I Be Next?

This is it! My final hostel stay. The last breakfast of stale bread and instant coffee. No more scrambles to find lodging while carrying my much too heavy bag of stuff. An end to endless freedom - of obligations and destination.

I´ve spent the last five days in Barcelona following a month long tour of Spain. Keeping to my longtime policy of not designating favorites it will suffice to say that Spain has been a highlight of my travels in all respects. I managed a fairly broad sampling of locations while here and even made it to Portugal for a spell. I also spent some time up in the mountains, away from the gr of cities. I did not improve upon my meager Spanish language skills, which was a goal I had set. I guess being a tourist doesn´t force you to rely on the native tongue enough to absorb more of it, and five weeks is certainly not enough time. I was able to experience culinary immersion, though. I attacked the native cuisine of Spain with vim and vigor reminiscent of my time spent in Chaing Mai. I drank vermouth and Basque cider for breakfast simply to get the complimentary tapas, while bouncing from barrio to barrio in the bustle of Spanish night for just one more beer and one last morsel to remember my time here by.

As I lamented in the past, even after all I´ve seen I can barely feel as though I have scratched the surface of what Spain has to offer, what the world has to offer. Options abound when there are endless eateries as well as market stalls to choose from. I was forced to parse out my time in each location by when I would walk the streets in search of sustenance and when I would ransack the markets to enjoy cooking from the local offerings. Do I try something new, or go back for more of an established show stopper? These are the dilemmas I face daily. And a week from now when I fly from London back to the United States and begin the life of responsibility anew, I´ll be faced with the same sort of dilemmas. I´m faced with myriad decisions of where to live, who to live with, where to work and what trajectory I want to set myself on. Where do I want to go from here? It´s how I´ve lived my life for the past eight months, in essence. Each day deciding where the next place to visit will be. Sometimes planning, often times not. There are so many options. Too many options. A world of options, if you will.

Life changing...is a phrase people toss around when I discuss my decision to put things on hold and travel for the better part of a year. Life affirming is more appropriate, I would say. For instance, I have affirmed that never will I be adept at figuring out here I am on a map or finding my way to any location. (Thanks Dad!) I get lost on foot and in cars. I get lost even with a compass and a map to help me. I get lost in museums. I´ve affirmed that I have no particular allegiance or passion for one type of culinary style. The discovery of something new and the revisiting of something old is what moves me, no matter what it is or where it´s from. I love it all, relish it all. I´ve also affirmed that there is no easy answer to the question, ¨where am I going next?¨ First hand experience is the only way for me to work things out. Jump on that next train or walk down the next alley, and see what happens.

I suppose that is why I have chosen, for the moment at least, to take up lodging in New York City in the near future. Well, there so many reasons, to be honest. But, it occurred to me that I´ve never found one place I like more than all others. No place whether lived in or visited that I want to call home for the rest of my life. Having seen so many different places over the prior eight months I have affirmed that there is no such city, town, village or hamlet....for me at least. I figured then, New York has variety, opportunity and intrigue on a scale that most other cities don´t. Options. It seems to me the ideal place for people who can´t decide. Don´t want to decide.

So the short answer to where I will be next, is NYC...back on the East Coast, grinding it out with everyone else. I´m not fond of short answers though, but I´ll spare you the minutiae and leave it at that...

Nduja!

My trusty Timbuk2 messenger bag reeks of the sweetness that only salted flesh and fat can devise. For weeks now I've been picnicing with various cured meats and cheeses from myriad European markets, but here and now in Italy the sheer meaty madness has reached it's zenith. Yesterday it was lardo that I paired with a succulent walnut sauce meant for pasta, but equally fulfilling as a dip for fat wrapped Tuscan bread. Today though, is a treat the likes of which you don't stumble on every day. Most great Italian cured meats are widely available in the U.S. either as imported products or domestic representations. I've made plenty of them in my capacity as both a chef and hobbyist. Like any import though, some of the true gems don't readily make it out of the homelad. Today I have ripening in my bag as I trudge the streets of Firenze the Calabrian specialty: Nduja (in-doo-ya). Similar to salami only in that it's made from ground pork, heavily spiced and salted, and stuffed into intestinal casing to be smoked and aged; nduja is soft and spreadable. Native to Calabria it has a characteristic firey pepper flavor. Don't let it's bladderesque appearence fool you...this is an epic treat for someone as geeky as myself.

Heretoforth, I had only indulged in nduja (say that five times fast!) once. As far as I know there is only one place in the United States producing this product and I can now attest having had it in the homeland that their's is an exemplary recreation, true to form and flavor in every way. Boccalone of the Ferry Building in San Francisco brought nduja to my attention when Chris Cosetino and Co. started producing it not too long ago. I was lucky enough to sneak a taste when I passed through SF and was impressed to say the least. Stumbling upon it in Florence - not technically where it is produced - was a welcomed accident. I picniced in one of many Florentine piazzas with some bread:

And, being salty and spicy in an extreme way the nduja begged for something sweet. Luckily I had an grotesquely large apple obtained from the same Mercato Centrale where I procured the fatty spread.

The previous night I had the pleasure of dining with some friends at a lovely modern Italian restaurant where we were treated to fresh riccioli tossed with warmed nduja. As a sauce for pasta, it is peerless.

Why the play by play you might ask? Normally this blog is babbles rather than bullet lists...

I feel compelled to share. What may simply seem like lunch is actually one of those rare travel experiences that set a benchmark for all others. For some folks it's ancient basilicas or bungee jumping. For me it happens to be edible culture. Nduja is a DOP product, which essentialy means it's name and character are protected by the Italian government (my definition, not nearly detailed enough, I know!) I can scarf salami and pack away prosciutto until I bleed grease, but that is more or less something I can do anywhere. Access to a native food I rarely see, a cultural culinary icon so to speak, of a small region or town tucked away in the hills - that is a memory to frame my whole experience with. I've spoken before of context and how important it is to the enjoyment of great food. I think the contextual implications of finding such a product while here in Italy - so fresh, so close to the source - speak for themselves.

I visited Florence once before, many years ago. With all the locales I've been to recently, it occured to me as I rolled into Santa Maria Novella train station that this is the first place I am revisiting. Over ten years in between has rendered me a completely different person, able to appreciate being here in different ways. It's a rare treat to be able to visit someplace so far from home not once, but twice or maybe even more. New discoveries, experiences and meat based products lie in wait each time you arrive. The context in which you enjoy and appreciate a city or place changes and evolves as you do. In the professional kitchen, we trudge through the same service day in and day out. Prep the same food, fire the same orders and wash the same dishes. Yet it's different each time, isn't it? That is what I have always loved about working in restaurants. The layer of monotony is only skin deep. Under the surface are new perspectives, contexts and situations each and every day. Years and years down the road, life in the kitchen can still keep you guessing and you can trudge through it knowing that tomorrow will most likely bring some sort of new surprise.

I wasn't sure I would make it to Italy. When I arrived here I had visions of going to all the places I missed last time around. As circumstances would have it, I will mainly haunt the two cities I have already spent time in once before long ago - Florence and Rome - before I leave. The disappointment I feel for not having more time and money to explore is almost fully offset by the excitement of all the new layers I will discover this second time around.

Many people figure they can put off travel until the golden years. A grave mistake. Do it now. Do it often. And then do it again...

Art vs Craft...or both?

I was immediately drawn to this picture at the Victor Vasarley museum in Pécs, Hungary. My interest became all the more pronounced when I saw that it was from 1939. Way ahead of it's time, is what occurred to me.

Whenever people reference cooking as an art form in conversation, I have always responded that I consider it more of a craft, for myself at least. My meaning is that I treat cooking professionally as a skill that must first be honed before you can embellish with creativity. While I enjoy the imaginative side of cooking, I have always recognized that in my employment situations, keeping quality and adaptability at the root of the cuisine is the most intuitive way to operate. Well, sometimes I skew the line a bit. Furthermore, the non cooking responsibilities of a chef which can be daunting at times would seem to fall more into the craftsman way of looking at this question.

There are chefs though who are undoubtedly artists. Their efforts have pushed food forward throughout time just like masters of all other art forms. Food as art is subject to all the familiar critiques and whims. It can be celebrated or rejected. Bland or bold. Dated or ahead of it's time. Curiously, since food is a fleeting medium being created and destroyed almost instantly, the ability to catalog, study and celebrate it as we do most other genres in galleries and museums is radically different.

I'm curious what others think about this...

Challenge Yourself To Fail

I always figured without putting much thought into it that an endless array of cured meats and cheeses would be something like paradise for me. Salted and smoked, curdled and aged, preserved for future sustenance while also creating a whole new universe of flavorful possibilities. The Dolac Market in Zagreb, Croatia has a selection of dried out animal parts large enough to make any butcher blush, with an equally impressive abundance of dairy. Primarily an outpost for fresh fruit and vegetables, the juxtaposition of fresh and preserved is not lost on me. For as long as humans have grown fresh food and raised livestock there has been a need to eat now while saving some for later, two halves of the same circle that meet in the market place. With all of it at my fingertips here in Zagreb, my paradise becomes a purgatory of indecision. Where to start, how to end, and what possibly to leave out don't seem like questions I will readily be able to answer. Fortunately I'm purchasing for two...meals that is. The selection widens. I grab some plums so ripe they taste like skin covered jam. Some bread to act as a vehicle for my meaty debauchery. Then I book another night at the hostel. I'll need an extra day to go back for the cheeses...

I've been taking advantage of the markets lately, especially as I move further into Europe. There have been markets like this throughout most of my travels, but for a while I was happily stuck on the quest of sampling each and every delicacy that could be prepared for me. To be honest, I was happy not doing any cooking for the time being. Seasons change, though and my urge to grab everything I see and run to a kitchen is back. I think it all started with the fresh shell beans I saw in Mostar, Bosnia. Actually, I had seen shell beans for sale a few times before that, but in Mostar I was staying in a quiet little hostel with a kitchen at my disposal. It's a touristy little town with not much but overpriced restaurants, so I was already in the frame of mind to save some money when I stumbled upon an assorted sack of peeled fresh beans for a pittance. Not more than two dollars for something that would have cost me much much more at an American farmer's market. It has occurred to me with intrigue and a little sadness that while fresh, local organics in America are at their height of popularity, they are inescabaply still a novelty. What I mean to say is that we still treat it as special, and as a result pay a premium for what is minimally processed food and should actually cost less, because no fertilizers or expensive pesticides go into it. I'm not suggesting any sort of trickery from the farmer who sells us these unadultered foods. Rather I am hypothesiying that we as consumers have created an economy in which mass produced foods which don't taste as good and carry chemical components uneccesary to our survival (while depositing them in the earth as well), are cheaper because we purchase them with such voracity, upending the scales of economy for those who do things the old fashioned way. They need to charge more not because the product cost extra to produce, but because they simply don't have enough customers to compete. An image has been created largely by our own doing, that organic foods are somehow premium and should cost accordinly, rather than just normal with a normal price, being consumed normally by everyone all the time. Here in Croatia and other places I've visited recently most food is purchased at daily greenmarkets, the type we only have once or twice a week in America but they have every day, year round. The prices are rock bottom too, in line with the income of average people. One can literally eat like a king, without having to fork over a king's ransom.

The access to outstanding raw ingredients has proven irressistable, so I have been making the effort to shop at these greenmarkets and cook. When there is no access to a kitchen I work with whatever I can raw. There is certainly no end to the possibilities with all I have to choose from and the unparalleled quality. Grabbing those shell beans along with some other odds and ends caused me to think back to the days when I had first moved to Portland. I started cooking seriously for the first time in my life and wanted to expand my repetoire. Work helped, but I needed to stretch out into territory that for me, was yet to be discovered. I got into the habbit of swinging by an Asian grocery about once a week and buying something I had never cooked with before. A gristly cut of meat or offal, a strange vegetable or some sort of starch I may have seen mentioned in an article somewhere. These day off excursions usually followed similar paths that ended in complete and utter dissapointment. I never stopped to do the research or consult a recipe. I would simply jump in head first, blindly feeling my way towards ruining a days worth of work. But how ruined am I for it? How much time was wasted? None at all, it turns out. Sure, I learned a million and one ways not to do things, but more importantly than that I aquired little by little a knowledge of how food works. How this and that react to heat. How well things do and don't go together. How much is too much or too little. Slowly each blunder revealed it's silver lining and gave way to mini triumphs. It turns out all that time I thought was just messing around actually took me some place new. I was thinking about all that when I threw my beautiful shell beans into an aluminum pot with water and some other vegetables and turned on the heat. The kitchen I was in had no oil to saute with, no spices or herbs to use, no dairy fridge or stash of bacon ends and fat back. In fact, if one of the other guests in the hostel had not been a smoker, I would not even have been able to light the stove. I was left alone with nothing but honest, local, organic ingredients which cost me next to nothing. I fed eveyone hanging around that night and tried to explain that the ingredients had done most of the work. It was the instinct aquired through hundreds of experiments destined for the bottom of a trash bag that had guided what order I threw it all into the pot and how long I let is simmer for. I think to cook professionally one needs to have that feeling of a hundred failures under the belt. How can you understand the degrees of success if you have never seen the other side of the coin. It's important to get out of your comfort zone if you ever expect to move forward in life. In a way, that is what each of my little kitchen experiments was about. Progressing from line cook to chef was a major leap out of my comfort zone, and leaving that job and the city I lived in to travel indeffinitely with barely any plans was yet another jump into the uncomfortable. In every instance I've been able to adapt and progress through making a series of awfully stupid and silly mistakes. Mistakes I learn from and that make me more confident. Each place I visit brings a new greenmarket with local ingredients to toss in a pot and remind myself again how I got here and how I can get to the next place I'm going.

How much is too much grilled meat?

I had arrived in Nis (pronounced: nish), Serbia after a long day of bumpy bus rides from Bitola in the south of Macedonia. I did the obligatory exploring of my surroundings before tucking into the task of finding dinner. Searching out the first meal in a new place can be exciting while at the same time a little tense. The initial sampling of local fare sets the tone for my visit. It is the all important first impression, the one that can never be had again. Much like the opening track on an album or the first lines of any great novel I need to be grabbed by what I eat first, leaving me both figuratively and literally hungry for more. Could this be the best of meals or the worst of meals? While it may seem like I set the bar high, the truth is that I have a delicate ritual for finding sustenance, borne out of the mortal fear that one of my feedings will be anything less than spectacular. Perhaps more a habitual indecision in the guise of academic selection than a ritual, I find myself looking, rejecting and repeating until I feel a sound decision can be made on what to consume. It happens multiple times daily, but the first in a new place always takes on an air or importance the others lack. I've heard people say that there exist two types of people. Those who eat to live and those who live to eat. Dismissing for a moment how obtuse one would be to believe humanity can fit neatly into two groups, I'd have to say that on this one I fall dead center into the "live to eaters." Swish! Nothing but net!

On this evening in Nis, I encountered a promising situation not far from the hostel I was calling home for the next couple of nights. Out of principle I never shoot for the first meat I see, but never rule out doubling back for the kill. Nis is a university city and I found myself on the edge of a sprawling outdoor athletic complex slash idyllic urban park. It stands to reason that more treasures would be available around each corner, what with thousands of college age coeds about. What I had seen, made note of and passed by was a row of roadside stands grilling all sorts animal parts that would seem to fit well into sandwiches. Each stand identical as though they were squeezed like Play Dough through a mold and then chopped into sole proprietorships, they boasted a grill set in a bay window so you could watch the action, and then a separate window with refrigerated display case of various vegetables and dressing that incidentally also seemed fit to be stuffed into a sandwich. While my search for more options is under the pretense of academic investigation, there is an underlying fear that I might miss something good. That's what it comes down to. I want it all. I have this recurring nightmare where I'm telling a group of people who know my love of all things edible that I visited this city or that and one smug fellow says, "Did you try the such and such? You shan't have missed it!" He slaps me on the back with a sigh and haughtily says, "Well, there's always next time." I can't bare the thought of missing out on something great. After an exhaustive search of the area accessible by foot, I made my way back to the original source of intrigue.

As of late, conquering each and every secret that a city has to offer has become a tad more nuanced. Grilled meat and bread is a beloved theme throughout Turkey and the Balkans. The differences are subtle from place to place, and if you blink one might just pass you by. Turkey is all about the doner. Lamb or chicken piled high and wide on a skewer, held vertically and slowly roasted while rotating. It's an image I'm sure most have seen. Meat is sliced off thin and wrapped in pita. In Anatalya, I stumbled on wood fired doner kebap, which was every bit as smoky and delicious as it sounds. Unique to Turkey and my favorite by far is kokorech. Made by wrapping lamb intestines around more lamb intestines, and spit roasting the whole wonderful mess. They slice some of the lamb tummy roulade, chop it up and make a sandwich. Never have I filled my stomach with so much stomach. In Greece, the gyro is ubiquitous. It's doner kebap made with pork and if done right has some french fries stuffed in the mix. If you take it to go instead of sitting down it's half the price, plus you can walk to a park or church yard and be alone with it. Macedonia had an eclectic mix of grilled items. I sampled among other things, thinly sliced calf's liver drowned in olive oil and chopped herbs and pork loin stuffed with cheese and then wrapped in prosciutto. And bread, always bread. It seems the further north I go the the thicker the pita gets. In Macedonia it's like throw pillows. Always super fresh and crusty like only a brick oven could make it. Nis marked my first stop in Serbia, and the regional variation I stumbled on first is pljeskavica, or Balkan Burgers.

While myriad meats are on display in the grilling windows, the thin and wide burger patties are the what people pine for. Since I can't read the menu, ordering is altogether and exasperating and yet exciting experience that involves a plethora of pointing, gestures and quietly spoken English, more to remind myself what hand motions I should be making. I had inhaled a chicken thigh monstrosity of a sandwich before I understood that the pljeskavica is the main event. I had also noted that down the way was a grill spot that had a long line while the others served one or none at all. Here in lies a difficult decision. Do I waste one of tomorrow's meals - or opportunity for mind altering edible discovery, as I like to call it - by coming back to the popular spot, or do I man up and have a second dinner right now. I went back and forth on the issue, but I think you can all guess which direction I ultimately went in.

Later that night, unable to move or even breathe properly, I pondered the impossibility of having it all, of trying everything there is to be tried. As much as I loathe to admit, one cannot do everything, go everywhere and turn over every stone. There are choices to be made and inevitably if you are tuned into the proper frequencies, eyes wide open, then one will lead to the next. Attempting to go in every direction will tear you apart, in a sense. So will trying to eat every heaping pile of grilled meat in the Balkans. It is nice to look back and remember how each job in the restaurant industry I've had has led to the next. Realization of new skills and interests or even a chance meeting can open up doors to new experiences in a world where people tend to stay moving from post to post. Right now, not completely sure in what capacity I'd like to reenter the work force, I am trying to keep focus on figuring out what conditions will truly satisfy me, rather than considering everything in my path. The past, while opening up doors to the future should also send you on you way with the knowledge to succeed wherever you end up. In that sense all our jobs in this industry are connected, from executive dishwasher on up to executive chef. As I approach whatever may be next in my career I will definitely pick and choose with a discerning eye, but search with the same vigor and intensity that I devote to that integral first meal in each new place I visit.

From Soba To Sultans

It's hot again... It was hot in Japan too, but something about that was different. Maybe it's because for the moment I seem to have returned to the backpacker trail where hostels are over stuffed and under ventilated. I find myself longing for the immaculate guesthouses of Osaka and Kyoto where the staff is polite and helpful and everyone's shoes are left at the door. Walking the streets here also reminds me of time spent in South East Asia, except here it's smarmy men instead petite women shouting after me in hopes that I'll buy a carpet. Unless that rug will fly me home, I've got no room in my bag. The sales pitch doesn't hold the same charm as the T-shirt and iced tea sales-ladies of Cambodia offered. These guys resort to all forms of trickery to get you inside their store and show a persistence that would cause even the hawkers of Hanoi to blush a little. I'm in Istanbul, where east and west truly meet. This ancient city literally has and Asian and European side, divided by a narrow strip of water called the Bosphorus. Around each and every corner you'll find yourself tripping over remains of the various empires that have dominated this cultural crossroads over the centuries. In spite of the annoying carpet dealers whose persistence is matched only by the humidity, I find Istanbul to be nothing short of amazing, and a perfect bridge from Asia to Europe for my travels.

The similarities to Asia that I'm finding here in Turkey thus far are numerous, as are the differences. It's incredible to note the various paths that different cultures take as the evolve and devolve over time. While the manifestations of development can be wildly different, sometimes it becomes clear that we're all just playing out different versions of the same basic tune. I became interested in picking out some of the common themes while visiting the Museum of Ethnology in Osaka, and of course food is something I zeroed in on right away. I've been living on street food while I travel for many different reasons. It's cheap, to say the least and keeps me on budget. I also find it to be a much better connection to the culture of where I am visiting than eating over priced food that has been gussied up for benefit of western palates. Street food has become a comfort to me while I move from place to place, because while the dishes may change the experience stays the same. Every country has it's own version of the grubby street vendor where everyone is welcome. Just a push cart and a few stools to sit on. These guys (or gals) don't discriminate. They want your business and rarely if ever will you find the equivalent of the snooty server or pretentious chef. Most often there is only one or two items to choose from which are being prepared right in front of you. This lowers the language barrier enough to use some simple words and gestures to get an order across. Street food is simple and honest. Most importantly I've come to realize is that it represents the popular flavors of where it's at, and for the sake of culinary exploration that is what I am most concerned with. Indeed, most of the dishes that represent cultures abroad and certainly in America have their origins on the street or as "fast foods." I think these ideas travel well specifically for the reason they become popular at home to begin with. They are simple, satisfying and reference that culture's most predominant flavors and cooking techniques. I realize that by sticking to the streets, I'm missing out on all sorts of culinary delights from place to place, but in the end I fell as though I'll understand the food from where I've been a little better for it.

Checking out the home grown versions of grub that has become popular in America over the years has gotten me to thinking about the idea of authenticity. Ten years ago when I began cooking professionally, it was somewhat popular to mix ideas and influences, creating new flavors and techniques. More recently there has been a push by many chefs and food enthusiasts alike to hone in on more authentic versions of traditional cuisine. I happen to admire the quest for authenticity, but like all great motivations it has been taken much too literally by some and interpreted with such a narrow scope as to actually deny the reality of how food and flavors develop. During my last few years cooking and eating in Portland before I decided to do a little traveling I witnessed endless discussions (and some arguments) of who made a more authentic version of whatever. I was no doubt involved in many as well. Quality, it seems nowadays is judged not by how something taste or if it is satisfying, but rather if the dish in questions was prepared exactly the way it is supposed to be based on the rules set by someone (anyone) who claims to be an authority on that particular dish or style. How are these rules set and why do those of us who may not be an authority on he subject follow them blindly? Why should we miss out on possibly great interpretations of regional cuisine because it doesn't fit some arbitrary set of rules?

I may have thought differently about this before traveling, knowing only what I did from reading or passed on by word of mouth from other folks who had traveled abroad and experienced food and cooking technique in its native element. But, as I devote myself to experiencing each culture's culinary exports in native element I can say that there are no unbreakable rules when recreating food. I don't mean to say you can serve an apple but call it an orange, however there does exist a certain amount of latitude to interpret something without being demonized by the so called experts. I can say this with certainty since I have actually eaten numerous different versions of the same types of food in every country I have visited. In Vietnam every bowl of Pho I ordered was prepared differently, yet still called Pho. In Istanbul where I am right now, the different permutations of Kebap are endless. Japan offered the best possible example of this idea. I've heard more than one Japanese food-o-phile in the U.S. explain what exactly miso soup - a cornerstone of Japanese cuisine - is and how it SHOULD be made, yet in the various Japanese homes I stayed miso soup was prepared so many different ways with a variety of ingredients. I challenge any self proclaimed Japanese food expert to say that miso soup made by a Japanese person, in a Japanese home....IN JAPAN, is not authentic. Doesn't it fit the very definition of authenticity, to be created within it's own cultural element? If I were to remake one of the many miso variations I ate, would it not still be authentic? Many who are passionate about authenticity are not relating it to an idea that applies broadly to a particular dish, but rather to one specific version they had. That's setting a pretty high standard.

Hopefully my opinion on the matter doesn't come off as some sort of rant. We all enjoy food differently and I certainly don't want to kill the buzz of those among us who wish to search out authenticity at it's root. I don't see it as a search with any conclusion, though. Every dish evolves over time and even the native folks try new things and offer up wild variations. Who's to say that any famous food we hold dear hasn't changed over time and that the version being called "authentic" isn't just another stop along the way. Furthermore, if we all agreed to stop messing with stuff and just do it the way we're supposed to, wouldn't the result be uniform and boring? I'll admit that creativity unchecked can sometimes be ridiculous, but it does serve to keep what we eat fresh and exciting. Even though the word makes me cringe a little, I'll still take fusion over fascism any meal of the day and twice for lunch on Sunday.